My Friend Tom Fox

Tom getting wrecked by one of my kitties. Note the cigar and iced tea!

It was several years after the dog shooting/Self Defense for Real episode. 

A new guy moved in directly across the street.  I watched him like a hawk, and noticed some things.

He was shorter than me, but built like a brick shithouse.  A tremendous physique, and he was very proud of it.  When the weather was warm, he was always outside fucking around, and off came the shirt.  I thought, "Look at this muscle-headed, steroid-soaked mother fucker.  What a douche."

Jealousy?  Probably.

He had a German Shepherd.  I thought, "Great. Another large dog in the area I'm gonna have to keep an eye on.  I hope Hercules over there has enough common sense to keep the dog restrained, especially after the events of a few years ago."

New guy had a completely fenced-in backyard, but the chain link was only 4-5 feet high, and the dog was NEVER inside the house. The fucking shepherd easily jumped the fence and got loose a couple of times when new guy wasn't home.  

I have much experience with German shepherds, and the dog didn't appear to be aggressive...but I was taking no chances.  Neither I nor my family would be threatened ever again by a loose dog, but I learned a lesson.  I called animal control, and the dog was taken to the pound.  New guy paid a pretty penny to get the dog back, and soon after he installed a taller fence the dog couldn't clear.

A good sign...

It wasn't long before the new guy started on some serious home improvements.  The first one was to replace his gravel driveway with nice new concrete.  That was the last straw, and I saw it as my opportunity to finally meet this dude and introduce myself...and I was gonna do so in my own inimitable style.

Before I even got to his side of the street, my mouth was running.

"Oh, OK.  So I guess you think you're better than me 'cuz you got a cement driveway now and all I got is a shitty gravel one."

He replied with a shit-eating grin, "Exactly!"

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

His name was Tom Fox.  

He was the same age as me.  Recently divorced.  He was a certified master BMW mechanic, and had worked for the same independent, privately owned shop for decades.  

Prior to that, he was responsible for maintenance at a large apartment complex.

He knew his shit.

I met his dog.  His name was Mack, and he was a good boy.  I took him for walks around the neighborhood, and I wasn't afraid of him.  

Incidentally, I never told Tom I was the asshole who called the dog catcher.  What's the point?  Tom fixed the problem.  Why possibly ruin the good thing we got going?

Tom ended up being like a twin brother.  He was part of my family, and he touched our lives in innumerable ways.  I can look around at my home and property and see all kinds of things there that Tom actually touched.  It's amazing what impact this man had on me and my family.

When he saw me in my driveway struggling with an automotive repair, he'd waltz across the street without me asking and lend a hand.  It got to the point where I'd say, "Just point and advise and I'll do the work."

When he saw me carting out to the curb half of my household items ruined by a broken water pipe, he was the first guy to offer help.  Bathroom a gutted wreck? Tom's there.  Kitchen water damaged, totally destroyed?  Tom's there.

One day whilst I was mucking around on the intardweb, I got a call from Tom, but I was slow in answering and it went to voicemail.

When I got around to checking the voicemail, Tom's voice was low, quiet, and childlike.  "Zoomie...can you come over to my garage?  I need you for something."

I thought he was putting me on, but I got up from my desk and started walking across the street.  Just as I got to his side of the street I shouted, "Somebody better be dying!  There'd better be blood!"

As I went up his driveway, I stooped down and saw Tom laying on his back on the garage floor.  I picked up my leisurely walking pace at that point.

There was blood alright!  He had damned near cut a fingertip off with a table saw he was using to build his mom a birdhouse.

He hadn't lost a shit-ton of blood, but my limited knowledge of first aid from the Marine Corps told me he was going into shock!  He was pale, sweaty, and clammy, and not making much sense.

Stop the bleeding/Protect the wound-I wrapped it tight with paper towels and direct pressure.  Told him to hold it tight.

Treat for shock-elevated his legs. Put a blanket or a tarp on him.

Called 911.  An ambulance took him to hospital.  He didn't lose his fingertip.

I saved his life!  I was a fucking hero!  I made sure to remind him of those facts often!

