This isn't my typical blog entry, it is more of an update. If everything goes according to plan I will be attending Hawaii Pacific University in January. I am debating the creation of a new blog for my crazy adventures as and adult, cause lets face it the stupidity never ended, the toys just got bigger. If I start a new blog I will post the link on this one. To show how nice of a guy I am, I am including a video to make everyone feel sorry me as I begin my newest adventure.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
A Collection of Memories
This latest entry is a little different then most, it is a collection of papers I have written for an English class. My instructor seemed to have fun reading them, so I felt that it would only be fair to share them. The first story is a camping trip with some unexpected guests. The second story is just something my friends and I used to do to pass those long, boring summer days. The final story is a memory of one of those times when the expectation of something is almost better than finally getting it.
Walking Blood Bank
My family, friends and I came under attack while camping, at Lake Wenatchee one summer. We reserved the largest campsite because we had such a large group, about twenty people. The nearest occupied camp site was far enough away that we couldn’t see or hear them. At the time we thought we were lucky. We were surrounded by tall pine trees, which gave us plenty of shade but also blocked much of the wind. Unfortunately we happened to pick the year that the campground and surrounding area decided not to spay for mosquitoes. This helped explain all the vacant campsites. The area was so infested with them that you could not breathe without sucking a few of them up for a much deserved death. With so few campers, our site became a smorgasbord for the mosquitoes. In the center of the camp there was a large fire pit. The smoke from our roaring fire only seemed to encourage them to an even greater frenzy. Walking was like a bizarre dance. While sidestepping the larger swarms we had to franticly wave our hands in front of us to keep them from getting in our eyes. Clothing gave us a false sense of security. They seemed to find joy in piercing our flesh even through the thickest jeans. The tent was one of the few places that we could find refuge from these little vampires. If you managed to get in and zip the door closed fast enough. Also the beach offered some protection, but only as long as the wind was blowing. I had many interesting camping experiences, but none of them compare to the joy of being a walking blood bank.
Stick Fighting
When I was younger my friends and I loved to try and bash each others brains out with sticks, well more like small trees. We would spend hours hiking through the woods to find the perfectly balanced weapon. Our favorite stick was about 3-4in in diameter and 5ft long. Usually we came back with a dozen or more of these instruments of pain. We always held the battles at my house because I had a large flat backyard. We never had more the three people fighting at once. After we gathered enough supplies and selected our first weapon we would begin the fight. While facing each other we would bow. After that all sibilance of order went away. We would charge at each other with our sticks poised to attack. A spectator would have a glimpse of ancient warriors locked in epic battle. Thrust, strike, and dodge were the only things that our world consisted of. That is until ether a stick broke or someone got their knuckles hit hard enough to drop their stick. We would stop long enough for fresh weapons and the occasion rag to rap a bleeding hand. We would stay engaged in combat until our entire arsenal was depleted. Over time we became very skilled fighters, employing feints, lunges and parry. I am surprised that we walked away from that experience with just bloody knuckles. Now I am teaching my daughter to do the same thing, but this time we don’t us sticks.
A Big Surprise
I woke up one December morning to find a humongous present under the Christmas tree. I was ten years old at the time, so the box was larger then I was. To my delight it was address to me. My eye got as big as saucers when I read the attached note. It gave a hint as to what this exquisite present contained. It stated that I could use it when I watch my favorite show. Not only that but it happened to be from Bart Simpson. My mind began to reel with the possibilities. My first guess was a television but that hope was quickly dashed when I realized the box did not weight enough. Over the next few weeks my every thought was on that present. My first thought when I woke up to my last as I fell asleep was on that gift. I thought of every conceivable product ever made and some that do not exist. My ideas continued to roll for over a week. Finally the big day came and I tore in to the present. As rapping paper flies all over the room, I uncover a large unadorned cardboard box. This causes me to pause for a moment as I wonder what could be in a box without any writing on it. I then rip open the box. To my surprise I see one of my toys followed by my robe and then some rocks to add weight to the box. As I start to wonder if there really is a present for me I find it, a big black beanbag. I was so excited I could not wait to stat using it. I my haste I almost forgot that I still had more presents. While laying on my beanbag I opened my other presents. I have never had more anticipation and excitement before or since that present. I can still remember hiding under the beanbag while playing hide and seek. I kept that beanbag for over ten years. Finally time and wear required that I get rid of it.
