Preyground: Violence in the Name of Good Wholesome Fun

Preyground

When I was in elementary school, we had a massive playground area that was built around an old, cavernous tugboat body, with cement tunnels that allowed you to crawl (or if you were sufficiently short enough, walk) to the wheelhouse. This was an actual out-of-service tugboat body, and not one of those “Middle Tikes/Big Toyy”-type plastic play areas. Occasionally you would find a lost tooth and dried blood in the cement tunnel.

Back in the 1970s, the decisions about child safety were made by people who had grown up in the 1940s and ‘50s, and thus knew that children were indestructible. 

(For heaven’s sake, they learned that you could survive an atomic blast by hiding under your desk! Please keep in mind that these “under the desk” principles were still in use in the 1970s, but we had adapted them to be our earthquake survival methods.  By then, we knew that if there were a nuclear war, we were pretty much toast being so close to Boeing.)

The result was that people decided it would be better for us to play on gigantic, sharp wood chips, climbing ten-foot-high poles with tires nailed to them, swinging from rusty “monkey rings” and bouncing around on a contraption that was essentially fifteen car tires interconnected and then linked by chains to four wooden posts.

Were these safe?  Not likely.  Did we play on them, anyway?  Indeed.  Did we get injured while playing?  Of course.  Did it matter?  Not on your life.

For instance, there was a balance beam setup that went from a low balance beam (about 18 inches off the ground) to a high balance beam (about four feet above the ground) and then back to a lower one.

When I was young and nobody was paying attention, I would walk across the low one, climb up to the high one, walk across it, and then back to the lower one. But whenever other kids were around, it turned into a sort of jousting setup. Kids would line up on either of the lower beams and then meet in the middle, swinging their arms at each other, trying to knock each other off into the waiting shards of wood chips.

Different kids had different techniques. Some would keep their hands tucked into their coat sleeves in the hopes of having less surfaces to grab. Others stood sideways with both feet planted firmly on the beam. Some put their right foot in front, some the left. Some attempted to startle their opponent, some tried to amuse their opponent. One or two did the “windmill.”

I usually could win one or two rounds just because some bigger, stronger kid would see my scrawny, gangly frame and double-over laughing.

The winners of these bouts owned the recess-time glory. The losers had to dig wood chips from his underwear and socks.

Invariably there would be the occasional joust where one kid would knock another off, and then fall off as well. This would be followed by the arguments about whether or not the second to fall had the right to get back up there rather than getting to the back of the line.

“Timmy fell first!”

“But you fell too, Lance!”

“But Timmy fell first!”

“But you fell, too!”

This would usually result in a bitter playground monitor (read: the short-tempered teacher who had a whistle and was stuck watching us because he or she didn’t go back for his or her master’s degree) commanding everyone to stop the game and go throw balls at one another because that was safer.

If I played my cards right, I almost never made it to the jousts because Timmy and Lance would be in front of me ending the process early.

Typically, this form of institutionalized bullying was allowed because said playground monitors were busy administering tetanus shots to the kids who got blisters from the rusty monkey bars. (Hey, what can I say? The school was built in 1919.)

But even in our games of “Soak ‘em” (the local name for Dodgeball) there would always be that argument.

“Timmy’s out! I hit Timmy with the ball!”

“I’m not out, it just hit my shirt!”

“If you get hit by Timmy, it doesn’t count, b’cuz he’s out!”

“I got you earlier, you cheater-head!!!”

This would usually be stopped by the same bitter playground monitor, who then commanded us to return to the jousting.

In the warmer season (June 1-9) we played “kickball,” which was a cross between baseball, soccer and dodgeball/Soak ‘em.

The “pitcher” would “pitch” (roll) the ball to the “batter” (kicker) who would “kick” (kick) the ball  Then the “batter” (target) would run the bases while the fielders (assailants) would try to “tag out” (mercilessly throw the ball at the runner so as to drill the rubber “kickball” (state’s exhibit “a”) into the [insert embarrassing body part]) of the “runner” (victim.)

The reasons to perpetrate this school-sanction violence between classmates were diverse and complex. Somebody might not have liked your haircut, or the color of your parents’ cars, or the way you treated them when you didn’t let them cut in line in front of you. It might have been because you wouldn’t let them copy off of your test, which they subsequently failed, (or worse, you did let them copy off your test, which they subsequently failed.)

Periodically, when we had indoor P.E. (every day except three days in Spring and the aforementioned June 1-9) and we weren’t playing “soak ‘em,” the PE teacher would pull out fifty pairs of roller skates so we could skate around the Gymna-teria-torium. (I think they’re called “multi-purpose rooms” now.)

Roller skating in a gym that doubled as a cafeteria was already challenging (French fries became oil slicks if they sat long enough) without having your classmates trying to play “roller derby” because they still haven’t forgiven you for the time in fourth grade when you carelessly spilled finger paints onto their best pair of green plaid slacks.

Somehow, it seems like this passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive mayhem was not so much “overlooked” by the administration as it was endorsed by it.

Maybe the reason we didn’t need gangs as kids in North Seattle was because we got to work out our aggressions and grievances in P.E. and on the playgrounds.

Or perhaps it was just difficult for gangs to take root in a predominantly Scandinavian neighborhood.

“Yah, shurrr, homey!”

 

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Road Trip: Wax On, Wax Off!

Many years ago we took a long road trip down the west coast to go do all those "down the west coast" things that families do.

Specifically, all those "down the west coast things" entail parents answering "are we there yet? are we there yet?" I can't imagine what it was like for those poor hapless parents who drove cross-country with a car full of empty-stomached, full-bladdered, attention-deprived children.

GPS (Global positioning system) was probably invented by parents who took their kids on long road trips.

"Here, when the white arrow reaches the flashing red light, we're there!"

"Dad! We're not even on the MAP yet! Are we on the map yet? Are we on the map yet?"

Anyway, we had spent a considerable time on the road driving south (which included our air conditioner fritzing out in Oakland) and even traveled to Vegas. (Note: the only gambling we did was driving across the Mojave Desert in late July with no air conditioning.)

