Charlotte Tampons

I wish I could take credit for it, but I don't remember who came up with the idea. I also don't recall the circumstances that brought that particular group of us together (me, Jason, Lad, and.....Clint Scharf). All I know is the plan was hatched at Vuic's kitchen table, sometime near the end of our senior year.

Our highschool team mascot was the Tarpons and there was a big Charlotte Tarpons sign at the top of the football stadium. We were very proud of it. So we decided to stick an "M" over the "R". We got some poster board and put an M on it. We drove up to school with the lights off. I dropped everyone off (I drove get away because I was a pussy). They climbed up on the roof and stuck the M at just the right place. I picked them up around the corner. I felt a little like Ralph Mouth.

East Elementary

When Doves Cry topped the charts and Members Only jackets were in. Parachute pants, tight Jordache (dudes too), and Velcro sneakers. The year was 1984.

After completing required course work, I graduated from Peace River Elementary School. During my time there I was elected by my peers to serve as treasurer of Mr. Clifford's class, and was the recipient of the esteemed Something or Other award. My search for new challenges brought me to East Elementary for the sixth year of my education.

The typical East Elementary student comes from a semi-depressed community and probably has a senseless yet dedicated affiliation with one of the three big auto makers. He or she rides the bus to school, walks, or if their name is Jean Bartlett, ride their motorcycle. More on Jean later. My class was a bunch of misfits. There was Michael Piner, Shawn Boyette, the Stover sisters, and of course Jean. My best friends were Rob Hussey and Davie Westbury. I also remember a giant fat girl named Darcey who I once knocked down trying to catch a football. My bean ball chops and stellar grades helped me fit in nicely. Once I barfed in the class sink during recess and noone ever found out.

The, vice-principal, (Gerb Vuic) was a nice old guy (by 6 grader standards mind you) whose son I eventually became good friends with. One time while attempting to ditch my weekly visit to the SEEP program, Gerb mistook my failure to make the bus as an accident. He drove me there himself in the Pontiac 6000. He told us for years that it was the fastest car in town. I lost my virginity in his bed. Twice.

Jean was bigger and badder than anyone else in school. He was probably 15 when the rest of us were 11 or 12. He came and went as he pleased and was often suspended. Aware of my civic nature, my teacher asked me to deliver a note to the office. Knowing that the code of note delivery forbade the reading of the note, I opened it immediately upon my leaving the room. In dramatic cursive writing, it said "Jean smells atrocious!" I think Gerb got the note. I wonder how long he laughed. The last I remember seeing Jean was in the lunch room between Christmas and summer break. The people there were making preparations for that evenings spring sock hop, including testing a PA system. Kids were taking turns saying inane pro East Elementary crap into the mic. Jean pushed his way to the front and said "I think this school really sucks." He was led away and out of my life forever. I imagine him now, still cruising the back streets of south Punta Gorda on his dirt bike. Wondering what could have been if he'd only applied himself. That or he is in Iraq.

My First Car

The is an image of a '69 Dodge Dart. My first car was the same model and year as the one in the image. Only mine was yellow, not shiny, and usually dirty.

I bought the car for $600, $300 of which my dad gave me. I was 17 and most of my friends already had cars. There was my bud Japhy's '77 Chevelle. For some reason everyone in school called it the Love Mochine. I spent a whole bunch of time in the passenger seat of that car.

My car had 4 doors, a slant-6 engine, and full time power steering. The power steering was ridiculous. You could spin the wheel and let go and it would keep spinning until you turned all the way around or crashed (depending on how fast you were going.) The radio, AM/FM, had those fat black preset buttons. The speedometer stretched from one end of the dash to the other. It wasn't cool by any standards but it sort of had character and it was mine.

The first time I took it on a road trip (Ft. Myers), Japhy, and bothers Perry and Kenny Shaw were with me. We were cruising south on US 41 (cue The Boys Are Back In Town by Thin Lizzy here) when I glanced at the dash. What I thought was the fuel gauge was pegged to the right. "Man, this car gets great mileage", I said. "That's the heat gauge dude!" Japhy said. We were overheating and limped back home without ever reaching our destination.

Another time Japhy and I were hauling ass up my road in the car. We were coming to the stop sign at the start of the street where it intersects a fairly busy road. On the other side of the road there was a significant drop off into some palmettos. I went to stop and my foot went to the floor. I had zero brakes! At first I tried to jam it in park. Needless to say this did not work at all. At the last second I swerved to the right at about 25 mph. The car bounced to a stop between a telephone pole and the pole's guy wire, with about a foot on either side to spare. We laughed our asses off.