Tom and I in my driveway, doing some incredibly important bullshit!

I learned a lot from this man.  There wasn't much he didn't know, that I did.  Except maybe for guns.  

He was a gun guy, and he knew about what he had, but when he acquired an AR15 from a work buddy, he knew who to ask.  It was new technology for him, but familiar like a well-worn baseball glove for me.  

I was able to give back, and I was happy and proud to do so.

Another way we gave back to Tom was to include him into our family circle.  Holiday dinners, birthdays, summer cookouts.  Tom was always invited, and was always the perfect guest.  He was polite, conversationally engaging, and interesting.

And generous?  

Jesus Christ the man never stopped, and it wasn't just his time, labor, and expertise.  

Christmas meant gifts for the entire family.  There didn't even have to BE an occasion.  He'd give me all kinds of cool shit he bought off the Snap-On tool truck at work...good quality shit that I would use for years afterwards.  

What we offered in return was a homey, family environment he could settle into like a comfy LazyBoy.  Get a nice home-cooked meal...and quality banter from me.

He interacted with my children and watched them grow up.  

My sons were especially fond of him, which made me happy.  It's always nice to have a positive male role model in the mix who is not family.  

The different perspectives can be important.

Tom drank iced tea, always, usually from a gas station fountain. Nothing else.  He didn't drink alcohol.  

I once told him he would be the perfect neighbor if he drank beer.

Tom smoked nasty Backwoods cigars constantly, and would toss the butts into my yard because he knew it irritated me.  I'd say, "Is that where that goes, asshole?"  He'd reply, "Today it is."  

Fuckhead.

One day Tom and I were fucking around...I don't even remember what we were doing. 

I was a little tired and cranky that day, and Tom said something I thought was either stupid or irritating. I don't even remember what he said. 

My reply to him was short, snotty, to-the-point, dumb, and probably not very nice. 

I don't even remember what I said. 

His reply was short and sweet, but not hateful. I don't even remember what it was. 

I just remember his physical reaction. 

He turned and walked across the street back to his house and went inside. 

I went about my day for an hour or two afterwards, and then it hit me like a good snort of scotch: "Holy fuck! I just destroyed a valued friendship by running my fucking mouth without any prior thought!" 

I started to tear up, then I acted. 

I went across the street and knocked on his door. 

He invited me in saying, "What's up?" 

I said with trembling voice and tears in my eyes, "I love you, man, and I value your friendship. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. You didn't deserve that, and I apologize. They way you turned and walked away from me...I knew I pissed you off. I'm sorry." 

His reply? "What the fuck are you talking about? I had to poop!" 

Motherfucker!!! 

From then on, whenever either one of us temporarily parted ways, instead of "later dude," we said "gotta go poop now!"

One time Tom related to me an incident at his place of employment...the BMW shop.  Music was playing in the background, and he said a Stevie Ray Vaughan (SRV) song came on.  Tom said one of his co-workers, out of the blue, mumbled, "Stupid helicopters."

(SRV died in a helicopter crash)

From that day on, whenever an SRV song came on and Tom and I were together, we'd say, "Stupid helicopters."

It was legend. 

This kinda thing went on for years, and Tom was officially a member of the unofficial "4th Avenue Mafia." (4AM) 

The 4AM was a cadre of neighborhood men who helped one another and the entire neighborhood.  We looked after each others' properties when away on vacations, and we all had each other's cell phone numbers...and backs.  

If an elderly neighbor needed help, we're there.  

A tree fall down during a storm? 

There'd be three or four guys there with revving chainsaws to clear the mess even before the rain stopped falling.

Snow needed removed from a senior citizen's property?  We're on it.

A stranger acting a fool, driving recklessly? He's getting eyeballed and stink-eyed and the cops called on him if he's REALLY stoopid.

This went on for years, and it was awesome.  We were a team.  The sense of community was palpable, and Tom was a big part of it.

Then, his life changed.  Somehow he got reacquainted with his ex-wife. I won't go into details, but he had always told me that he didn't want the divorce, but I still found it strange he was rebuilding a relationship with her.