Walking Blood Bank
My family, friends and I came under attack while camping, at Lake Wenatchee one summer. We reserved the largest campsite because we had such a large group, about twenty people. The nearest occupied camp site was far enough away that we couldn’t see or hear them. At the time we thought we were lucky. We were surrounded by tall pine trees, which gave us plenty of shade but also blocked much of the wind. Unfortunately we happened to pick the year that the campground and surrounding area decided not to spay for mosquitoes. This helped explain all the vacant campsites. The area was so infested with them that you could not breathe without sucking a few of them up for a much deserved death. With so few campers, our site became a smorgasbord for the mosquitoes. In the center of the camp there was a large fire pit. The smoke from our roaring fire only seemed to encourage them to an even greater frenzy. Walking was like a bizarre dance. While sidestepping the larger swarms we had to franticly wave our hands in front of us to keep them from getting in our eyes. Clothing gave us a false sense of security. They seemed to find joy in piercing our flesh even through the thickest jeans. The tent was one of the few places that we could find refuge from these little vampires. If you managed to get in and zip the door closed fast enough. Also the beach offered some protection, but only as long as the wind was blowing. I had many interesting camping experiences, but none of them compare to the joy of being a walking blood bank.
Stick Fighting
When I was younger my friends and I loved to try and bash each others brains out with sticks, well more like small trees. We would spend hours hiking through the woods to find the perfectly balanced weapon. Our favorite stick was about 3-4in in diameter and 5ft long. Usually we came back with a dozen or more of these instruments of pain. We always held the battles at my house because I had a large flat backyard. We never had more the three people fighting at once. After we gathered enough supplies and selected our first weapon we would begin the fight. While facing each other we would bow. After that all sibilance of order went away. We would charge at each other with our sticks poised to attack. A spectator would have a glimpse of ancient warriors locked in epic battle. Thrust, strike, and dodge were the only things that our world consisted of. That is until ether a stick broke or someone got their knuckles hit hard enough to drop their stick. We would stop long enough for fresh weapons and the occasion rag to rap a bleeding hand. We would stay engaged in combat until our entire arsenal was depleted. Over time we became very skilled fighters, employing feints, lunges and parry. I am surprised that we walked away from that experience with just bloody knuckles. Now I am teaching my daughter to do the same thing, but this time we don’t us sticks.
A Big Surprise
I woke up one December morning to find a humongous present under the Christmas tree. I was ten years old at the time, so the box was larger then I was. To my delight it was address to me. My eye got as big as saucers when I read the attached note. It gave a hint as to what this exquisite present contained. It stated that I could use it when I watch my favorite show. Not only that but it happened to be from Bart Simpson. My mind began to reel with the possibilities. My first guess was a television but that hope was quickly dashed when I realized the box did not weight enough. Over the next few weeks my every thought was on that present. My first thought when I woke up to my last as I fell asleep was on that gift. I thought of every conceivable product ever made and some that do not exist. My ideas continued to roll for over a week. Finally the big day came and I tore in to the present. As rapping paper flies all over the room, I uncover a large unadorned cardboard box. This causes me to pause for a moment as I wonder what could be in a box without any writing on it. I then rip open the box. To my surprise I see one of my toys followed by my robe and then some rocks to add weight to the box. As I start to wonder if there really is a present for me I find it, a big black beanbag. I was so excited I could not wait to stat using it. I my haste I almost forgot that I still had more presents. While laying on my beanbag I opened my other presents. I have never had more anticipation and excitement before or since that present. I can still remember hiding under the beanbag while playing hide and seek. I kept that beanbag for over ten years. Finally time and wear required that I get rid of it.