On the way back, (read: DISNEYLAND!) we lost a Polaroid (r) camera and a Barney (tm) backpack on the Teacup ride. The kids wanted me to make the teacup spin as fast as I could, and I was CRANKING on that wheel to do just that, silently hoping I didn't puke on them, (realizing that if I did, I'd blame the guy one cup over.) 

Anyway, we were really going at cyclone-force speeds when blur of purple, green and yellow launched from the teacup and spun into the dizzying world outside. We eventually found Barney (tm) crushed between the gears of the cup of the guy I would've blamed had I hurled. I could hear the Polaroid (r) camera whirring as it continued to faithfully snap pictures. Even in its death, it was diligently documenting the moment, which, apparently was dark and lavender. 

To the credit of the folks at Disneyland, we explained our plight while buying a replacement (Cheshire Cat) backpack. The clerk gave us a free disposable camera to replace the "disposed-of" camera in documenting our time in Anaheim.

Now, the Teacup ride doesn't get you anywhere fast, and Star Tours (tm) and Space Mountain (r) always deposit you back at Disneyland, so we knew eventually we would have to drive back in the car with nonfunctional A/C.

We finally worked up the courage (read: I was able to ride "Pirates of the Caribbean" twice without screaming) to try to drive back home.

Part of the problem with long drives is that I'm something of a wallet-sized cards packrat. I have cards from coffee shops in twenty different area codes, all with one punch on them. I have business cards, I have grocery store club cards, I have medical cards and even expired insurance and AAA cards. In the words of a former boss, "if it were any bigger, it'd need wheels." 

 Unfortunately it didn’t have wheels, and it occupied my back pocket.

(This was before my friend Henry’s mom, Sylvia (who is a massage therapist,) nearly throttled me because the wallet was causing spinal and hip misalignments. (I certainly wouldn’t carry such a wallet now…right Sylvia?))

So whenever I drive long distances, I usually wind up very tired, and practically crippled.

On our trip home, I was dead tired and needed to stop for some gas and coffee somewhere in central California.*

I got out of the car, hobbled to the pump, slid my credit card and started pumping. All this was done by rote, as I was half-asleep, and half-disabled. When the pump stopped, I replaced the nozzle and was prompted with the question "do you want a receipt?" I pressed "yes."

Then the pump asked me a question I wasn't ready for: "Do you want a car wash?"

I looked at my windshield and grill of the station wagon. The only things in my car worse off than me in my semi-conscious, semi-crippled state, were the 140,000 or so moths, mosquitoes and various other insects whose fate was determined by their misfortune of flying low over a highway while I was barreling along at 60+ miles per hour.

In fact, that particular road trip may have single-handedly been responsible for the extinction of entire species of bugs. 

The gas pump beeped again, urging me to make up my mind. "Do you want a car wash?"

"Heck, YEAH" was my reply to the question. Unfortunately, the only option in the affirmative was "yes" so I punched the button really hard.

The printed receipt included a code to enter at the "touch free" car wash. I jumped into the car, banging my head on the roof as I did, and started it up. 

I had a date with an automated cleansing.

I have to admit: The car wash was exhilarating, even after I rolled up the windows.

Thick streams of soap, wax and various other detergents spritzed all over the car, immersing it in a gooey coat of bubbly goodness. Eventually the party was over, with my car rinsed and blown dry, as shiny and new as a '88 Chevy Celebrity wagon could be. In fact, the car looked as beautiful as it did the day my mother gave it to me.

Feeling renewed, I entered the gas station/convenience store to purchase a couple quarts of gas station-flavored coffee.

When I entered, however, two gentlemen were inside, laughing hysterically. Seeing only the early morning farm report on the television, and nothing particularly funny about plagues of locust consuming entire crops of guar gum and phenylalanine, I inquired as to the source of their jocularity.

I would like to note at this point that, as a comedian, I WANT people to laugh at me. I CRAVE having people laugh at me... but I want to know WHY they're laughing at me, because I want it to be INTENTIONAL!!!

“Whassofunny?” I managed to blurt out.

“Dude, look at your car!” Both pointed out the window.

I looked out to my car, and saw that to the untrained eye, there was significantly more than just a crimson '88 Chevy Celebrity, gleaming as much as it had on the day its registered owner had received it from his mother.

Much, much more.

I stared at the car and took in the whole thing. Much to my amazement, I saw I had made a small error in judgment.

You see, we had four kids with us on the trip, and in order to give them some extra leg room, I had rearranged some of the luggage.

In this case, I had tied two strollers and six duffel bags filled with our clothes to the roof rack of the station wagon, and had subsequently washed the lot of them in the automated car wash.

It was then that I realized that they hadn't been watching something funny on broadcast television, but rather the closed-circuit surveillance video from inside the car wash. From the angle displayed on the small black-and-white monitor, they would have gotten a beautiful bird's-eye-view of my duffel bags getting spritzed.

“Oh... yeah... heh.Just doing my laundry, boys” I said, digging quickly and pathetically to preserve some of my male pride.

“With hot wax?”

OK, so they had me there. All my male pride slipped away, slinking off to sulk in the corner while I paid for the coffee cups.

We got a room in the next town and strung clothes lines from wall to wall. By morning, we all woke up, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and shiny-clothed.

*Note: There are just two people outside of our family who know this story first hand... but... from the other side of the counter. If either of you happens to read this, please tell us what city we were in on Aug. 4 or 5, 1999, and I’ll credit you by name in later retellings.

This Picture was taken three years later in an attempt to prove that we'd learned our lesson.

Type-One "Diabeetus:" Second-Hand Insulin

I think, having grown up with Diabetes such a prevalent factor in my life — My mom was diagnosed with Type-1 ten years before I came onto the scene — gave me a unique, if not cavalier attitude toward the disease. (At least at first.)

Early On

My earliest memories of how it related to me are somewhat selfish. (Actually, this should come as no surprise, as most of my perspectives are selfish.)