Tom was seeing more of her, and less of the 4AM, which is fine...he's a grown up...but one day I flat out asked him, "Are you sure you want to do this?  Do you want to get your heart broken again?"

He said he was sure.  He never stopped loving her.  He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.  He wanted to walk off into the sunset with her.  She made him happy.  He made her happy, they were rebuilding what was once a broken wreck.

And to me, that's all that mattered.  Tom was genuinely happy.

Life goes on.

And sometimes, it doesn't...

Two or three years later, Tom is diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. 

Bad news.  Extremely bad news.

He would not walk off into the sunset with his beloved.

He was given about six months to live, and the prognosis was frighteningly accurate.

I watched him turn yellow with jaundice and basically dissolve in front of my eyes.  

It was the most horrifying and heartbreaking thing I ever witnessed.  

I'd walk across the street to visit him when he wasn't in hospital, and I couldn't keep my shit together.

He said, "I sure as fuck never saw THIS coming."

I told him I loved him.  He told me he loved me.

He told me, "There's a couple of my things I want you to have."

With tears in my eyes I said, "I don't want your shit. I want you."

That was our last conversation.  He died about a week later.

There was a huge hole in my life and the 4AM now that would never be refilled.

To make things even more painful, my place of employment would not give me a day off to attend Tom's funeral...saying, "He's not family."

The fuck he wasn't...

My youngest son went instead to represent the family.

I was pissed.

Later...I helped his wife clear out some of Tom's stuff.  

I was especially concerned about all of Tom's firearms.  

I knew he kept most of them loaded all the time, and I also knew I was the only one amongst our group who could competently make the guns safe to handle without somebody getting hurt.

I communicated this to all the remaining members of the 4AM, "Please don't touch the guns.  Let me clear them and make them safe.  I don't want to lose any more of you."

Tears flowed as I cleared all the guns in Tom's living room and his gun safe in his bedroom. 

I hugged his wife multiple times.  She was a wreck, and in shock, but she handled it like a trooper.

Tom's house went up for sale, and it was over a year before it sold.  

A young single guy bought it.  

The 4AM have given the new guy their seal of approval, but I haven't been able to force myself to make an introduction yet.

I'm told he's a truck driver, therefore he's probably a no good rotten filthy bastard!

###

So yesterday I'm out in the driveway in front of my garage, putting spark plugs and wires in my piece of shit 2002 Ford Ranger.  Walkman hardwired into an ancient DeWalt boom box, and a Stevie Ray Vaughan song comes on. "Stoopid helicopters...," I say out loud to myself like a freak.

While doing the plug/wire swap on this sunny Sunday afternoon yesterday, I was thinking, "This is exactly the time Tom would saunter across the street, iced tea in hand and a Backwoods cigar in his pie-hole, and say, "Watcha doin'?" ...when it was fucking obvious what I was doing. 

And I say, "Oh, just playin' cards."...which is an Animal House reference he would clearly understand.

I kept looking for him to walk up my driveway again.

It never happened.

Goddammit, I miss that guy something fierce.

The 4th Avenue Mafia, doing what they do.

Batter Up! Dad Goes Nuts!

You shoulda seen some of the wild shit my old man did on my behalf when he thought I was being unjustly treated. 

It was epic and legendary! 

There were two incidents where Dad went batshit crazy! 

Ironic part was I was WAAAAAAY in the wrong (mostly) for both of them, and Dad knew exactly what I did to get the reaction I got from a coach and a teacher because, I told him the truth...and he still squared up on some fools.

###

The first incident takes place in 1974ish.  5th or 6th grade, certainly no later than that.

It was our town's little league baseball organization, not affiliated with the public school system I was in, so even boys I didn't know from the local Catholic school played. 

It had two divisions.

Minor League was for beginners and those who had questionable levels of talent.

The Major League was where the cool cats and the skilled jocks played.

I was neither cool nor skilled, and up until that time I had never played in any kind of baseball "game," so to speak, although I had played plenty of games of catch, and I knew how to throw, catch, and field a hardball with some amount of competency.

So, my first year was in the Minor League.  My team was the  Cubs.  I'd say our team was above average, but not the best.  We could contend.

