Gudlyf's World

A two-foot wall

// August 8th, 2008 // Comments Off // General, Humor, Tales

“I can walk like a penguin!”

If you’re from New England, or at least Massachusetts, and you’re a child of the ’80s, you’ve likely seen the commercials for the New England Aquarium. Oh, the wonders of what you could see and do at the aquarium: dolphin shows! seals! fish! penguins!

My boss’s son works at a nearby school for troubled teens. Recently he took the “good ones” on a little field trip to the aquarium. The story of what happened next, he says, is true.

(more…)

Polaris Sub

// April 15th, 2005 // 2 Comments » // Tales

When I was real small like, I dunno, eight-or-so years old, I remember my dad taking me to an old news stand that was closing in Lowell, MA called “Harvey’s”. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing when I walked into the place. Stacks and stacks of comic books filled the store. Mountains of magazines towered over me, making it difficult even for me to walk between them. The memory’s foggy, but this is what I remember.

The comic books were clumsily tied in bundles with twine. Each bundle had a piece of paper slapped on it reading “200, $2″. My dad saw my brother and me gawking at the piles of books and bought us a bundle to take home. Two-hundred comics for two dollars.

I remember reading all of the comics many times over. At the time I thought nothing of comics and mint condition value, so I didn’t take too much care of how I handled them. Richie Rich, Scooby Doo, Casper — those I know for certain were among what I read. I also had no sense of how old these comics really were, since these were cartoon characters I was watching on TV at the time.

In the back of many of these old comics were ads for all sorts of zany gimmicky items — X-Ray vision glasses, the infamous Atlas book, selling Grit Magazine, etc. One thing I remember really wanting was the Polaris Nuclear Sub. I drooled over that thing like Ralphie did over the Red Rider B.B.Gun in ‘A Christmas Story’. Here was something that said it could go underwater! Fire rockets! With a real working periscope! It fits two kids! And holy shit, it was only $6.98! I have $6.98!

I dreamed of arriving home from school one day to see a huge fricken crate in my back yard, my newly purchased Polaris Nuclear Submarine. I’d rub my hands together in delight with an evil laugh. I’d throw it in my dad’s pickup and have him haul it down to the nearby pond, where I’d spend the entire summer exploring the underwater world of Long Pond, shooting nuclear missiles at passing boats and sneaking up on swimmers as I peered at them with my real periscope. I was giddy at the thought.

Alas, I didn’t realize these comics were over ten years old. I never did try to send away for the sub. Who knows what would happen to my hard earned allowance money once it arrived at the defunct company’s mailbox. Maybe he’d buy some weed with it. Or at least a beer.

Many many years later, when I realized old mint comics = cash, I tore apart my basement searching for the huge stack of 200 comics. Unfortunately most of them were lost in the move to our new house, and I was only able to recover one comic — a 1967 Richie Rich. The interior is good, but the cover is ripped in corners. I bagged it anyway and still have it.

Two hundred comics for two dollars. Yeah, that may be a destination to put on my “where to go with my time machine when someone invents one” list.

Dave Barry for a Day…NOT

// January 21st, 2005 // Comments Off // Tales

A few weeks ago my aunt told me about a contest Boston Globe Magazine was running, where you could write a 600-word-or-less story to take the place of Dave Barry’s now defunct column. The winning story was posted this past Sunday and I thought it stunk, but I am biased since I tried for the contest as well. Anyway, here’s my story below. You may have already read the lengthier version here.

—

“Luck O’ The Irish”

My friend Dave and I took turns scanning through the newspaper’s Horse Racing section, hoping we’d see our favorite steed listed among the day’s races at Rockingham Park.

Amongst all of the park names, horse names and jockey names, there’s information that makes reading the Stocks section of the paper feel like a bit of light reading. Stable and breeder name, owner name, full horse name (yes, they have a last name), horse age, color, clothing color, sibling names, last race stats, lifetime race stats, last medication administered, feed type, last training date, and injury history. Then of course you have the jockey’s stats and horse’s starting odds.

I’ve learned from early years at Rockingham Park that there’s one statistic the paper won’t reveal, one important fact about each horse that can ultimately determine its result in the next race. A factor that’s near impossible to report in any media, as the timing of such an event needs measuring in mere milliseconds. That event, of course, is when the horse last pooped.