Anyway, I recall nervously pinching my mom's upper arm while she administered her insulin injections. With one eye closed and her tongue extended, curved up to partially obscure her upper lip, she would line up the syringe like a golfer. She took a few practice swings, and then, suddenly — THWONK! — in it went.

I kept praying she wouldn't leave divots in my hand.

Actually, that part — the thought of an accidental dose of insulin — freaked me out. I constantly feared she'd stab my hand.

My mom had told me that too much insulin could be very dangerous, if not lethal, for a person. I asked what I should do if I accidentally got some in me.

"Eat some sugar," was her reply.

I used to have nightmares about being overdosed with insulin. I had a recurring dream of getting stabbed with an insulin syringe, and then frantically seeking as many forms of sugary medical help as I could find.

In retrospect, given all the ailments my mother faced in the last decade of her life — vision problems, heart conditions, kidney failure — it is likely her regular blood sugar was between 300-400 ml/dl on a regular basis. (For the record: with a fully functional-pancreas "Normal" is between 80 and 120 ml/dl.)

Keep in mind, this is me speculating more than a decade and a half after she died, but I need to also point out that the ability to test your blood glucose level at home didn’t even become available until the 1970s. Even with home testing available, the complicated process of swiping of blood onto a reagent strip, comparing shades of blue and aquamarine against a chart to determine an approximate range, was difficult at best. I can't imagine how a color-blind person would do it. There were countless times when my mom would call me into the bathroom for a second opinion about that.

"Does this look more like turquoise, or mustardy-blue?"

Prior to that, testing was done with urine, which allowed for accurate diagnosis of Diabetes, but was not accurate for current blood sugar levels. Instead, urine tests were like a snapshot of what your blood sugar was several hours earlier.

In the last 40 years, quick and accurate home testing with meters requiring smaller drops of blood has made tighter control of Diabetes more realistic.

Later Years

Mom had her first heart attack in 1991, right before Thanksgiving.

The following seven years were rocky, with her health improving and deteriorating, almost on a daily basis.

Starting in the early '80s, she'd had several blood hemorrhages in her eyes, occasionally rendering her completely blind. As time passed, she had kidney problems, and heart trouble.

Mom was a trooper though, never losing faith in a God that could heal, even though He inexplicably never healed her of her Diabetes.

Despite her faith, her health continued to wane as the years ground on.

In early 1999, I saw my mom on her feet for the last time. We were at a sort of wake following the passing of her mother. Mom looked better than I had seen her in years. She looked almost vibrant. Needless to say, I cherish that memory.

At the time, I lived at the opposite end of the state from her, 300 miles away attending college.

A few weeks later, I spoke with her on the phone. She said she wasn’t feeling well. I wished her good health.

Not long after that, mom suffered more heart failures. She was hospitalized as her health continued to fade.

To use the metaphor of “God calling his children home,” I think God called my mom home in late February, ‘99 and her diligent doctors put God on hold. God called again a few days later on Line 2, on my mom’s 53rd birthday. Again, the medical professionals put God on hold.

My mom’s 53rd birthday was also the last day we saw her. I told her I loved her and said good-bye. She was barely aware of her surroundings.

A few days later, in early March, I received a call from my cousin. She told me all was not well at the hospital. I called the hospital and reached my mom’s older brother. He informed me my mom had passed away about 45 minutes before.

Despite living 300 miles away, I was in Seattle three hours later.

We were so shocked by the loss that we didn’t realize the full impact of what had happened for a long time to follow.

Closer to home

Nine months later, in January of 2000, my eldest daughter, Elizabeth, was diagnosed with Type-1 Diabetes. (I joked that her pancreas was not Y2K compliant. (I tend to joke a lot when I'm uncomfortable.))

The only light in that dark time was that we caught the disease right at onset, so there wasn't that all-too-frequent near-death experience that happens a lot so many cases of Diabetes.

Luckily, we had participated in a Diabetes Prevention Trial, and some of the test results indicated her pancreas was already in the process of failing. We tested her blood sugar regularly at the recommendation of her pediatrician.  Back then, the litmus test for a diagnosis of Diabetes was two random blood sugars higher than 200.

The poor kid, she started having what you could almost describe as "allergic reactions" to sugar. Her behavior would spin out of control. She had her first ultra-high blood sugar on November 1, 1999 (day-after-Halloween... an endocrinologist's nightmare.) Her blood glucose level was higher than 200. (Strike One.)  

Right around Christmas, the poor kid had to suffer multiple pokes at the behest of a sister who wanted ice cream. We'd told her we needed to way for Elizabeth's blood sugar to come down (it was Christmas season... it was supposed to be high.) Every five minutes, her sister would ask, "Bethy, can you check your blood sugar? Bethy, can you check your blood sugar?"

Shortly after Elizabeth's diagnosis, we realized even more deeply what had happened the previous March: The family’s foremost expert on Type-1 Diabetes was lost to us forever.

Four months after my eldest daughter was diagnosed, I started experiencing unfamiliar behavior of my own. I was working as an overnight 9-1-1 dispatcher in rural North Idaho, serving as the sole dispatcher for the county during the graveyard shift.

I was finding it harder and harder to stay awake during the dark hours, and started drinking some sort of macho “RIPPED FUEL OPTIMAX” drink that was loaded with caffeine, ephedrine, and about a billion grams of carbohydrate.

Despite all the caffeine, I started falling asleep on shift. Not a good thing to do: as I stated previously, I was the only dispatcher in the county, and was in physical distress. But there was nobody for me to call for help … because I was asleep.

I was suspended for falling asleep on duty. During my unplanned free time, a few surprising things happened. 

I started getting irritable. A LOT.

I had my first (and only) adult bed-wetting experience (much to ex-wife’s chagrin.)

Finally, we put two and two and “EWWW” together. She tested my blood sugar using our daughter’s meter.

I was right around 200.

Even after we received that eye-opening news, I still had trouble recognizing high blood sugar early on.