I played right field.  I wasn't an especially notable fielder, though.  There were times when I caught a fly ball and it would bounce outta my glove like it had hit an automotive valve spring, and plop to the ground!  

I would never win a Golden Glove Award.

As far as hitting?  Mediocre at best.  I could get on base often enough, but I never hit a homerun.  The best I ever hit was a triple, but I'd attribute that more to my base running.  I was a very fast runner...known as one of the fastest in my school at the time.

Tradition was that if we won a game, the entire team would get a carted over to the local drive-in root beer stand, Mug 'n' Bun, for a root beer.  If you hit a homer, you'd get a footlong hotdog too!  God, how I wanted that footlong.  I never got one.

Anyhoo...one fine summer day we are playing a game, and our star pitcher is struggling.  It happens.  His name was George.  He was an excellent pitcher, and he threw fire, but he was walking batters left and right, or getting shelled that day.

The other team was racking up runs like no tomorrow, and our coach didn't seem to notice or care.

We really didn't have a bullpen.  If George was having a bad day, we were fucked.

I couldn't take it anymore, so I go up to coach and say, "How's about you let me give it a go?"

It was a patently ridiculous idea.  I had never pitched a game in my life, nor had I ever even practiced pitching.

Coach put me in anyway.  He had given up on life.

I walked what had to be the first dozen batters.  My catcher Eddie, a highly skilled catcher from the Catholic school and a guy who would become a dear friend later in life, was doing wind sprints at the plate trying to corral my errant pitches.

Eddie was getting exasperated, and I was beginning to embarrass myself.

The silence from the small crowd was sometimes interspersed with groans and polite sighs, but coach let me continue.

Hell.  Why not?

Then, I started to get a rhythm.  Timing.  Accuracy.  I started punching out motherfuckers.

It was glorious!

I don't recall if we even won the game, but the Cubs had a bullpen now, and I remember George's reaction very well.  I don't think he was real happy at first, but it didn't take long for him to be gracious and accept the fact that he couldn't carry the team by himself.  

George was a good sport about it. I recall discussing this bit of history with him in high school.  He went on to be a very good player, earning a varsity letter in baseball and probably other sports.

I honed my craft.  I practiced with Dad.  He showed me how to toe the slab, wind up, hold the ball either with the stiches or against, and throw knuckle balls.

On my own, I taught myself how to throw side-armed like fucking Kent Tekulve.

It was epic!

I had found something I was actually good at.

The Cubs wound up having a good season.  I think we were runner-up to the champs, something I would not have expected at the beginning of the season.

The platoon of George and Zoomie was a juggernaut, and something I'll always remember and appreciate.  George was almost always the starter, which was fine with me.  He earned that spot.  I was the dependable, rock-solid closer and finisher if George needed help.  I relished my role.

The battery of Zoomie and Eddie was very effective also.  We meshed perfectly.

I even made it to the "All-Star" team that season, and during the All Star game performed a magical bit of base running on an error that resulted in my scoring the tying run that would lead to our eventual victory!  I also pitched an inning, where I caught a line-drive missile that was heading right for my face! I was a goddamn HERO that day.   Jesus H. Christ! Is this some kinda Disney script?

I looked forward to next year, where I would successfully try out for and make it into the Major League!

Things were looking up big time!

Or were they...?

So, I'm in the Majors now.  I'm a stone cold badass, and I know it.  I'm gonna show the world too.

The beginning of the season was a wet one.  It rained that season every day it seemed.  Multiple practices were cancelled, and I was beginning to wonder if the season would ever start.

It got so bad, I ended up waiting for a phone call from coach as to whether or not there'd be a practice day.

Coaches name was Mr. Crowe.  I hadn't formed much of an opinion on the man yet, because I hadn't seen much of him due to the bad weather.

Mr. Crowe may have had a communication problem, or, I got tired of waiting around to find out if we were having practice or not, so I found something else to do.

Maybe I missed a call. I don't know.

What I DO know is one day I called HIM, and asked when the next practice was.

His reply, "You don't need to worry about practice.  There won't be any practice for you."

I said, "Why is that?  Is the ball field still soggy?