Be a Man
With all the idiotic things I have done in my life, Most of them were the result of the phrase, “come on, be a man!” My friends and I would climb onto the roof of our houses, I can not remember why we felt the need to but we did. This one time we decided to jump off the peak of the roof on a second story house. My friends jumped and landed just fine. I was hesitant to jump off, when I could just as easily go back the way I came. They convinced me to jump by daring me and then adding the “be a man” phrase. With this phrase echoing in my mind I jump off the roof.
As I am in the air I began to realize this was a big mistake. Upon landing I feel my ankle twist beneath me. Unlike my friends who landed on solid ground, I landing in the soft beauty bark. I lay there cradling my foot for a while, before finally getting up and limping into the house. I figured I had just twisted my ankle, I say at my friend’s house for another hour or more. By the time the pain gets severe enough for me to want to go home, my friends’ girlfriends show up and they don’t want to take the bikes they borrowed back to my house. It took me almost 30 minutes to limp 5 blocks to my house while pushing two bicycles.
When I get home, I am too embarrassed to admit that I jumped off of a house, so I claim to have jumped of a big rock. Still thinking that it was just sprained, I iced and wrapped my foot. As the days progressed and my ankle did not see any signs of improving, my mom took me to the doctor. At this time I was still professing that I had jumped off a rock: unfortunately, not knowing the extent of the impact reflected on how the doctor inspected my ankle. When the doctor twisted my foot slightly to check its mobility, I almost stood straight up on the examination table. It took this incident and 2 weeks of walking on a broken ankle for me to finally admit to the size of the structure I jumped from. I was then rushed to a foot specialist to get x-rays. The diagnosis was a fractured ankle, I sheared off the bottom side of the fibula. After having a pin surgically installed in my foot and having to spend most of the summer in a cast, I learned my lesion. It was not “Don’t jump off of roofs,” but “Make sure to not land of a soft incline when proving my manhood.”
As I am in the air I began to realize this was a big mistake. Upon landing I feel my ankle twist beneath me. Unlike my friends who landed on solid ground, I landing in the soft beauty bark. I lay there cradling my foot for a while, before finally getting up and limping into the house. I figured I had just twisted my ankle, I say at my friend’s house for another hour or more. By the time the pain gets severe enough for me to want to go home, my friends’ girlfriends show up and they don’t want to take the bikes they borrowed back to my house. It took me almost 30 minutes to limp 5 blocks to my house while pushing two bicycles.
When I get home, I am too embarrassed to admit that I jumped off of a house, so I claim to have jumped of a big rock. Still thinking that it was just sprained, I iced and wrapped my foot. As the days progressed and my ankle did not see any signs of improving, my mom took me to the doctor. At this time I was still professing that I had jumped off a rock: unfortunately, not knowing the extent of the impact reflected on how the doctor inspected my ankle. When the doctor twisted my foot slightly to check its mobility, I almost stood straight up on the examination table. It took this incident and 2 weeks of walking on a broken ankle for me to finally admit to the size of the structure I jumped from. I was then rushed to a foot specialist to get x-rays. The diagnosis was a fractured ankle, I sheared off the bottom side of the fibula. After having a pin surgically installed in my foot and having to spend most of the summer in a cast, I learned my lesion. It was not “Don’t jump off of roofs,” but “Make sure to not land of a soft incline when proving my manhood.”
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Coughing up a Lung
Many people have experimented with smoking, and the coughing, hacking and nausea involved. Some people through the cancer stick on the ground and can not fathom why anyone would want to smoke. Other people push through the preliminary torment and become addicted.