It was the first time I had gone to the park with Dave and my dad. I had been several times before as a younger child, which at the time meant all I really understood was pretty horsies. In later years we’d run around looking at discarded bet tickets, hoping some dummy tossed a winner. My uncle owned a horse that raced several times as a trotter, which partly influenced why we went to the park so often. Or it could’ve been that it was a place the moms hated to go.

As I was getting old enough to understand more about the intricacies of horse racing science and lore, my dad slammed down in front of me his heavily written-on cut-out from the Boston Globe racing section and his copy of the racing program. As the next race was about to post, he showed us the stats for each horse and how to interpret them.

As we yawned our way through my dad’s explanations of this obscure art form, he suddenly let us pick a horse to bet on, one which he’d place for us. We were as giddy as, well, a couple of kids betting on horses. We thought carefully through all of the information presented to us on the racing form, in the Globe and through my father’s wisdom. We quickly hashed through a multitude of calculations in our own racing form.

As Dave and I stared at the final result of our hard work, we nodded in agreement, deciding to base our pick on one long-standing and reliable fact: the horse’s name. She was “Luck O’ The Irish”.

My father ran off to place the bets as Dave and I hopped over to the stable. There she was, number eight, Luck O’ The Irish. Going at 7-1 odds, and the chuckle my dad gave as we revealed our pick, didn’t seem to bother us.

As we watched Luck’s first leg touch the soil of the track, there she blew. To this day I don’t think I’ve seen a larger keester cake taken by man nor beast. She just stopped in her tracks and let it all go, continuing on with perhaps a little more pep in her step.

A few people laughed at the sight, but they didn’t seem to realize they just witnessed the one thing that would determine the race. “Luck O’ The Irish” did indeed win that day, and Dave and I walked away rich men ($35.73).

We visited the park a few more times when ol’ Luck was running, and on the nights she felt regular we profited, and on constipated nights we left with lighter wallets. There was no doubt that we had been witnessing a higher power at work.

“Ah hah!” Dave shouted as he jammed his finger into the newspaper. “She’s a-runnin’!”

Sure enough, our girl was running again that night. We circled the race time and each silently said a little prayer to the laxitive God.

I snatched the paper from the table, folded it up under my arm, and marched with a smile to the bathroom. This was in her honor tonight.

Failed Sam Adams Commercial

// January 17th, 2005 // 1 Comment » // Tales

A couple years ago I entered a Project Greenlight contest for a Sam Adams beer commercial. I didn’t win, but I thought what I had was pretty good. Anyway, here it is for your enjoyment:

Open in a hotel restaurant, somewhat late at night. We see a couple sitting at a table. The woman is admiring her just-received engagement ring. In front of the man is an empty bottle of Sam Adams and a half-full beer glass. A young waiter walks by and grabs the empty bottle. A voiceover briefly describes Sam Adams’ history, process and taste.

Cut to another couple and their son sitting at a different table. They’re celebrating the son’s return home from abroad. The son, in his mid-20′s, is in formal military dress. The couple and the son each have a Sam Adams bottle and glass in front of them. The same waiter walks by and grabs the empty bottles. The voiceover describes several prestigious awards that Sam Adams has been given throughout the years.

Cut to the small restaurant bar. A men’s softball league occupies this area. They’re still in uniform, celebrating their recent victory. The same waiter grabs three more empty Sam Adams bottles from this area. The voiceover continues reciting more of Sam Adams’ awards.

We follow the waiter through the kitchen doors, hurrying down a hallway with the empty bottles and looking around suspiciously.

Cut to close up of an empty Sam Adams bottle being held up high and carefully being placed on top of two others. Voiceover continues with, “who knows how else Sam Adams has been celebrated thoughout the world.”

Wide shot of a hotel function room. The waiter is standing at the top of a ladder, cheering. We see that the last bottle was placed on top of a HUGE pyramid of empty Sam Adams bottles. A sizable crowd of hotel employees cheers at the last bottle being placed.

Voiceover ends with, “Celebrate with Samuel Adams.”

I Felt a Great Disturbance in the Force

// December 21st, 2004 // Comments Off // Ranting, Tales

…as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror. Then were suddenly silenced.

This is a true story. Last night I watched all but about four minutes (of game time) of the Patriots/Miami game. The Pats were up over a touchdown, so I figured it was safe to go to bed while the Pats put Miami to bed.