He replied, "No.  You've missed too many practices.  You're off the team."

I was destroyed. What-the-actual-fuck?

I informed Dad of the situation.

I had absolutely no idea what happened next would transpire.

Seems Pops went to pay Mr. Crowe a little visit shortly thereafter.

I don't know if it was during a game or practice, but from the number of witnesses, it was probably during a game!

I have no idea what words were spoken.

All I know is words were exchanged, voices were raised, and it became physical.

Pushin', shoovin', punchin', wrasslin'...who the fuck knows.

Pops was a big guy...6'6" 2fiddy, Mr. Crowe was punchin' WAY above his weight class.

I don't know who won or lost.  I don't know if they had to be pulled apart.  I don't know if the police were called.  I know none of it.  I wasn't there, sadly!

The only thing I knew was that my promising baseball career was finished.

I would never play in an organized game again. 

I was proud, embarrassed, disappointed, and puzzled all at the same time.

Mr. Crowe had a son. I'll call him David.  He was a year younger than me, I didn't know him real well, and I recall him as being a decent fellow.

David and I discussed the incident briefly in high school, I think.  I recall the discussion as being good natured and humorous, "Your old man was nucking futs," he said.

Yes, I know.

Isn't it wonderful?

Watch Your Language!

Language and the way people talk has always fascinated me. 

Phrasing, tone, rhythm, slang, regional dialects...I'm there for all of it. 

When I was about 12, the family took a road trip from Indy to Alabama to visit my doctor uncle. 

We stopped in Atlanta for a Six Flags amusement park break, where I had my first encounter with a true southern girl. 

She was about my age, pretty as a picture, and the southern accent was so sweet and endearing. 

Georgia peach indeed! 

She melted my heart, and I was in love immediately. 

The words, "damn yankee," or "well...bless your little ol' heart" never left her lips. 

I just know she made a permanent impression. 

###

When my son moved to Utah, somebody asked him what part of the south he was from. 

Stoopid Mormons, that's a Hoosier twang you're hearing! 

###

The Marine Corps exposed me to it all...a TRUE melting pot. 

East coast tuffs, the deep rebel south, Texans, upper mid-west (think the movie Fargo), southwest and west coast Hispanics, west coast surfer dudes and the "Valley Girl" scene. 

It was marvelous. 

With Marines, there was no racism. We were brothers. 

Some of us were light green, some of us were dark green, and we'd all take a bullet for the other. 

There were exceptions, but they were rare. 

We could freely joke about racial issues, and nobody got butt-hurt. 

That's the way it should be.

### 

A few days ago at the office at work, I noticed one of the new young office ladies trying to converse with a Hispanic warehouse worker who obviously English was her second language. 

When they concluded their conversation I asked the office girl, "Don't you sprechen sie Espanol?" 

I'm a laff riot. 

She said that she was not fluent. 

I replied, "That surprises me, what with the obvious Spanish lilt to your speaking voice." 

She replied that she was sorry. 

I was flabbergasted and said, "No need to be sorry. It's not like you sound like Cheech and Chong. I like your voice. It's cool." 

Am I a smoove operator or what? 

She's younger than my kids. 

Get your mind outta the gutter.

SkyNet Ai Goons To Kill Us All ! : Bring It, Punks!

I heard about this story on the news today.

SkyNet goon should remember my offspring.

One son is a Purdue computer engineer.

Another son is a Purdue systems installer/operator/troubleshooter dude. (that's technical lingo, TYVM)

Daughter-in-law is also a Purdue IT guru, I think doing the same or similar thing.

Hail Purdue!

Also keep in mind my older brother. 

He was a "computer operator back when 200mb hard drives were as big as washing machines."  

He then moved into programming.  

Then he became a systems analyst. 

He was also a senior Oracle developer. 

My uncle was a commissioned Army intelligence officer during the Vietnam war, and served in-country interpreting aerial recon photos for ground target acquisition.  

He later went to IBM, back when magnetic tape and punch cards were the rage, and did sales/support for them. 

Uncle later worked with a friend at an IT consulting firm. 

He is still alive. 

You have been warned, SkyNet Ai scum! 