Arguments would go something like this:

Me: RAWWWWRRR!!!!!

She: I think you should check your blood sugar.


Me: Just because we're not getting along right now, you want me to pierce my flesh to suit your whims! Pierce my flesh!

She: Paul...

Me: I need to pierce my flesh because I'm tired and not easy to get along with! Pierce my flesh!!!

(Yes, I actually said that... in public.)

Julie: I think you're high...

Me: Don't say that in public! (I was a police dispatcher at the time, and the last thing I needed was word getting around that I was "high.")

It Wasn't Over Yet

When my second-youngest daughter was diagnosed with Diabetes in 2003, we were ready (or at least, readier) but still overwhelmed.

There is just so much for all of us to do and learn. She quickly took control of her diabetes management. (She's now an adult.) She learned to give herself shots, test her blood sugar, check for ketones in her urine, and learn how tell how she feels when her blood sugar is not normal.

Both she and her older sister manage their diabetes without any intervention now. Both have insulin pumps (proof that God uses his people to create awesome things. (OK, I'll leave the theological oversimplification out of this. They're just awesome.))

As parents, we filled out reams of paperwork for school and extracurricular activities, monitored insulin, kept in contact with the doctor or endocrinologist for insulin adjustments, assisted on field trips (read: free Mariners games,) ordered supplies and medications … the list goes on, but the prize: healthy children, is worth all the effort, and more.

The girls have done a phenomenal job of dealing with all this stuff.

Perhaps one of the most frustrating things (especially when you have high blood sugar and are therefore pre-irritable) about telling people about your condition is that so many people have opinions and misconceptions about Diabetes.

One of the greatest disservices ever done to the ailment was giving Type-One and Type-Two the same name. Both are issues of high blood sugar, but calling Type-Two the same thing as its counterpart would be the same as diagnosing someone who is nine months pregnant as being "clinically obese." Obesity and pregnancy may look similar on the surface, but they are completely unrelated beyond that.

Type-One Diabetes (or "Juvenile-Onset Diabetes,") is an autoimmune disorder in which your body suddenly decides your pancreas is a foreign body, and attacks it until it ceases to function. 

Type-Two diabetes (or "Adult-Onset Diabetes" or "Impaired Glucose Tolerance,") is a problem where your pancreas continues produces insulin with great gusto, but your "insulin receptors" suddenly develop a sort of myopia and don't notice the insulin trying to deal with the sugars in your bloodstream, so they call for more and more insulin. Ultimately, this overproduction may eventually lead to the pancreas pooping out, and as a result, Type-Two Diabetics occasionally need to administer insulin shots. (This is where some of the cases of mistaken identity come in. Someone sees somebody taking insulin and automatically assume they now have Type-One Diabetes.)

In my novel, Phoenix Flight: Rise of the Phoenix Flight and subsequent books, all of which are set in the 22nd Century, I boldly chose to rename Type-Two Diabetes as Advanced Insulin Resistance Syndrome or "AIRS." Call it a semi-political statement, but I want people to know the difference.

What can you do?

Perhaps the greatest misconception about people with Type-1 diabetes is that they cannot have sugar.

While a diet that is high in sugar is bad for anyone, (and even worse for type-2 diabetics) it is wise, and a potentially life-saving habit for a diabetic person to carry some form of concentrated sugar to help treat dangerous low blood glucose levels.

To the uninitiated, please note: a low blood glucose level is eternally more immediately dangerous than high blood glucose is.

High blood glucose levels are also extremely dangerous, however, over a longer period of time. Blindness, kidney failure, heart disease and amputations can all result from years and years of untreated or partially-treated high blood glucose levels.

If you know a person with Diabetes, learn what his or her signs and symptoms are for highs and lows.

If you are diabetic don’t be afraid to tell people about it, or how they can help in an emergency.

We have taught and frequently review how to handle diabetic emergencies. The children know the difference between "asleep" and "unconscious" (not rousable, non-responsive.) From very early on, all the members of our household (even our youngest children) knew how to test blood sugar, call 9-1-1 and administer Glucagon.

If you’re a parent and have Diabetes, tell your kids what to do in an emergency. Explain to them what highs and lows mean.

And above all else... if you ask your young son to pinch your upper arm while you self-administer your shot, please please make sure you don't stab him in the hand.

Helpless in Seattle: Standing On Your Own Two Feet

My elementary education was divided between two schools. I started out at Crown Hill Elementary in North Seattle (conveniently located at the top of … (wait for it…) Crown Hill.)

When I was a kid (by this, I mean “less than 18 years old”) I thrived on comic books, the Star Wars trilogy, Battlestar Galactica (classic) and Star Blazers. (After I turned 18, all these things thrived on me.) Ostensibly, my life was not dictated by the books I was assigned by my teachers, but rather by the books I loved to read on my own.

OK, maybe “thrive” is a strong word, but it is safe to say that Marvel and DC comics, George Lucas, Glen Larson and a handful of nameless Japanese animators each had a hand in my upbringing.

I have not particularly benefited from this monetarily (and nary a single thank you note from Stan Lee, George Lucas or that tiny island nation of Japan.) Nor have I been bitten by a radioactive spider, been bombarded by cosmic rays. I was never presented with my father’s lightsaber nor have I fired a “wave motion gun.” (Yet.)

Educationally, kindergarten through third grade breezed by for me, as I easily earned straight “A” grades (back when you still got letter grades.) My teachers allowed me to wander freely about the classroom (read: they didn’t notice me wandering freely about the classroom.) They let me write short stories and then read them to the class as book reports.

The fact is: I wasted a lot of my time whiling — or is that meanwhiling— away my time, hoping that some radioactive frog would crash through my window, bite me and unleash my mutant super powers.

“The Mighty ThunderFrog! Amphibian Avenger!” Faster than a speeding turnip truck, more powerful than a Volkswagen, able to leap tall buildings without a sound! It’s a burp, it’s a belch…it’s ThunderFrog!”