In the middle of the night, I woke up suddenly for some reason. As I tried to drift back off to sleep, I remember thinking, “Aw man I can’t believe the Pats lost to Miami….Huh?! Wait a minute. They were winning when I went to bed. Whew.”

Then I wake up to one big cold fucking slap in the face. What the hell?!

The Big Bird and…huh?!

// August 13th, 2004 // Comments Off // Tales

I was just going through some of my old Tales posts and realized, “holy shit, I never finished the Big Bird story!” My summer semester just wrapped up, so I’ll have a few weeks to think about finishing what I started before the next semester starts — the story really just doesn’t work when it’s half-assed and unfinished like that. I want to make up for my last story, which didn’t come out as good as I hoped I guess. Anyway, stay tuned…

Beck’s Baptize & Videotape

// July 26th, 2004 // 2 Comments » // Tales

During some period of my high school years, my father thought a great Christmas gift for my mom was a video camera. Of course, when my dad asked my brother and I what we thought of the idea, we approved with a resounding, “fuck yeah!” Mind you, in early boyhood speak, the first word is silent when speaking to parental figures and/or those willing to promptly correct your pronunciation with “the belt”.

Keep in mind that these were the days when the latest video cameras required a full-size VHS tape for recording. In other words, you were expected to lug around a VCR on your shoulder. We knew that, along with this fine gift for our dear mother, we would gladly bear this heavy burden for her. Not only that, but we’d be sure to meticulously choose the locales of each shot, carefully pinpoint each subject to be filmed, and make sure the audio remained crisp and clear, providing dubbed, informative narratives where necessary.

Our first official shoot: three minutes of my brother and I screwing around with electric guitars and Christmas decorations, dubbed with music from Chipmunks Christmas. All this, and before the camera was even wrapped. Masterpiece.

One of the crown jewels of our work came the following summer, which forever changed the life of one person — my dad. Actually it’s possible we changed the lives of more than one person, as I believe we likely saved several in the process.

The family cookout has been a tradition for many years at my parents’ house. Lots of food, beer, and when we had a pool, swimming. While the details of this particular family gathering aren’t clear to those present, the magic of video renews those faded memories with a simple push of the “play” button. Follow this with “rewind”, then “play”, and repeat.

Because the entire day isn’t captured, we’re left with small fragmented highlights. Luckily we can piece some of this together with the graciously informative timestamps gracing each frame:

02:39 PM — The last guests are arriving. “Oh look — a video camera!” Yadda yadda. There’s dad, grilling away and toasting us with a beer.

03:34 PM — People sitting at the picnic table or in beach chairs, eating burgers and dogs. There’s dad again, setting up the horseshoe pit. It’s pretty hot out I guess, because he just removed his shirt. Somehow he did this without putting his beer down.

04:21 PM — Horseshoe game in progress, one of many. My cousin’s up, and the first shot rolls off a bit. Now it’s my dad’s turn. He puts his beer down and starts some kind of new warm up technique of swinging his throwing arm wildly in semi-circles as he paces around the pit. This lasts a couple of minutes before he throws a wild, high shot towards the far pit, his opponents scattering, using their arms as desperate attempts at helmets.

04:40 PM — Quick shot of my dad making “grass angels”.

04:42 PM — My dad is approaching the camera, beer in hand. He utters what sounds like an aramaic blessing as he makes the sign of the cross at the camera with his beer can. His beer baptism spreads to everyone in the immediate vicinity.

05:37 PM — It must be getting really hot now, because my dad’s making his way — somehow — to the pool. He announces to the gathering of people that he’s jumping into the icy water to cool off, which freaks my mom out. “You’re gonna get a heart attack!” Something like that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter — he’s in the pool, cannonball-style.

05:50 PM — Dad again, drying off on the pool deck and looking for his beer. I think someone purposely took it. Oh wait, there it is in the pool. Nevermind.

In conclusion, I’d say you had to be there, but really you’d just need to see the tape. It’s most likely been played so many times that the ferromagnetic material has worn down too thin to be watchable, it’s sitting at the bottom of the Merrimac, or it’s melted into makeshift golf tees. Whatever the fate of this tape may be, the “damage”, so-to-speak, has been done. Those images haunted and scarred my father for life, and those days are far behind him now. Lucky for us all.

Several years later during my college days, I passed out in the back of a boat where my friends say they decorated me with flowers and other things I was either never told about or chose to forget. They told me the next morning that they had the scene on video, and my remaining college life instantly flashed before my eyes, as I knew what such a thing could do to a man. Lucky for me they were kidding. I think.