Now, some of you might be saying, "Zoomie!  Three generations of geniuses!  All of that and...WTF happened to you? You get dropped on your head as a baby?" 

Yes, I'm the dumb one in the family.

###

My Utah son and his longtime girlfriend were home for a visit about a month ago. 

She's a peach.

Her father is from Belgium, and I bet she gets tired of me talking about how Belgium used to be a short-cut for angry Germans as they traveled to and from France back in olden times.

I asked her how all that went for her father and his family back then.

Apparently, not so good.  

If the angry Germans weren't blowing Belgium to pieces whilst on holiday, the Allies were in order to save it.

Anyhoo...She also works with my son in IT at a company that does a lot of classified military shit. 

He writes the code, and she tests it. 

How cozy. 

During a meal, she was trying to explain her job to me and some of the aspects of it that frustrate her. 

Not that what she was saying was boring, but it was like a calculus problem to me. 

I could feel my eyes glaze over and my brain start to ooze outta my ears. 

When she finished her story, I said, "I fix systems also. I repaired a leaking kitchen sink drain last week!"

Some Memorable Literary Influences, Teachers, and Blue Balls

The first writer to really grab my attention as a punk kid had to be Jack London. 

To Build a Fire was my fave. 

I mean, godddamn motherfucker...gut your fucking dog and slide your hands into his entrails to keep your hands from frostbite? Fuck me, I'm in. 

It was required reading! Probably somewhere at 6th thru 8th grade...it had to be before high school. 

I adored the story. What a piece of story telling. 

Man against nature? You bet your ass.

Heavy snowstorms don't necessarily scare me. It's more like, "Oh...is this what you're gonna do? Ok, give it your best shot. Let's see if you can kill me." 

English/Literature class was the only time I paid attention.

###

Everybody in my peer group (Grade school thru high school) gushed about Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. 

It wasn't assigned reading, (it may have been banned. It was in many school systems) but something that was searched out independently. 

I read it, but it didn't really affect me too much...other than blue balls! 

I was like "Goddamn, fuck her already!" 

###

I hung out with an eclectic buncha punks, yes, and, looking back, the Speedway School system on the west side of Indy was pretty fucking good at the time.

Hippie/alternative/"subversive" culture was still influential enough. 

My buddies were readers and experimenters, and would bounce material off one another. 

I was actually called a "BOOK FAG" by a bully who was trying to intimidate me during a test because I wouldn't let him cheat off of me! 

This was high school, and a buddy and I used the term BOOK FAG for years.

###

The Lord of the Rings? 

God knows I tried. 

I slogged thru 3/4 of it and had to finally bail. 

Talk about ponderous. 

To this day, fantasy bullshit with dragons and runes and all that evoke instant audible eyerolls. Nothing could be worse, and I'd rather pierce both of my eyes with white-hot ice picks. 

My sons got into the online games RuneScape and League of Legends. 

Fuck... what am I saying? They still fucking play that shit! Even my daughter in law. For years I've teasingly called Runescape "GeekScape.," and League of Legends "League of Queers." 

Talk about full circle...

###

Summer of '42...I think I read the book first. 

My initial take? Thank God somebody's fucking! 

But goddamn that book was erotic...without being pornographic. 

The dalliances between his buddies and local girls were cheap and tawdry, but the hookup with he and the new war widow was another thing entirely. 

A fling can be awesome, and the melancholy in this story is palpable. 

###

Go Ask Alice. 

Goddamn, talk about a string of horribly bad personal choices...and their consequences. 

Almost made me swear off substance abuse. 

Almost, but I never got into hard drugs thankfully. Alcohol and weed was all. 

Maybe this book had something to do with that.

###

Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis (Die Verwandlung) 

Ok...cool story. 

A guy turns into a huge cockroach. I'm all in. 

Problem was, I had to read it...IN GERMAN! 

I took four years of German in high school. 

We had to pick a German name in class for discussions. 

I picked Erwin...as in Erwin Rommel! I admired the guy. Sue me. Rommel's story is epic and melancholy too. 

Anyhoo...four years, and I could understand about every 5th to 8th word in the book. 