I was 13 the first time I smoke a cigarette, but it wasn’t not for the reasons you may think. My dad had been smoking for over thirty years and my mom thought that if everyone in the family smoked a cigarette in front of him the would quit smoking…Looking back I do not see the logic in this plan. Instead of buying regular or light cigarettes, my mom bought “Camel non-filtered.” Everyone smoked one in front of my dad, to no avail so my brother Philip and I continued to smoke. We finished off the pack in about 30 minutes. Taking into account that I weighed at the most 100lbs, smoked over ten cigarettes, and am allergic to smoke, I got very sick with nicotine poisoning. All I wanted to do was lay down and die. I was very nauseous, green and my entire body was wrapped in a thick blanket of pain. My mom called a family friend who happened to be a Paramedic, and asked him what to do. He said that I needed to be active and burn off the toxins in my body. As you can imagine moving from my bed was the last thing I wanted to do. My brother Marcus and his wife had to drag me out of bed and had the audacity to make me play basketball. There I was at 11pm playing basketball with limbs that wouldn’t respond correctly and 50lbs eyelids. Surprisingly the exercise helped and after 20 minutes I started feeling better. This horrendous ordeal to try to get my dad to quit smoking, but it was to no avail. You would think that I learned my lesson and would never touch a cigarette again…guess again.
I was about 17 when my friends and I decided to be cool and start smoking. We started by stealing my dad’s and brother’s cigarettes. Over time one smoke here and there would not satisfy our cravings so we began to find people who would buy cigarettes for us. At one point we could not find any cigarettes and were going insane trying to find some. In my backyard we had a bushel of straw, and had the brilliant idea to smoke it. After coughing for 20 minutes, we decided that not everything can be smoked. We continued smoking for about 4 months, but I decided to stop when I began waking up in the morning needing a cigarette. I tried to convince my friends to quit smoking, but they just gave me the excuse “I can quit anytime I want to.” To this day they still smoke. It took me 5 years to get to the point where I no longer craved a cigarette every time I got stressed out. To this day I am still a non-smoker, yet I feel sorry for the people huddled in the smoking sections of campus trying to stay warm and dry.
I was 13 the first time I smoke a cigarette, but it wasn’t not for the reasons you may think. My dad had been smoking for over thirty years and my mom thought that if everyone in the family smoked a cigarette in front of him the would quit smoking…Looking back I do not see the logic in this plan. Instead of buying regular or light cigarettes, my mom bought “Camel non-filtered.” Everyone smoked one in front of my dad, to no avail so my brother Philip and I continued to smoke. We finished off the pack in about 30 minutes. Taking into account that I weighed at the most 100lbs, smoked over ten cigarettes, and am allergic to smoke, I got very sick with nicotine poisoning. All I wanted to do was lay down and die. I was very nauseous, green and my entire body was wrapped in a thick blanket of pain. My mom called a family friend who happened to be a Paramedic, and asked him what to do. He said that I needed to be active and burn off the toxins in my body. As you can imagine moving from my bed was the last thing I wanted to do. My brother Marcus and his wife had to drag me out of bed and had the audacity to make me play basketball. There I was at 11pm playing basketball with limbs that wouldn’t respond correctly and 50lbs eyelids. Surprisingly the exercise helped and after 20 minutes I started feeling better. This horrendous ordeal to try to get my dad to quit smoking, but it was to no avail. You would think that I learned my lesson and would never touch a cigarette again…guess again.
I was about 17 when my friends and I decided to be cool and start smoking. We started by stealing my dad’s and brother’s cigarettes. Over time one smoke here and there would not satisfy our cravings so we began to find people who would buy cigarettes for us. At one point we could not find any cigarettes and were going insane trying to find some. In my backyard we had a bushel of straw, and had the brilliant idea to smoke it. After coughing for 20 minutes, we decided that not everything can be smoked. We continued smoking for about 4 months, but I decided to stop when I began waking up in the morning needing a cigarette. I tried to convince my friends to quit smoking, but they just gave me the excuse “I can quit anytime I want to.” To this day they still smoke. It took me 5 years to get to the point where I no longer craved a cigarette every time I got stressed out. To this day I am still a non-smoker, yet I feel sorry for the people huddled in the smoking sections of campus trying to stay warm and dry.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Those Days
The blog http://www.thosedays.net/ by Aishah is a collection of childhood memories, “Nostalgic Candy,” and a childhood diary. The author talks about growing up in Minneapolis, MN. She writes stories of her childhood and treats she enjoyed growing up. Her latest entry is a tribute to Mr. Rodgers.