(NOTE: Please know that not everything in this story can be taken as complete truth. My dad never has, nor will he ever, drink Beck’s beer.)

Walk Swiftly and Carry a Big Joint

// July 14th, 2004 // 2 Comments » // Tales

“Ohmygod! I can’t believe I didn’t tell you this as soon as you walked in the house!”

I should have just let her end the story right there, as I am now forever scarred. No more will I feel the sweet asylum of the trails of Callahan without uneasy glaces over my shoulders. No more will I fucking dare bend over with unclenched buttcheeks and an unconstricting belt to pick up a stick to throw for my dog. Never again at Callahan.

“You’ll never guess what happened to me at the park today.” She was right.

She then went on to explain that as she left the very full parking lot at the park entrance and travelled about 300 yards or so down the trails, she noticed our dog, Guinness, staring warily into a nearby field. When she approached, she noticed there was a man standing there, bare-assed naked, about 100 feet away in what has to be one of the most poison-ivy ridden, bee infested and tick teeming areas of the park. She pretended she didn’t see him and just moved along with the rest of her walk. I was dumbfounded.

“So wait…you didn’t turn around and get the hell out of there?!”

“No,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I just kept going and didn’t look back.”

“Wha…you didn’t even look back?! He could’ve been following you!”

She shrugged. “Hey, I walked a little faster.”

(Grrrrrr!) “Did you have your cellphone at least, to call help or whatever?”

“No, the battery was dead…again.”

(Grrrr! Must get new cellphone for Deb. Grrrr!) “OK, I’ll take care of that. So what the hell was this guy doing? Just standing there?”

“I dunno. I didn’t look.”

“So you’re sure he was naked? Like totally naked?!”

“Ooohhh yes, no doubt.”

“So not wearing, like, some tan khakis or something that looked like nude?”

“Not unless he was wearing those special khakis that have a pale, white ass.”

“So what the hell was he doing!?”

“I dunno. I said I didn’t look. I kept walking.”

“Was he like, walking around like he, I dunno, just took a dump or something? I can see someone getting desperate and just having to go.”

“No way. Not unless he’s George Constanza and likes to take his shirt off to go.”

“Was he with someone in there, or was he just hanging out alone?”

“Keith, I have no idea — I got moving as soon as I saw he was naked. I don’t know if he had a ‘friend’ in there with him or what.”

A few minutes pass as I absorb the story. For some reason I kept pressing on.

“Alright…so what did this guy look like? Was this some young guy or some old, tree-hugging bastard fucking a knothole or something?”

“I guess he seemed like in his forties or something.”

“Wait a minute — you could tell that from an ass?!”

She shrugged again. “I guess.”

Now paranoia swept over me. “He could’ve been in there finishing up a rape job or something, and you didn’t get the hell out of there right away? You wanted me to tell you when you have bouts of prenancy brain…” I looked at her suggestively. Then she said those scarring words.

“What if he wasn’t after girls?”

Holy lord, I never thought of that. I walk those fucking trails by myself once in a while, and while I’m no small man, there’s no telling what a determined, naked, bee stung, poison-ivy inflicted gay rapist would do to get a piece of this fine specimen. My machette of a hunting knife that I carried with me didn’t look so crazy afterall. Well OK, it’s a multi-tool, but it does have a blade I’m no longer afraid to use dammit!

Since the preceding conversation, I’ve been to the park with Guinness once. Luckily I had no run-ins with who I now call “naked park guy”. I looked overhead as I passed the area of the park where Deb saw naked park guy, looking for circling buzzards who may have been feasting on his victim from four days ago. I carefully scanned the area for any tell-tale evidence of wrong-doing, maybe finding the bent-over, fetid corpse of naked park guy’s last victim so I could report it to police and be a hero.

Who am I kidding — I ran by like a pussy.

Later down the trail where I really usually don’t see a soul, a man was walking by, fully dressed (thank you, God) in a three-piece suit. Mind you, this is on a humid 80-degree day, at 7PM on a weekday, in the middle of mosquito-infested forest. What the hell?! After I ran by him, I was immediately greeted by one of the largest pot smoke clouds I’d ever seen exhaled by a single human, and this was a bongless dude, mind you.