Not helpful....but it wasn't the instructor's fault. He did all he could do. 

The book's premise was cool. I wonder how it ended? I never bothered to read an English translation. 

Maybe I should do that. 

My instructor was epic. His name was Herr Roe, and he didn't suffer fools. 

He despised half-assed efforts and laziness, and the derision wasn't hidden. It wasn't hateful though, more like pity. 

He was a little skinny guy, and would wear traditional lederhosen for Octoberfest! Motherfucker looked like Himmler! 

He was one instructor much of the masses hated, therefore I loved him. 

My little sister and I shared the same class my senior year, and he enjoyed pitting her against me. 

My sister's German name was Gabbi. 

Herr Roe took great joy on the rare occasions when I bested Gabbi in a test score. He'd announce that shit to the class! 

My senior year, I had the option to not take his course, but I did. 

Herr Roe I think knew I struggled academically, but I think he saw something else in me. 

In my senior yearbook, there is a page dedicated to him and his years of service. 

On this page, talks about what made his career so special. 

He mentions an unnamed student who persevered and struggled, but still took his class when he wasn't required to. 

That HAD to be me. Made me kinda proud. 

A few years later when I was looking to enlist into the Marines, I was required to gather up written references from people who knew me. 

Herr Roe was one of the first I went to visit. 

We met at the high school in the same classroom we spent four years together. 

He seemed genuinely pleased to see me, if not a little surprised that I was trying to join the Marine Corps. 

I'm sure I didn't bring up the yearbook article. I didn't need to. He knew, and I knew. 

He wrote a nice reference, we said our goodbyes, and I never saw him again.

Indiana University Bloomington Circa 1982: My Second Year Room Mate

Another IU story. My roommate the second year. His name was Randy, and he was from Evansville Indiana. 

We had set up the 2nd year roommate situation at the end of the first year. The first year in the dorm was when I met him, and we both had roommates that first year that weren't good matches.

Randy and I were GREAT matches. Studying was secondary. Partying like mad dogs came first. Our musical tastes were very similar too, which was of paramount importance. 

Anyoo...Randy was a little rough around the edges, which was fine, but he had a heart of gold.

What he didn't have, was two hands! I can't remember which one was missing, but it was gone...and it departed the end of his arm in the most gruesome and traumatic of fashions.

Evansville, where he grew up and his folks still lived, is coal mining country.

Seems one fine day in his youth, he found what was either blasting caps or some other explosive used for coal mining...just laying around waiting for some poor, dumb, unsuspecting bastard to pick it up and fuck around with it. 

Randy was that poor dumb bastard. 

His hand was gone at the wrist. 

He had two prosthetic attachments he could use. 

One was a double-hook type thing with pincers that he could manipulate by flexing his shoulder. 

The other was some kinda fake, plastic, flesh colored bullshit that looked like his lower arm and hand. 

He usually wore the hook thing. 

The other thing was for dressing up, formal pictures, etc. 

He was skilled in the use of the hook. It attached to his body via a couple of straps, similar to how a handgun shoulder holster fits onto one's body.

He could tie his shoes, use buttons effectively, drive...pretty much everything a two handed dude can do, Randy could do too. 

There was one thing Randy could do that I couldn't. 

He could detach his hook from his arm, expertly insert a joint between the tips of his hooks, and pass a joint around! 

Motherfucker! I loved this guy! A built-in roach clip! Genius! 

He did so at an Aerosmith concert at Market Square Arena. 

The people around us lost their shit. It was spectacular!

Randy could also open beer bottles with his hook, but...of course he could! 

I invited him back to Indy for a weekend to spend time at my folks house. 

He invited me to Evansville to do the same. 

He was a perfect guest and host. 

My father REALLY liked him. 

My father was basically handicapped after getting his legs crushed by a car as a youth, but he never let it stop him from doing incredible shit. 

I'm guessing Dad saw some of himself in Randy, and respected him for it. 

By the end of my first semester second year, I was beginning to realize that Bloomington specifically, and university, in general, were not the place for me...and were a colossal waste of time and money. 