I picked this blog because it have interesting stories that I find myself relating to and all the entries about candy and sweets. She has a random assortment of blog entries like the “you know you grew up in the 80’s if…
I picked this blog because it have interesting stories that I find myself relating to and all the entries about candy and sweets. She has a random assortment of blog entries like the “you know you grew up in the 80’s if…
Friday, April 20, 2007
Twistage- its not a word but it should be!
My best friend, Tom, and I loved extreme sports. When we went skiing we would get as high up the mountain as we could and race back down hitting as many jumps as possible and trying to knock each other down. We did not play hockey much because we would always break our sticks, usually on each other. Most people view skiing or hockey and extreme, but we felt those types of sports as too passive. To satisfy our craving for extreme we would take a mundane sport and twist it until it became an extreme full contact sport.
Cycling was the first sport that we twisted, because we were always riding our bikes. At first we were content with riding through treacherous animal trails in the forest, jumping across gullies and jumping into any body of water we could find. We soon grew disinterested with these measures, so we added a little more physical contact. While riding we would try to try to knock the other person off their bike by hitting each other with plastic bats. We had a lot of with our bike gauntlet, but were unable to continue due to complications with my bike. (I detailed this incident in an earlier post)
Rollerblading was our second choice for our unwholesome desire for extreme sports. Our first step was to remove those bothersome and worthless brakes…who needs brakes anyways. We would use a rope and street surf using a bicycle or a car to put the rope. This activity did not last long because we always got in trouble with parents and the occasional cop. We invented a game called “Who stops first,” which consisted of racing down steep hills and whoever ran into something or ate pavement first lost and remember we removed the brakes. Once while racing, Tom did not time his jump right and collided with the curb. I was a little ways behind him and at 35 mph I was going too fast to miss him, so I had to run into a fence to keep from running over my best friend.
We have enhanced many sports, some were great and others were disastrous. Many of my posts will be different sports that we improved. For example: BB gun tag. I recently heard of a more extreme version called taser tag. I would never think of doing that now, but when I was younger we would rushed out to buy some.
Stay turned until next time when I talk about when we decided to start smoking, and do not worry it is funnier then it sounds.
Cycling was the first sport that we twisted, because we were always riding our bikes. At first we were content with riding through treacherous animal trails in the forest, jumping across gullies and jumping into any body of water we could find. We soon grew disinterested with these measures, so we added a little more physical contact. While riding we would try to try to knock the other person off their bike by hitting each other with plastic bats. We had a lot of with our bike gauntlet, but were unable to continue due to complications with my bike. (I detailed this incident in an earlier post)
Rollerblading was our second choice for our unwholesome desire for extreme sports. Our first step was to remove those bothersome and worthless brakes…who needs brakes anyways. We would use a rope and street surf using a bicycle or a car to put the rope. This activity did not last long because we always got in trouble with parents and the occasional cop. We invented a game called “Who stops first,” which consisted of racing down steep hills and whoever ran into something or ate pavement first lost and remember we removed the brakes. Once while racing, Tom did not time his jump right and collided with the curb. I was a little ways behind him and at 35 mph I was going too fast to miss him, so I had to run into a fence to keep from running over my best friend.
We have enhanced many sports, some were great and others were disastrous. Many of my posts will be different sports that we improved. For example: BB gun tag. I recently heard of a more extreme version called taser tag. I would never think of doing that now, but when I was younger we would rushed out to buy some.