I guess I should take a lesson from who I now call “suited pot dude” and stop worrying about shit going down in the woods. Just relax, enjoy the outdoors, take in nature (wink) and dress like you own the fucking place.

If all that fails, run through those trails like a muthafucka.

The Big Bird and Steve Miller (Chapter 3)

// May 19th, 2004 // 2 Comments » // Tales

(Chapter 1, Chapter 2)

Let’s start out in the order of introduction so far:

Chewie — As you may have guessed it, yes he is named after that Chewie. Does he look like Chewbacca? Not really. Does he act like Chewbacca? Eh…no. Does he smell like Chewbacca? N…well actually, that’s debatable, but if you were to ask me if he sounds like Chewbacca, I would have to unequivocally say, “hell yes!” That boy could churn out wookie grunts, growls and howls like none other than the chestnut colored alien we’ve all come to love.

Glum — If you’re old enough to remember The Banana Splits & Friends Show (“Oh oh Chongo!”), you may recall The Adventures of Gulliver, where a Lilliputian by the name of “Glum” would reliably put a damper on the others’ plans by saying, “We’re doomed! We’ll never make it!” “Fearless leader” isn’t necessarily the first term we’d use to describe our chapter president.

Stinky — Stinky is Glum’s older brother, and he’s one of the few I still keep in contact with. How he got his nickname, I’m not going reveal here. This is not because of a strange fraternal secret oath, but rather I think you’d thank me for not telling you. Let’s just say that it doesn’t have to do with how he smells. Well, at least not when I saw him last, but you know how age does things to people.

Butler — This is yet another name that you’ll thank me for not telling you the meaning of. In fact, I’m not all too sure I should be telling you any of them. But since I’ve not revealed the fraternity in question nor the real names of these people, I’m confident I’m safe from having my every body hair infested by the fleas of a thousand camels — something sworn upon us all should we reveal such secrets. Anyway…Butler. Butler’s nickname became so ingrained upon him that it’s believed all but the founding fathers of our fraternity chapter didn’t know his real name. It’s believed his own parents and siblings decided to start calling him ‘Butler’, most likely because anyone calling his home would ask for him by that name. Butler could easily be the subject of a whole set of other stories on his own. This man is probably the closest to Animal House’s Bluto that we had.

Bixby — The name ‘Bixby’ of course comes from The Hulk’s alter-ego, so-to-speak. Now you have to imagine that this guy, at least at the time, was one skinny dude, mabe weighed one-fifty soaking wet. In other words, this was no warrior by any means in the physique department. However, get on this man’s wrong side, and The Hulk was indeed unleashed. There was talk that he took down ten guys on his own while in a drunken stupor, wearing a vodka-punch soaked toga at three A.M., with two of the guys holding his arms back. His cigarette never left his mouth.

Check this entry again soon for more introductions!

I’m Such a Dick

// April 16th, 2004 // 2 Comments » // Tales

So I go to the local Sam’s club today to grab a 32-pack of bottled Poland Spring for a party we’re having Monday (Boston Marathon-Monday). While I’m waiting in line to check-out, I notice above each counter is a sign:

GET MY $5 IF I DON’T THANK YOU BY NAME OR ASK YOU TO PAY WITH A SAM’S CREDIT CARD

So I start to wonder, “what kind of dick would actually say something if they weren’t thanked by name?” Then it occured to me: “Wait a minute — I’m that kind of dick!”

It’s my turn in line, and the cashier looks half-asleep as she scans my club card and the pack of water. She doesn’t ask me to pay with any special card. I proceed to pay with my regular Visa card, and she hands me my receipt.

“Thank you, sir.”

(Awkward pause as an evil grin creeps on my face)

“So, um, do you hand me five bucks now for not saying my name?”

She looks defeated. “Oh, I said thank you ‘sir’.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Oh, well go ahead over to the desk over there and tell them.”

Did I bother to go over and persue the issue? Hell yeah. Although I think I was the only one ever to have the balls to call them on it, since they had to call a manager over to confirm the $5 deal being in effect (they all looked at me like I was out of my mind thinking they owed me $5 for someone not saying my name), and the manager initially thought I was crazy for thinking it was $5 and not $1.

After all that confusion and then trying to figure out where to take the money from, they just gave up, opened up a register and handed me a nice, crisp sawbuck.

Was it all worth looking like an ass to the entire Sam’s team? Ask me if I care while I down this Starbucks Venti Mocha it bought.