I would leave IU/Bloomington and Randy for the satellite campus in Indy for one more semester. 

Then I would bailout and surrender. 

I was a college dropout, and I was so proud. 

I never saw or heard from Randy again.

Indiana University Bloomington Journalism School Circa 1982: It Was Not Meant To Be, And A Brief Visit To The Campus And Town 44 Years Later

My writing style, my dabbling in university, the "professors." (gag) 

I couldn't count how many times I had red ink on my essays/assignments saying shit basically like, "WTF is this? Why is this here? Irrelevant." 

Fuck off, cunt. It's there because I put it there. Die already. 

One time a prof was reading out loud one of my screeds to the entire class. She didn't identify the author (me), but she slogged thru the first few pages, stopped, and said to the class, "Does anybody in the room wanna hear anymore of this?" 

In other words, "This shit is ponderous, man. Ponderous!  Somebody rescue me from this lunatic and his bullshit before I eat a shotgun!"

I'll admit it was the text of an interview I did with another student who rambled on for hours about how the fraternity system sucked because he couldn't get into it. 

I'll also admit I was instigating some shit about a system I thought was stupid...Greek life, but dammit, the assignment was to interview and report. That's what I did, so fuck off bitch.

I'll finally also admit that I was getting tired of hearing my own boring bullshit.  It was fucking embarrassing how bad it was!

Uni and I didn't coexist very well.

###  

 

The journalism school at Indiana University Bloomington is named Ernie Pyle Hall.

Ernie Pyle was one of my father's heroes, and my father's style with the Vietnam dispatches were very similar to Pyle's. 

I knew who Pyle was back in the early 80s when I was at IU. He was a hero of mine as well. 

Pyle probably would have hated what the profs in that building are regurgitating currently. 

God only knows what that journo school is like now. 

It's probably a horror.

What the fuck am I talking about?

I know exactly what it's like now.  I've seen and heard what they do. It's a train wreck of supersensitive PC bullshit, and it ain't for me. 

I recently visited Bloomington during the "off season"...the summer...when classes are not in session. It's much different than I remember from the 80s. 

Claustrophobic, dirty greasy streets and sidewalks, panhandlers, crackheads, homeless bums everywhere. 

The entire experience was. "Ick. Get me the fuck outta this shithole."

Socialism.

Catch it...and some kinda horrifying, debilitating disease in the process.

###

Kirk

Another IU journo story...still interviewing a student, but this essay got overall favorable responses from the prof. 

I lived in a dorm.  

The RA, resident assistant, was an older student who was supposed to guide us younger idiots and keep us from burning the place down. 

I'll call my interview subject Kirk. He seemed like a cool cat, so I chose him as my next victim. 

Kirk was from Louisville Kentucky, and he adored absolutely EVERYTHING about Louisville...especially the University of Louisville athletics program...football and basketball. 

I thought it a tad strange that a guy attending Indiana University was such Louisville fan. 

It became so prominent that I teased him constantly about Ewe uv Ell (U of L). 

He knew I was fucking with him, and he seemed to like it. 

Anyhoo...I interviewed him in his dorm room. 

RA's got the privilege of not having to share a room, so everything in that room was his, and his alone. 

Hell, I was sharing a room with another dude, and I brought 2 vehicles...a full sized van and a station wagon...completely stuffed with useless bullshit that would contribute exactly nothing to further my education. 

Kirk was a different story. 

He had his university-supplied bed, a couple of plastic milk crates filled with personal possessions, and a crappy stereo system that one could have packed into a footlocker. 

I noted all of this in my essay, and said that Kirk could be packed up and gone from the place in 5 minutes...and nobody would have known he was ever there. 

The prof who graded it complimented me on my powers of observation, and that the fact that Kirk could have easily left the place without much effort was an interesting aside. 

I didn't tell the bitch that we were smoking joints during the entire interview, and that Kirk turned me on to Tom Petty's debut album. 

I think of Kirk every time I hear a cut from that LP. 

I recorded my interviews on a portable cassette player. 

I distinctly remember my exact words as this interview ended. 

"Great! Now let's get high!"

24 Hours At A Time

Trucker Bomb

Sing