November 23, 2005

The Care and Feeding of Mikey

(And no, ShallowMike, this isn't about you.) ;)

This "story" really is true, so far as I know. I have changed some details, like the name, but I also promised "Mikey" that I would tell this story and call it "The Care and Feeding of Mikey" for years. This is just the beginning of the story ... but like many stories, this beginning is probably the most important part. It certainly explains a lot about "Mikey's" later life.

Stretch your mind back, waaaaay back to the 70s (I know, I know, before some of you were even born). There was a little boy named Mikey going to public school in Texas. His dad and mom were divorced and his mother lived a few hundred miles away with her new husband and his daughters.

Mikey was a typical boy for the most part. He wasn't super interested in school, he was pretty interested in being a rock star, playing baseball and begging to play peewee football (American football). He caused about the same amount of troubles as did most of the other boys.

He had a secret that he kept from the other kids ... actually, he had a couple of them. One was that his father was a little unpredictable. Once, Mikey forgot to take out the trash and his father woke him up at midnight and told him to take the trash out now. Not so bad, really, but when Mikey tried to go back in the house, the door was locked. Still not too unusual, Mikey just groaned and pulled out some bits of plywood, made a touch of a shelter, wrapped up in some of the old rugs piled out back. This happened about once a month or so. Mikey didn't tell the other kids about things like that, or about being missing school for a week after getting a spanking with a 2x4. Stuff like that.

But the biggest secret was one that was really beginning to bother the ten-year-old Mikey.

"Dad," he asked one day. "Why don't I have a ... a ... why don't I have one like the other boys?"

His dad shrugged him off. "They grow at different rates, Tiger, and you'll get yours soon. Another year or two and you'll see it growing like you wouldn't believe."

Mikey had survived his childhood so far by trusting what his dad told him. So, even though he hadn't heard the teachers saying anything about boys growing things, Mikey didn't have too much choice except to believe his dad. And it did make a certain amount of sense ... after all, the girls grew stuff, why not the boys too? Still, he was a little concerned because it seemed like all the other boys already had something at least.

Mikey's life was about to change and change in ways he could never have predicted. His mother, whom he hadn't seen in years, had been struggling to gain custody of Mikey. She had remarried a wonderful man with two girls of his own and she desperately wanted her only child back.

So, at ten, Mikey was re-introduced to his mother.

She was shocked at her child's appearance. Gaunt, somewhat unkempt with his father's unorthodox methods of child rearing, this was not what she'd expected to find.

And, at ten, Mikey has a nervous breakdown when his mother regained custody.

Mikey, as most adults reading this have long since realized, was a girl, not a boy as he had believed for the entire ten years of his life.

Now, I can understand that Mikey had to believe his dad ... a kid pretty much only knows what his parents teach him ... to a point. But how did Mikey go to school through third grade and no teacher notice that something might be wrong with Mikey's family? Didn't any of them question the "boy"? How did none of the other boys notice that Mikey didn't have the same plumbing? Even in the 70s, how could the most basic facts of Mikey's life have escaped the eyes of every adult around him?

How do you get over a lie that colossal? How do you really get over living your first ten years as a lie that you didn't tell?

I don't have any answers ... I'm not sure anyone does.

And, then of course, what the HELL possessed Mikey's father to try to tell such a colossal lie? What the hell was he gonna do when Mikey started "growing up" and developing in areas that Mikey did not expect to develop?

Again, I don't have any answers and I'm not sure anyone, even Mikey's dad, has those answers.

I guess I'm something of a sucker. Mikey's one of the folks that I took in while I was in college. He was having some health issues and couldn't work while waiting to have surgery (no, not that surgery, though he would have liked to have had it).

But I'm really glad that I was able to help Mikey out if only for a little while. He lived with me two or three different times when he would otherwise have been living out on the streets. He deserved a chance to relax and let someone try to take care of him, even a little bit, if even for a while.