Stay turned until next time when I talk about when we decided to start smoking, and do not worry it is funnier then it sounds.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Recap
I had an interesting childhood being the youngest of three boys. There is a big age difference between my brothers and myself, 9 and 6 years. I was their guinea pig, when they wanted to try something new, and I assisted them with their pranks. Most of the time I was the subject of those pranks. For example, the time my brother broke a broom over my head.
My posts will be memories of my many adventures. Some tales you will shake your head at and wonder how I survived, as do I. Most of the entries will be funny, as you read about something stupid or dangerous that I did alone or with the help of my trusted partners in crime.
One such adventure happened when my family spent summer vacation in East Texas with my grandparents. My grandparents have a five acre homestead and have a small pond stalked with catfish.
When my family was fishing at the pond one evening, my brother got tired of not catching anything and started to reel in his fishing line. Unfortunately, the fish hook snagged on a cottonmouth’s tail, a cottonmouth is a poisonous snake. Family members scattered like a flock of birds when that snake was pulled up on the shore, hissing and biting. My grandfather went running to the house to get the shotgun, while my brother tried desperately to keep the snake as far away from him and anyone else as possible. The rest of my family grabbed anything they could find to use as a weapon for example: sticks, shovels, rocks, and machetes. The snake then went through a gauntlet as it tried to dodge all the instruments flung at it. Finally one of my cousins managed to hit the snake with a shovel hard enough to sever the head. My brother’s only concern is the fact that the killing blow also severed the end of his fishing pole. Ten years later my brother will randomly complain about his “favorite fishing pole getting ruined.”
As a final note I felt a disclaimer was needed for the sake of safety and to guard against legal action.
Please do not try any of the events depicted in this blog at home or anywhere else. We are trained professionals and have had years of experience to perfect our techniques. Failure to comply may result in humiliation, injury and/or death.
My posts will be memories of my many adventures. Some tales you will shake your head at and wonder how I survived, as do I. Most of the entries will be funny, as you read about something stupid or dangerous that I did alone or with the help of my trusted partners in crime.
One such adventure happened when my family spent summer vacation in East Texas with my grandparents. My grandparents have a five acre homestead and have a small pond stalked with catfish.
When my family was fishing at the pond one evening, my brother got tired of not catching anything and started to reel in his fishing line. Unfortunately, the fish hook snagged on a cottonmouth’s tail, a cottonmouth is a poisonous snake. Family members scattered like a flock of birds when that snake was pulled up on the shore, hissing and biting. My grandfather went running to the house to get the shotgun, while my brother tried desperately to keep the snake as far away from him and anyone else as possible. The rest of my family grabbed anything they could find to use as a weapon for example: sticks, shovels, rocks, and machetes. The snake then went through a gauntlet as it tried to dodge all the instruments flung at it. Finally one of my cousins managed to hit the snake with a shovel hard enough to sever the head. My brother’s only concern is the fact that the killing blow also severed the end of his fishing pole. Ten years later my brother will randomly complain about his “favorite fishing pole getting ruined.”
As a final note I felt a disclaimer was needed for the sake of safety and to guard against legal action.
Please do not try any of the events depicted in this blog at home or anywhere else. We are trained professionals and have had years of experience to perfect our techniques. Failure to comply may result in humiliation, injury and/or death.
Friday, March 2, 2007
My Truck
My dad bought me a truck when I was 18, a Mazda B2200. It was the first automobile I had ever owned. He bought it for only $250 because every time it is stated it gave off a humongous smoke screen and covered the whole neighborhood. The body was in great shape and it had a grey metallic paint with metal flakes in.
The previous drive smoked cigars, so the interior had a yellowish film everywhere. The cigar residue took two days of scrubbing with full strength Pine sol to remove. All that the exterior needed was to be polished and waxed. My truck looked and smelled brand new by the time I was finished.