My secret lair would be the Lily Pad. My battle croak: “I’m hopping mad!”

And of course…I would only use my powers for the forces of good. Truth, Justice and the Amphibian Way!

Then again, with my luck (living in the Pacific Northwest) I would more likely be bitten by a radioactive moose (Mighty Moose.), skunk (The Striped Avenger), or a salmon (GLUB! The Caped Coho!)

Alas, I was doomed to a life of normalcy. OK, ‘normal’ is a misnomer in my case. By ‘normal’ I mean I never got to fight crime until I became a police dispatcher for a short time in my late 20s, and again as a casino Security Officer where I spent most of my time battling the evil forces of ‘Second-Hand Smoke.’

Where was I? Oh yeah… writing short stories and reading them for book report credit in third grade.

I used to include my classmates in the stories I wrote. My stories were about a young superhero called “Adventure Kid,” who had all sorts of adventures… as a kid. He was always a year younger than me, but could lift an amazing 100 lbs!
My classmates were his companions in the adventures. Typically all the boys in the class would team up with Adventure Kid to rescue all the females in the class who would be captured by some sinister force or other.

When I was writing, many of my classmates became my biggest fans. (OK, by this, I mean that... while I was writing, many of my classmates came to tolerate me.
But I got a taste of power while I was writing. If someone did something to offend me, (which happened easily with my frail ego structure,) I would threaten to take him or her out of my story. This usually got them to treat me nicely.

In retrospect, I now understand that this was a manipulative form of abuse. Powerful, but effective. (I didn’t master it until much later in life.)

Fourth grade was a little tougher. Crown Hill elementary had two fourth grade teachers. One was known as a strict disciplinarian who was merciless in her maniacal pursuit of filling young minds with all the important information about Greek, Roman and Norse gods, and how to write Roman numerals to the million-billions. The other teacher was a man, and hence would have been my first male teacher.

I got the female, who was a “sink-or-swim” kind of person. No more skating by on short stories for book report credit.Then my school closed, and I was sent to a new school.
…where I got the same teacher for fifth grade. More Roman gods and numerals, more Greek gods and the like. I did not flourish.

My sixth grade teacher was a kind, “tough-love” sort of man. My first male teacher, he taught us a lot about self-respect. He also taught us some rudimentary Italian. He told us he was 63 years old. He said he’d gotten to 100 and then started counting backwards again.

A few years ago, his son was almost elected governor of Washington State. I voted for him, not because I thought he had a better plan or “mandate”, but because I figured; if his father could have such a huge impact on an attention-starved 11-year-old in just 180 days, he should have been an incredible influence on his own offspring.
Something happened in sixth grade. One day our teacher said “ You should appreciate my doing this for you. Once you get to middle school, you’re gonna be on your own.” (I don’t remember what he was explaining.)

I entered middle school with trepidation. Was it really going to be as cutthroat as Mr. Rossi described? In many ways it was: expectations were definitely higher. You had to learn to fend for yourself. I spent most of my time in the computer lab, programming in “Basic” on ancient PET 2001 computers. (Based upon the fact you haven’t heard of “CreelmanSoft,” you can see how far I got with that.)

Then one day, my eighth grade social studies teacher said: “ You know, you people should appreciate what I’m doing for you here. When you get to high school, you’ll have to fend for yourselves.” (I don’t remember what he was doing for me there.)

High school was definitely a step up. I struggled with keeping grades up, even though I was always in the top three percentile on standardized tests. (This was when my novel series “Phoenix Flight” first saw the light of day. I was always busy writing and drawing rather than studying.)

During my senior year of high school, one teacher warned us that in college, teachers were not nearly as helpful.

“I hope you guys appreciate everything we do for you here,” he said. “Once you’re in college, nobody is going to look out for you!” (I don’t remember what he was doing for us.)

At the community college level, I struggled through my freshman year and then sputtered through what I call my “five sophomore years of college.”
Eventually I got back fulltime, and finally flourished again.

One of my instructors advised me one day that, “at 4-year schools, nobody’s going to wipe your nose for you.” (I do specifically recall that this instructor never physically wiped my nose. I wouldn’t have ever forgotten something like that.)

As I slogged my way through Washington State University, I indeed wiped my own nose, except for the times I allowed some exchange student majoring in biology to do it for me, but that was just ten or twelve times.

And, I swear this is true, my communication history professor said to my senior class: “You should appreciate what we do here, When you get into the workforce…”
Sadly, I don’t remember what any of them “did…”

…except make lasting, lifelong impressions on me.

Oh, and I do get to capitalize on it by writing about it, years later.

A New Angle on Humor: A Circular Debate

     I was digging through some files with regard to my novel series when I happened upon these "Geometry-based-humor" Single-panel comic strips. Given that I had exactly three of them, and that they never made it past "Sketch" Phase, you can see how much math humor I could muster.
     Still, I kind of like them.

Kicking the Habit: I Scream, You Scream We all Scream at Ice Cream

Kicking the Habit

By PJ Creelman

The day after my seventeenth birthday, I—along with several of my high school classmates—traveled to Europe for my first time. The trip occurred the last time it was dangerous for Americans to travel abroad. We had a U.S. President who —right or wrong—was perceived as a trigger-happy, dangerous gun-slinging imperialist. (He wasn’t the first, and sadly, has proven to be not the last.)

Americans who willingly risked traveling abroad were easy to spot: Ostensibly, they looked like Americans, but had Canadian Flag patches sewn onto their backpacks.

One may ask: “How do you know they were Amurricans, and not Canajans?”

My answer comes in two parts…

1)      They didn’t sound like Canadians, eh? (Canadians use “Eh?” the way people from “The states” use “Y’know” and “huh?” Oh… and periods. They use them like periods. Furthermore, when Canadians speak Canadian, it sounds fluid and un-forced, bordering on the lingual equivalent of a fruit smoothie. When Ah-Murr-icans pretend to be Canajans, it sounds very forced. “We’re gonna go out and buy some unsweetened Iced Tea, aaaaayyyyy?!?” (As opposed to “Back-in-a-few, eh?”)