Why do we do horrible things to each other? I know giving him a home when he needed it did not even come close to cancelling out all that he'd been through. But maybe that trust that I showed by taking him in when I literally did not know him at all, helped counteract a little of the distrust he had to have for the rest of the world.

It's hard to leave yourself open to a stranger. It's a risk. It can be dangerous. It can be stupid. I'm not arguing that.

But, if you try to exercise some caution and take some risks, both, it can also be very rewarding. And it just might help someone who needs it.

Posted by Red Monkey at 4:39 AM | Comments (3) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | TrackBack | Stumble

November 22, 2005

Brakes? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Brakes

My father was ... is ... an alcoholic. So maybe that one tidbit will help you understand a little better my desire for my own set of wheels. After years of being forced to get into the car in the evenings with a drunk, I was ecstatic to be able to take myself places and not have to worry about Dad's condition ... or Mom's reluctance to leave the house for any reason.

So that rolling death-mobile may have represented freedom to me in a way a little bit bigger than it did to most teenagers.

Shortly after I moved out of the house ... actually, as soon as my mother discovered that I was planning on moving out of the house, she planned on divorcing dad. That's another long saga that I might go into one day ... but not any time soon ... this story of the brakes is sad enough and I don't want to turn this into that kind of a blog. :)

At any rate, moving out, getting a set of wheels, meant a great deal to me.

But, of course, in the U.S. it generally takes more than a minimum wage job to make even the barest of livings. I was staying in an apartment complex with a roommate for $201 a month and we could barely make ends meet on our budget. Neither one of us went out clubbing -- cost too much in gas to go to clubs and we couldn't really afford the cover charges anyway. And, of course, I was paranoid about drinking and driving given my dad.

In the course of starting college and filling out financial aid forms, I discovered something about my family that completely shocked me. In 1986, my father filed a tax return just under six digits.

We had a hell of a lot more money than I'd been led to believe.

Now, in some ways, this was a good way to have been raised ... I wasn't a spoiled brat and I didn't expect to be given a lot of things like some of my friends. I didn't expect to have the latest and greatest popular stuff. The swatch craze pretty much passed me by, as did a slew of other Name Brand Fads. And, I expected to work for the things I wanted.

But, I've also been led to believe ... just by the society I grew up in, that when even an adult kid really needed something, something important, that you could rely on your parents to help you to the best of their abilities.

So, I was driving the rolling death-mobile to work one day, about a year after moving out. I worked at Bizmart, an office supply megastore (eventually bought out by the ever-evil OfficeMax).

I pulled up to a red light ... and my brake pedal went all the way to the floor. Nothing.

I slammed the car into neutral and prepared to yank the wheel into a curb to avoid entering the busy intersection. Luckily there was enough of the brake pads left that the combination of the brakes and neutral did stop me. (The emergency brake had never worked.)

By this point, my parents had been divorced for about a year and my father had agreed to help me with college as necessary and to repair the rolling death-mobile when it broke down. At this point, it had only broken down once and he'd been fairly good about getting it fixed.

I finished the drive to work gingerly, but without any further scares. Throwing the transmission into neutral seemed to be the key to getting enough brake power to stop reasonably. The trip home was a little more nerve-wracking, but no major incidents. I called my father and let him know the brakes had completely failed. It was Sunday night.

"Well, I can't do anything about that now."

"I know, Dad, but should I take it in to Pep Boys in the morning? My roommate can get me to work tomorrow, but I need the car back for classes Tuesday."

"Well ... I don't know."

"Dad! I have NO brakes!"

He sighed. "I'll look at it on Saturday."

I was shocked. I thought parents were supposed to be concerned about their children even after they moved out of the house. It's not like I was going to a private university and sucking the money out of him. It's not like I was driving a BMW and demanding that he pay the insurance and maintenance. I'd already gotten grants for my college tuition, so he wasn't having to pay for my schooling anymore. I was taking care of all of my own bills ... our town had no public transportation and walking was not an option -- everything was just too far away.