I wish I could say I had alot of good times in that car. I don't think I ever even touched a girl in it. Truth is I still spent most of my high school nights out in the Love Mochine. Eventually the car had problems that I couldn't or wasn't interested in fixing. (I had my eye on a sweet '77 Celica.) It sat neglected on the side of the road across for my parents house for several months. The last time I saw it, it was on the back of a flatbed wrecker on its way to the dump.

Crapload of Tadpoles

I saw this weirdness at work today

Bleeding In The Meat

I should preface this story by describing what my situation was at the time. It all started when I was moving back home from college, not having the money for the next term.

I hadn't got off my ass and earned the money for tuition nor did I make much of the last semester. I was living in the dorms for the first time after a two years in various apartments. Because I was moving home I had everything I owned in my car. My car was one of the more ridiculous rides I have ever seen. I was a 77' Celica that I bought from my brother though I'm not sure I ever paid him. It had all sorts of after market body work. It had flared rear and forward fenders. It had a spoiler, a front skirt, and over-sized Perelli tires. It had a removable sunroof. It was sort of fun to drive because of the 5-speed manual. but the air didn't work. The brakes and clutch leaked. It only had a radio.

So I was driving down 1-75 a few weeks before Christmas with the heat on because the car was overheating. All my shit was in the car. My rear driver side wheel had been making a grinding sound for several weeks but I figured it could wait until I got home. I had no money for it anyway. Just south of Venice (FL), the sound got really loud and the car started to shudder violently. A few seconds later the car shifted several inches down and to the left. Looking out the window I saw my wheel, axle attached, bouncing and rolling past me and into the wooded median. I was sliding along the shoulder in the grass. My brakes went with my wheel so all I could do was wait until I stopped. Eventually I did, in the grass just off the road. I gathered myself together and got out to take a look. What I saw was my bare rear assembly (inches from my gas tank), white hot, resting on dry grass. Before my eyes a tiny flame emerged and slowly began to spread. I threw dirt on it, I dumped Gatorade on it, I spit at it. The fire was finally extinguished by the coffee of a passerby. The guy let me use his cell phone to call someone.

I couldn't reach anyone so I left messages. After throwing the street signs I had in the car as far into the palmettos as possible, I sat on the trunk and waited. A highway trooper eventually stopped. She said "Car trouble?" I said "Kinda." She left. About an hour later a friend picked me up. I had dropped out of college and was moving in with my parents. I was 21. It was not the happiest time in my life. My only positive thought was that my dad would be forced to help me buy a car so I could get a job. At least there was that.

"I think you should fix it." my dad said. "Huh?" I thought. Fix it!? WTF do I know about that kind of car repair? Seriously. But that was that and I would have to do it. I borrowed a tool from my mechanic Uncle Ed and money from my dad. I went to a junk yard and yanked some parts. I read a manual and fixed it. No shit. During the several months it took to do it, I had do drive my mom to work (at 6:30) so I would have her car to get a job. I found the job that would eventually lead to my bleeding in the meat.

The Black Forest Buffet was a dump. I killed more than one roach in full view of customers. Other than myself and the manager, it was staffed my a crew of absolute idiots. Most of them kids. There was the skinny redneck dishwasher who like to wash pots on several hits of acid. There were also two young black kids who did random jobs, sometimes. They actually brought there guns to work once to compare. They were walking stereotypes. The restaurant catered mostly to old people who ate dinner at 5:00 pm. It consisted of a full bar, a salad bar, and a meat and side bar. The latter bar was to be my domain. I was "The Meat Carver". My job was to slice off hunks of meat for the old people as they pushed their trays along the line. Some of those old-timers got pretty sassy after a couple of Manhattans. I did my best to grant their requests for a pork roast "end cut" or an extra fatty piece of lamb. By the way, lamb is fucking gross.

It was Easter Sunday at about 1:00 pm, prime eating hour for old people. We were packed. The blue hair stretched all the way down the line. Then I learned a very important lesson for a meat carver. Never try to catch a falling knife. I did try and cut the shit out of my finger. No stitches needed though I was bleeding freely. But it was Easter and people need sustenance to pray. The show must go on. So I went on carving meat and I went on bleeding. I bled in the meat.

Frialator 2900

The last two nights I fullfilled our family obligation to work the concession stand at the little league park. I didn't really know anyone I worked with but thats not the best part. My job was the fry cook! I made that grill my bitch. I was trained by a women (grown with two kids (who are brats)), who said she worked at McDonald's, so she had experience. I later learned that she works at McDonalds which is kinda different.

So I put as much shit as I could fit on the grill and in the Frialator (yes the actual name of the deepfrier is The Frialator 2900.) I was flipping patties, grilling dogs, frying chicken, french fries, and cheese sticks. I have no idea how many half raw chicken strips I served up. And lets just say no hairnets required. (Remind me to tell the story about bleeding in the meat)