2)      The Canadians were all running around looking like smartly-dressed Americans, but they had Australian flags sewn to their backpacks.

Anyway, the first stop on the way to the European Continent was a few hours of layover in New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport.

Prior to the trip, my mom had painstakingly—through the auspices of AAA, our banks, foreign consulates and I think even some dabbling in international stock markets—arranged for me to possess roughly $20 in British, French, Swiss, and Austrian currency, as well as about $20 U.S. and much more in Deutschmarks, as Germany was the primary focus of our trip.

Armed with $20 and time to kill during my first (and to-date only) foray on the East Coast, I set out to find something uniquely “New York” (aside from a mugging.)

Our German teacher forbade us from leaving the airport. (This was fine with me, as I was jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, and ostensibly alone in a place that eats West-Coast-Dwellers for a late afternoon snack. (Given that it was late afternoon, I didn’t want to take any chances.))

I shambled through the airport, leaving our terminal (Twelve-B) in search of a way to spend money (Read: Entering Europe with holes burned into my pockets.)

The airport’s air conditioning was malfunctioning that day, creating a potentially lethal situation in early July on the Eastern Seaboard. At an international airport it created conditions that felt (and smelled) like a cross between an armpit covered in limburger cheese, and a crock pot filled with cabbage, broccoli and soy sauce.

My quest to find something “uniquely New York” quickly fizzled into a search for something cold, refreshing, and taxed locally to help the municipalities here.

I happened on a Häagen-Dazs Ice Cream shop and got in line behind my German Teacher.

The prices, while outrageous, were well within the boundaries of my cash-on-hand.

Three scoops of designer, brand-name ice cream and nine dollars later, I headed out of the swelteringly hot ice cream shop and made my back onto the swelteringly hot concourse, armed with a colorful assortment of chocolate, vanilla and chocolate chip mint ice creams.

As I exited the shop, I discovered a terrifying truth about the relationship between hot and humid weather, nonfunctional air conditioning and airport ice cream.

1)      Ice cream and hot, humid air do not play nicely. They don’t mix. (OK, the ice cream mixes… with itself, but this was not the desired result. I wanted the mixing to occur in my stomach.

2)      Ice cream had been melting, dripping and spilling all day long, all over travelers, vendors and muggers. All over tables, chairs and the floor.

While I traditionally do not walk on tables and chairs, I do frequently take the floor.

Now, to the credit of the Environmental Services employees at Kennedy International Airport in early July, 1986, on that hot and humid, sweaty-ice-cream day, they were proactively wiping down tables and chairs and were mopping the floors.

As I exited the ice cream shop, I immediately wished the Environmental Services cleaning staff had been slightly less proactive.

Let’s just say, as I hit the concourse, I hit the concourse. My tennis shoes hit the slickened floor and then, as gravity took over, so did the rest of me.

If those darned fastidious cleaners hadn’t been so darned proactive, I would have been fine because:

A)    The floor wouldn’t have been wet (read: slippery.)

B)    The floor would have, in fact, been sticky with all the ice cream drippings.

Either way, I now had an emergency appointment with terra firma (or: Concoursa-Firma). I reacted like any red-blooded American Teen-ager would, especially if this red-blooded teen didn’t like the sight of his own red blood. I squawked loudly, flailed my arms looking for a handhold, and fell anyway.

I need to take a moment to address the concept of “Squawking loudly.” There is a noise that I emit when I am startled or sincerely frightened. This noise can best be described as a cross between an eight-year-old girl screaming, and a cougar’s shriek.

I have tried repeatedly to duplicate this noise in times when I was not startled or sincerely frightened, but the results have been disappointing at best. Typically when I’m not frightened, I just sound like an intoxicated moose bellowing.

In this case, I flailed, gesticulating wildly, all the while sounding like a cougar pouncing on an eight-year-old girl.

Result: My carefully-crafted concoction of tri-colored, tri-flavored ice cream, no longer held in place by my grip, launched in a parabolic arc on a trajectory that would have made NASA proud.

In the words of the late Neil Armstrong: “That’s one small slip for a man, one giant messy spill for mankind.”

In my mind’s eye… well… my mind’s ear I could hear the “Splop-Splopp-Splurch!” of three scoops of ice cream attacking the patrons behind me.

To be honest, I was too busy fulfilling my appointment with the floor to notice the plight of my frozen dairy dessert.

For a half second, I expected my aerial ice cream assault to be followed by a hail of gunfire. Luckily for me, this was Kennedy Airport and not LAX.

I tried to recover, hoping to beat a hasty retreat to Gate 12-B before somebody caused me more bodily harm than that which I’d already experienced. As I started to extricate myself from the slick tiles, I heard a female shriek in a thick Nu Yawwk accent. (Expletives deleted to maintain a PG rating.)

“J---- C---- You F------ Son of a B-----!”

(OK, I’ll give you a hint, My Lord and savior was separated from my lineage by an F-Bomb.)

I turned to face a very angry-looking woman, covered head to toe in ice cream. She was dressed in a very dowdy black and white outfit.

My ice cream made her outfit look like a tribute to Salvador Dali and Jackson Pollock. There was chocolate on the white, vanilla on the black, and mint chocolate chip all over. At least I didn’t get strawberry!

The triple-threat of ice cream was roll-oozing down her body trying to cover the floor in another slip-proofing sticky extreme.

I stood transfixed, trying to match the complaint with the complainant. She looked infuriated, like she wanted to throttle me, or take a swing at me, or swing a throttle at me.

“I’m sorr… uh… Sorry… uhmmmm I’m sorry…”

Something registered in the back of my brain. Somewhere between cognizance and that “fight or flight” brain-stem response, there lies a small processor that plays and replays things, fitting pieces of the puzzle together at a reasonably high pace. It’s the part that says, “Hey, the shelf tag said $8.97, not $10.50,” and “Hey… the key chain in the ignition looks a lot like your…>>Slam<< …keychain.”