This was not a hole in the muffler that I could drive around for a week.

Brakes, I thought, were kind of important.

I got off the phone with Dad and was at a loss. My brain was going like 60, trying to figure out how to get out of the problem I was in.

And then, I remembered what I'd gotten in the mail just a day or two before.

My first credit card. $500 credit line for the college student in need. I got it for emergencies.

Brakes seemed like a necessity. Not having brakes seemed like an emergency.

I asked around, found a good mechanic -- NOT Pep Boys -- and paid the $120 repair bill with the shiny, new credit card.

I never asked Dad to repair the car again.

He didn't call me on Saturday to ask about the brakes.

He never did ask me about them.

Guess it didn't matter to him. After all, he's the one who bought the rolling death-mobile to begin with.

Within 20 minutes of posting about the rolling death-mobile last Thursday, I had two people tell me that it sounded like my dad was trying to kill me. I was already thinking ahead to this story of the brakes ... and in a lot of ways, to a lot of other stories of my childhood ... and I gotta think ... maybe they're right.

Posted by Red Monkey at 4:03 AM | Comments (4) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | TrackBack | Stumble

November 17, 2005

The Rolling Death-Mobile

My family was not rich and I had no pretensions growing up that we had money. We didn't have a pool, we didn't have a family room with a pool table or fooseball, and I didn't expect a car for my 16th birthday as many of my classmates did. After all, in the '80s, we didn't have the $500 for me to go to Washington, D.C. with the rest of the honors geeks or the $50 for the PSAT that could have gotten me a national merit scholarship, so I knew we didn't have a lot extra.

What I couldn't understand was that my parents really didn't seem to want me to have a job, either.

At any rate, I will admit to having more than a little bit of envy for my classmates who drove their second hand beaters to school ... and especially for the ones who drove their own BMWs, Porches, the Alfa Romero and the Lamborghini. But it was an idle kind of thing. I had no idea how I would ever manage a car of my own since I was so rarely allowed to take mom's car, couldn't work and my parents didn't have anything to spare.

So, I was trying to take some vicarious joy out of my mother's quest for a new car when her ancient and decrepit Delta 88 had lived far past its prime. I was completely stunned when Mom passed a book to me advising me how to pick a used car -- we were going to use the money from the sale of the Oldsmobile to buy me a car for my senior year of high school. Ecstatic, I threw myself into the task. We made little checklists of things to look for and examine and set out to various used car lots.

But, everytime I found something within the price range, the answer was the same -- "let your father check it out first. We have to wait for him."

After two months of this, I gave up. I'd get my hopes up over a cool car and be ready to drive it to a garage for a check-up only to be told again to wait for Dad ... and he never looked at any of these cars.

I thought maybe I'd get a surprise for my 18th birthday. Nope. Christmas? Again, no. I gave up completely.

Mom tried to bully me into going car shopping again, but I kept asking her why and she, too, finally gave up.

I threw my after-school time into our drama production and forgot all about it (mostly). The day of our premiere, my grandparents and mom were beaming at me from the audience. A shy kid (despite the hyperactivity -- I'm just a mass of contradictions), my mother in particular was shocked and proud when I'd decided to pursue drama. But I was more than a little surprised when Mom and my grandparents dragged me out of the theatre as fast as they could after my performance, telling me I had to come outside NOW.

About a month early, my graduation present sat in the parking lot. A red Buick Skyhawk hatchback with mag wheels. Only 6 years old.

I was completely stunned. I really hadn't expected to get anything.

In retrospect, I would have preferred a nice pen set. You know, like the 5 other uninspired, generic pen sets I got for graduation.

My idea of a new car had been small, foreign and standard. My father's was small, American, automatic ... and red. Yes, the 18-year-old wanted something more practical and the 40-something wanted RED. And, as it turned out, he bought one of the worst vehicles on the lot.