Then I added a new stereo with a speaker box that went the entire length of my cab right behind the seats. The radio was so loud that you could hear me coming a block away and with it cranked up it made my heart hurt. In the summer I would sit in the back of the truck and listen to music via the remote.
I was so excited to have my own truck that I would drive it everywhere. I was the oldest member of my group of friends so I always picked up everyone after school. I would usual have a big group of people gather around my truck to listen to the music after school. My friends and I would go cruising everywhere: the beach, the mall, and Seattle. Most of the time the cab was full of people and usually no less then ten people in back We could only go 15-20mph up hills the truck was so weighted down, but we didn’t care as long as the windows were down and the radio was up. I loved that little truck and I was broken hearted when I had to sell it years later. Out of all the vehicles I have owned my truck holds the dearest memories.
The previous drive smoked cigars, so the interior had a yellowish film everywhere. The cigar residue took two days of scrubbing with full strength Pine sol to remove. All that the exterior needed was to be polished and waxed. My truck looked and smelled brand new by the time I was finished.
Then I added a new stereo with a speaker box that went the entire length of my cab right behind the seats. The radio was so loud that you could hear me coming a block away and with it cranked up it made my heart hurt. In the summer I would sit in the back of the truck and listen to music via the remote.
I was so excited to have my own truck that I would drive it everywhere. I was the oldest member of my group of friends so I always picked up everyone after school. I would usual have a big group of people gather around my truck to listen to the music after school. My friends and I would go cruising everywhere: the beach, the mall, and Seattle. Most of the time the cab was full of people and usually no less then ten people in back We could only go 15-20mph up hills the truck was so weighted down, but we didn’t care as long as the windows were down and the radio was up. I loved that little truck and I was broken hearted when I had to sell it years later. Out of all the vehicles I have owned my truck holds the dearest memories.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tag
My friends and I loved to play tag in the forest that was near my house. We spent as much time as possible in the forest. The usually version of tag was not violence enough for us. In order to spice it up we used BB guns to tag the other person. We had only tow rules, no aiming for the face and we could only pump up the rifles 3 times.
One warm summer day Tom, Donny, Chris and I decided to go play tag. While wearing camouflage, we each loaded up with numerous pistols the occasional rifle. Every driver that passed on the street had the same surprised and slightly fearful expression. Laughing at the cars speeding up as they passed, we reached the forest.
Walking 10 minutes in the forest we reached our favorite spot. We began after a count of 20 seconds, to reach cover or to set up an ambush. Tom Donny and I planned before leaving to ambush the new guy, Chris. We had a spot all picked out, a heavily wooded area with plenty of under growth for cover. The trail dipped in that area so anyone in the trees had the high ground.
It was not long until Chris came cautiously up the trail. We could the puzzled look on his face, wondering why he could not hear any signs of combat. We used a three point attack pattern, forming a triangle and waited until he was in the center. Once Chris reached the prearranged spot we opened fire. Once the first barrage of BB’s hit there target we charged out of the underbrush towards Chris shouting war cries and banishing our riffles. He gave a shriek of fright and ran down the trail dropping his gun in the process. Dancing around his discarded weapon, we continued our war cries and began shaking our guns in that air like some nomadic tribe. We danced for a moment before slowly stopping, grins mischievously we pointed our rifles at each other, thus ending our agreement. Chris never got his gun back, so we used him for target practice. We spent the rest of the day and our ammo with a combination of hunting and ambushing everyone.
Looking back I am really surprised that no one lost an eye or worse our mom’s finding out what we were doing. I can sneak up on almost anyone thanks to the skills that I learned playing tag.