My processor was replaying the verbal body slam I’d just received.

It had put two and two together and got three scoops. It had seen black and white and got Jackson “Salvador Dali” Pollock. It had noticed that the source of the complaint was, if nothing else, unusual for the situation.

“Uhhh… you’re a nun,” I said.

She looked furious. Her face was a bright red… but there was a glimmer of recognition in her eye. Her hand went to cover her mouth. Her face faded from a bright red of rage to a… uh… bright red of embarrassment.

Of all the Ice Cream Joints in the world, I found the one that had some tough-as-nails Harlem Street Nun patrolling the concourse.

In her eyes there was now a look of shocked betrayal. Her eyes said Did those words come from my mouth?

Now I don’t know if she was a Nun-In-Training, or a rookie nun, or a grizzled veteran, or an undercover federal aviation agent. Because of this, I’ll never know how she interpreted what I said next…

“But, you’re forgiven,” I smiled.

Now, what I, the ice cream-deprived protestant teen in tennis shoes meant was, “God has forgiven you of your sins.”

She, the Undercover-Cop-Catholic-Gangsta-Harlem-Street-Nun, now adorned with a habit that had experienced a rare baptismal trifecta of chocolate/vanilla/mint chocolate chip, may have heard “I forgive you for taking the Lord’s name in vain after you began wearing nine-dollars-worth of designer ice cream.”

If that was the case, bless her heart.

There was a moment of silence.

“Is there any…” I started.

“No,” she finished.

“Are you cert…”

“Yes,” she said in a tone much icier than my formerly frozen dairy treat.

With that, I beat a hasty retreat in the direction of Gate 12-B. (There is no thirteenth gate. There’s 10, 11, 12-A, 12-B, 14, 15…etc. I wasn’t at gate thirteen, but by golly, I had the luck of Gate-13.)

My mind reeled. Was she a police officer, or security? A new convert? Mother Tourettes-sa? Was she an opportunist who immediately would grab herself a spoon and make the most of her nine-dollar ice cream bath?

I reached my terminal and pulled a novelization of the movie “Aliens,” in the hope of clearing my mind.

My German teacher—who had gotten away from the shop just moments ahead of my date dump with Mother Earth and Sister Siouxsie and the Banshees—was already seated at the ticket window, eating her treat.

Between licks of her Pralines-n-Cream cone, Frau Ross asked, “Where’s your ice cream?”

“Uhhhh…” I stammered… “Uhhh… I got nun of it.”

She looked at me for a moment before shrugging and continuing to devour her own semi-frozen dairy treat.

Second Draft: Not-Very-Selective Service

Second Draft

On my eighteenth birthday, through no fault (or desire) of my own, I registered for the United States’ “Selective Service.” This was not so much out of any sense of patriotism so much as I happened to be at a US Post Office on my eighteenth birthday.

For those of you who don’t know (ie: females and the occasional random foreign reader of my work, or ex-pat,) this process entails reading a four-page document which concisely explains that, while you are required to sign up for the draft, there has not been a draft of the US Military for decades.

Then you register for the draft!

I dutifully filled out my paperwork and dutifully mailed it off to “The Other” Washington.

Then I patiently waited. I knew that somewhere on the East Coast, a team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats was hard at work, inputting the names, dates of birth, addresses and Social Security Numbers of thousands of reticent and unsuspecting 18-year-old boys, all of whom had read—OK, some probably skimmed— the four-page “Don’t Worry, We Haven’t Had A Draft in Decades” Brochure, and then registered for the draft.

My waiting ended some weeks later when I received a letter confirming that I had been warmly welcomed to the happy regiments of draftable lads who needn’t worry, because we haven’t had a draft in decades.

The letter in question was sent to satisfy the Federal Government’s need to be absolutely certain that indeed I knew my name, social security number, address and date of birth. It contained the instructions: “Please check to confirm this information is correct.”

I scanned the document and made a startling discovery!

According to my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats, I had actually been born two years earlier than my parents (and birth certificate) said I was! Suddenly, a second P.J. Creelman, a twenty-year-old P.J. Creelman was born.

My “don’t worry, kid, you’ll never get drafted” number reflected a Date-Of-Birth two years earlier.

Suddenly, the follow-up instructions became very important. According to them, I needed to “circle any mistakes, correct them and return documentation for processing.”

I did as instructed, dashing off a quick note, the message of which was, “NO, I am not twenty years old,” and mailed it back to “The Other Washington.”

Now, I cannot rule out that a District-of-Columbia team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats was merely the victim of my bad handwriting. Nor can I rule out that the team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats was merely the product (read: victim) of a low-quality public education.

What I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt is that I was either the victim of my bad handwriting, or the lackluster education of my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats.

About two weeks later, I receive a quickly dashed-off retaliatory note, the effect of which was “Yeah? Prove it!”

By this point, I was getting fed up with the whole process. (One could argue that this had been going on for two years now!)

I rationalized that I had done my bit, first by registering for the “We’re-not-going-to-have-a” Draft to begin with! I had read the patriotic four-page brochure assuring me there hadn’t been a draft for decades. I registered. I scanned the letter of confirmation, as determined by my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats. I sent the letter of correction, confirming that, in accordance with federal law, I had registered on my eighteenth and not twentieth birthday!

I had done my part for God and Country! I did what any red-blooded teenaged American boy would do in this situation.

In other words: I ignored it.

I also ignored the follow-up letter, which said “Since you haven’t ‘proven it’ yet, your file has been pulled from the system and flagged. We await your response.”

I don’t understand why this team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats, who couldn’t discern between a handwritten “9” and a “7” couldn’t assume that it wasn’t lost in the Highly-Trained Postal System.

I ignored four more “prove-it” letters. Each one reminded me that “While there hasn’t been a draft in decades, you subversive punk, you are still required by law to register for it!”

What troubled me the most was that they weren’t satisfied by my word on the issue. Nor were they able enough to “think outside the check-a-box” that it might seem odd that an eighteen- (or twenty-) year old man knew what his fricking birthdate was!