First, the mechanics on the lot had not yet looked at the car ... it had just come onto the lot as a trade-in from the new car lot. Second, my father's idea of working on a car is to stick his lit cigarette face deep into the running engine and bang on things, so his examination was incredibly intense and thorough. Third, the car had a glass roof ... a "moon roof" that was an obvious home-job. I have never seen any project EVER use so much caulk. (It did, however, never leak from the roof, I will say that.)

Oblivious to most of this at the moment, I was ecstatic. My own wheels! Freedom!

The next day I took the car to a shop to get an evaluation of it. The mechanic walked back out white as a ghost and said, "I hope you didn't pay much for it."

The car had been in a serious accident which had broken the frame of the vehicle. It was welded back togoether underneath the driver's side door. The mechanic looked at me and said, "Don't ever get into even a fender-bender in this car. That weld could snap at any time and the car will crumple at that point ... right at the driver's seat. Don't even let anyone rear-end you."

I stared at him, horrified, looked back at the car and then up to the moon roof. He just bit his lip and nodded. He didn't need to say it. This car was a rolling death-mobile.

As a result, I was probably a far more careful driver than any of my peers, including my best friend Andy, who totalled out at least two cars in high school and the beginning of college.

Somehow, though, we nursed the car along for about two or three years before the repair bills were $200 every other month, rather negating the bonus of having a car with no car payments.

Highlights of the death-mobile were the time that Mom decided she knew "what was wrong with that car" -- she happened to be reading a book on auto repair ... I have NO idea why because she certainly wouldn't deign to stick her fingers in the engine. Coincidentally, the parts needed for this repair happened to be on sale at Pep Boys ....

Net result: Dad broke the timing chain in his efforts to fix the car that had been running just fine. The car wound up at Pep Boys for about three or four days while they repaired the car for me. However, when driving it on the way home, I took my foot off the accelerator for an approaching red light.

The car didn't slow.

It sped up.

Crap. I put my foot on the brake and it did slow to a stop. However, I had to ride the brake all the way home because the car continued acceleration regardless of whether or not I was pushing the accelerator. I call the shop the next day and complain, telling them they need to fix it. They hem and haw around, telling me they were nowhere near the fast idle choke and that they didn't break the car. I point out it wasn't doing that before they got hold of it. Yelling match ensues in which they think they can bully me because I'm a kid ... bad mistake.

I take the car back and they fix it.

Phone call, "Your car is ready, but I have to tell you that there's a potentially dangerous problem with the vehicle."

I'm thinking, yeah, the frame is probably cracking already.

"Three of the four engine bolts that hold the engine in the car are missing."

At this point I'm sure that they had the three frickin' bolts sitting in the mechanic's pocket because he was pissed that I made them fix the fast idle choke. Of course, they have the car ... and I don't have the bolts ... and there's lots of potholes on the way home. I tell them to fix the car and tell me when it's done again.

Two weeks later, the car is ready. They had to order the bolts. Mmmm-hmmm. I believe that. My father, on the other hand, is ecstatic because they only charged me $12.00 to fix the car -- no labor, just the cost of the bolts. He's now convinced these are the most honest mechanics in the world.

But my favourite story about the rolling death-mobile is when the brakes went out.

Well, really, I guess it's a story about my dad more than the car.

But I'll save that one for another day ... until then, if you see a red Buick Skyhawk on the road ... don't scare it ... it'll fall apart if you honk at it, shattering the inch thick glass roof and probably exploding, creating a crater the size of Detroit.

Posted by Red Monkey at 10:09 AM | Comments (5) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | Stumble

November 16, 2005

More Caelum Moor

Here's a shot of more of the park I was talking about the other day. I'm still stunned that the park was dismantled because a few Christian fanatics (I'm not saying all Christians or even all fundamentalists, though most of the folks involved in bringing the park down were fundamentalists) actually had the audacity to cry out "separation of church and state." These are literally the same folks who complain bitterly that the Ten Commandments ought to be in front of court houses.