Friday, February 9, 2007
My Bike
One day my best friend Tom and I decided it was time for some mindless destruction. I had an old bike. Both of the tires were flat so we took them off. We began to ride it down the hill by Tom’s house on the rims. There were some sparks and we tipped over a lot, it was great. After a while of riding the bike we began to get bored. We stopped to take a moment to contemplate what to do. About the only time that we ever stopped to think was when we were trying to find something more stupid and dangerous to do. Having come up with a plan, we set to work. We took off both rims and tried pushing the bike down the hill. That brilliant idea only resulted in the bike flipping over. Scratching our heads and rubbing the bruises, we decided to put the front rim back on. With the front rim in place we would not have to worry about flipping over and we could attain a much higher speed…speed is good. I was sitting on the bike while Tom pushed the bike. We were surprised by how fast the bike went down the hill. It was very hard to control but we did not care. The sparks shooting off from the metal contacting the concrete almost set his shoes on fire. With this discovery only one word would suffice, cool. With a sort of Bevis and Butthead laugh included. We spent hours riding that bike down the hill. It is amazing how much metal melted off that bike. The part where the back tire was bolted on melted all the way off. That was the reason we finally stopped. We couldn’t go more then a foot before tipping over. To this day that hill still has tracks ground in the concrete from our day of destruction.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Impressing the girls
My friends and I were always ready and willing to impress the girls. We would use any means necessary to accomplish this, whether stunts, sports or stupidity. Once while riding my bike I passed a house that had about 4 very cute girls on the roof sunbathing. I was too shy to stop and talk to them. Instead I had the bright idea to impress them with my mad skills. On the way back around the block, I planned out my routine. Riding without hands… too easy, likewise riding the bike on one wheel did not seem adequate. I had the brilliant idea to combine the tricks, because that was sure to get me all of their phone numbers. I came down the street in high gear to make sure I had enough speed. Girls like speed right? As I came up to the promising location I went to work. First I pulled the bike up onto one wheel. That got their attention. While I had all the girls captivated I commenced the second phase of my plan. Dropping my hands to my sides I rode past the house. On the outside I was calm, as if this was an everyday occurrence. On the inside I knew this was going to hurt. The girls became ecstatic and stated whistling and cheering me on. I turned my head to bask in the glory. To my horror when I turned around again I was heading straight for a parked car. I did not have enough time to brake, but did not want to damage the car. So I took the only option left available to me, a controlled crash. I dropped the front wheel down even though it was at the wrong angle. This made the bike flip forward and me along with it. There I lay, tangled in the bike watching the clouds roll by. While in the background I hear hysterical laughter with the occasional request if I was still alive. At this point I was so embarrassed that I wish I had died, but alas the only thing I seriously hurt was my pride. To their concerns I offered a weak thumbs up. This brought a few cheers but was quickly drowned out by laughter. Picking up my bike, that now had a bent front wheel, I haphazardly rode home. It wasn’t until later that day I realized that I had forgotten something very important, the phone numbers. I learned a valuable lesson that day, next time I will just go up and talk to them.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
My crazy childhood
This blog is about the many adventures that I had growing up. Most of the posts will be funny but occasionally I will toss in something stupid or dangerous that I survived. I will be posting various blogs and stories of growing up, whether about my friends, family or myself. There won’t be any order to these stories, just whatever one I happen to remember or find humorous at the time.
I had an interesting childhood being the youngest of three boys. There is a big age difference between my brothers and myself, 9 and 6 years. I was their assistant for all of their pranks but mostly the subject of those pranks. That is until I grew big enough to defend myself and began to develop my own friendships.
These friends assisted my calling of self destruction. Whether it was stick fighting, street hockey or even extreme cycling. My friends were there to encourage my reckless behavior.
This is a small taste of what it was like growing up. I will be posting the first of my series of adventures soon.
I had an interesting childhood being the youngest of three boys. There is a big age difference between my brothers and myself, 9 and 6 years. I was their assistant for all of their pranks but mostly the subject of those pranks. That is until I grew big enough to defend myself and began to develop my own friendships.
These friends assisted my calling of self destruction. Whether it was stick fighting, street hockey or even extreme cycling. My friends were there to encourage my reckless behavior.
This is a small taste of what it was like growing up. I will be posting the first of my series of adventures soon.
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