Furthermore, it was apparent that this subversive punk, in addition to not knowing what year he was born in, decided to commit a federal crime by waiting TWO YEARS to register for the non-existent draft! They seemed to think that I thought it would be fun to celebrate the second anniversary of my non-registration crime to finally register!

One would like to think that somewhere over in “The Other Washington,”, there would be some sort of all-encompassing database (like perhaps in the Social Security Administration, or the Passport Offices) that would contain data including my date of birth. (According to my Christian Youth Camps, there was a super-powerful computer nicknamed “The Beast,” that contained all these data, and eventually would implant a microchip in your forehead or wrist to prevent these sorts of technical hiccups.

It would seem that one of the members of my team of Highly-Trained Bureaucrats could open a screen… (OK, this was the 1980s…)  … open a file folder and get this information without sending mildly threatening letters 3000 miles across the country. One would think that there might be a team of even More-Highly-Trained Bureaucrats watch-dogging my information and advising the Standard-Highly-Trained (but publicly-educated) Bureaucrats.

But… NO! Instead, I had to dig out my birth certificate and mail it to them to prove that I knew how freaking old I was!

All of this was to satisfactorily convince a Highly-Trained (publicly-educated) Bureaucrat who had little better to do. (Keep in mind, this was 1987. This was before people could play “Solitaire” on their computers, and “Tetris” was still a closely-guarded Soviet/Communist Secret.)

Without even trying to, the Highly-Trained Bureaucracy gave birth to a smarmy 18- (or 20-) year-old war protestor. And the worst part was, because there hadn’t been a draft in decades, there was no war to protest! Despite my frustration with the Department of Highly-Trained Selective Service Bureaucrats, I had no outlet for my discontent!

(You can’t burn your draft card if they don’t freaking send it to you!)

…Not that I would actually burn the thing, (that’d be a crime,) but I might have burned a photocopy of it!

And so, my waiting game continued. I went about my life, accumulating a sizeable stack of mildly threatening letters. These letters were so threatening that they even threatened the sender with a “$300 penalty for Other-Than-Official use!”

The Highly-Trained Bureaucrats, (or their Highly-Trained Bureaucratic Computers) continued to send letters reminding me that I had nothing to fear from signing up for the draft. After all, I was registering for something that didn’t exist for decades!

Then, more than three months after this whole debacle started, the Highly-Trained (but grievously-undereducated) Bureaucrats began to whistle a new tune.

Because my file had been pulled, I was no longer in their system. They sent me a letter explaining that I had not fulfilled my obligation to register for the non-existent draft. Ostensibly, when they’d pulled my file, >>poooof!<< there was no more P.J. Creelman in the computer that couldn’t do a quick cross-reference with Social Security or the Passport Office.

(Hey, if the State Department, the Department of Defense and Social Security Administration couldn’t communicate among themselves, why on earth would I have expected The Department of Defense to be able to communicate with… The Department of Defense?!?)

This letter said, “Prove it… OR ELSE!!!”

So, I proved it. I grabbed a large envelope and mailed them every scrap of paper that I had received from them to-date. I also included the original copy of my birth certificate. I included photocopies of: my driver’s license, my passport, and my Social Security Card, my birth announcement in the Seattle Times, my Third Grade (Straight-A) report card. In included a newspaper clipping of the previous Tuesday’s “Garfield” comic strip, a two-for-one coupon from Arby’s and even my lucky “Raisin Bran Decoder Ring.” My team of Highly-Trained (but tragically-undereducated) Bureaucrats was getting everything I could throw at them. That poorly-educated, Highly-Trained, Solitaire-deprived Bureaucrat who was probably sitting in a smoke-filled cubicle was going to find out that I was exactly as young and immature as I said I was!

A few weeks later, I received my Birth Certificate back in the mail along with a note that said “Your information is being processed and updated. Thank you for the “Garfield” strip, it really hit me where I live.” (For the record, both my parents absolutely blew a gasket when they found out I’d mailed my original birth certificate to a Solitaire-deprived, Highly-Trained, Disturbingly-Undereducated Bureaucrat.)

I waited.

Finally, a few weeks later, I received a letter stating that they had corrected my date of birth to my actual birth date. (This was a considerable relief to my father, who would have gladly claimed a son for two additional years on his taxes.)

My draft number now reflected the birth date of an eighteen year old, albeit a smarmy, self-obsessed and cocky eighteen year old.

I was relieved. My parents were relieved. Somewhere in “The Other Washington,” a team of Highly-Trained, Solitaire-(And Tetris-)Deprived, Woefully-Undereducated, Handwriting-Victim Bureaucrats was now available to make a living Hell for another hapless 18-(Or 20-) year-old.

About two weeks later, I received another letter from the Department of Defense. I opened it, expecting a letter of apology, or a notice of surrender, or even my Decoder Ring.

What I didn’t expect was to find out that my previously-pulled file had apparently been reinserted into “the system.” The result was a reconfirmation of the 20-year-old P.J.’s birthdate.

So far as I could tell, I was not registered twice for a draft that had not happened for decades!

If I understood correctly, this meant that I could (and given my luck, likely would) be able to simultaneously be an honorably discharged veteran and a draft-evader.

The Bureaucrats had won. I figured that at this point, my best defense was to wait until the two-years-older version of me was too old to be drafted, and then announce that the two-years-younger version of me had died.

Now that I’m rapidly approaching old age, the issues is not as critical.

Needless to say, I finally understand what someone says “I’m beside myself” when they are faced with a perplexing issue.

(Author's Note: I have the utmost respect for the men and women who voluntarily sign up to serve this nation. It's the bureaucrats that get my goat.)

Please note: I'm trying something new here... I have started a Kickstarter Campaign for my second novel: Phoenix Flight: Vengeance. Please, if you're able to back the campaign, I'd be forever grateful. If you can share the URL, I'd be forever iin your debt! Thank you!