At any rate, I do have more pictures of the park ... not enough to my mind. I never did get a picture of the structure in the pond when its fountain was on. It was beautiful. I'd sit on that one small stone just to the right of the pond and Morna Linn (the sculpture in the pond) and watch the water cascading off the stones. At night, lights recessed in the ground shone upward and the ones lighting the fountain were just amazing. I wish I'd gotten some pictures of that.

If you're still curious about the park, check out the part of my site dedicated to the memory of Caelum Moor park.

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:48 PM | Comments (2) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | Stumble

November 13, 2005

Caelum Moor

One of my most favourite places in the world ... this park was in built in the 1980s by Norm Hines. It was meant to be the centerpiece of a business park ... a place of quiet reflection amidst the crazy activity of modern life. And it was for a while. Unfortunately the businessman who commissioned it went bankrupt ... and then, after the city bought the park which had once been used for outdoor theatre and the local Scottish Games, some of the more conservative churches banded together and claimed it was illegal for the city to own that park. They claimed that "the pagans" used the park as a place of worship and therefore the city couldn't own that "church."

The city sold the plot of land, dismantled the stone sculptures and the land that had been sculpted to create the pond, gentle hills and a natural looking amphitheatre area was razed and turned into a business property.

The stones now sit in a water treatment facility. In storage.

There have been attempts made to have the park built again - the artist has tried several times to have the park re-built - but they're still sitting in a water treatment facility in Arlington, Texas.

The sad thing is ... any park with some grass or a tree or even a nifty rock could be considered a "place of worship" by many people, not just pagans. It's a shame the city ever caved to the "pressure" of a few completely reactionary people.

Posted by Red Monkey at 6:04 PM | Comments (4) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | TrackBack | Stumble

November 8, 2005

Conversational-like

So, I've discovered the best cell phone rules ever. Check out ParaTed2k's blog, to see what I'm talking about.

Meanwhile, I thought I would post a re-enactment of one of the best overheard cell phone conversations.

If you remember, a while back I had a cat who stopped shedding her claws. As we were in the waiting room to the vet's office, the cell phone of the girl behind us went off.

She yakked away as if she were at home, not in public. I was trying not to listen but that's a little impossible when she's practically shouting into the phone and laughing hysterically. She finally ends that call and immediately calls another friend.

This is that phone call.

"Hey John, this is your favourite Christian friend. I'm just calling because we have an extra ticket to the Christian concert on Tuesday, do ya wanna come along? We're going to meet at Larry's house and then all drive over to the concert in one car because it's at the fairgrounds and the parking's really expensive, but I think we're going to park waaaaaaaaay down the road and just walk to the concert because we won't have any money for t-shirts and CDs if we actually pay for the parking so if you want you can come with us."

At this point she takes a breath. Not enough of one to really make up for the oxygen deprivation she must have felt as she spat out that last run-on sentence, but enough to get her going again.

"Anyhow, I meant to tell you I met that girl at the coffee house last night and we went out and got to talking and we stayed out together all night I mean, I haven't hardly even been home yet, but I just picked up Bonsey here for his vet appointment and came straight over here and I think I'm in love with this girl, I mean, we didn't do anything last night or anything but she's just wonderful and I think this will probably solve that question for me but Larry's really worried about me and wants to have a long talk with me about this, but I think he's just being old-fashioned because you know ...."

Now, now she finally lowers her voice a little, but of course by this time the entire waiting room is listening avidly to this child's run-on sentences.

And now, she's about to impart wisdom. We can all feel it.

"I think he's just being old-fashioned because you know ... you know Jesus never said anything about the gays." She laughs. "Okay, I gotta go. Jesus loves you." She hangs up.

And the sad thing is, I really hope this was a message left for John's answering machine because if not, she never did let the poor guy get a word into that conversation.

Okay, I gotta go. Jesus loves you.

(What a way to end a conversation! Sheesh!)

Posted by Red Monkey at 5:23 AM | Comments (3) | Never Underestimate the Power of Human Stupidity | Stumble