Elements of MY Style

The following are people, TV shows, publications, and other media, some famous, some not so, who influenced my writing style and demented sense of humor.  I've listed them in some sort of chronological order.

Maybe.

1-My family, especially my father 

The sarcasm would drip from his lips, and could destroy you.

He died in 2002. 

A few years after that was when I started pouring over his body of work. 

The photos were easy. 

Reading all the printed material, both published, unpublished, and rough-drafts, took a considerable amount of time. 

There were/are mountains of it dating back to 1958 when he started his career with the now defunct Indianapolis Times. 

His investigative reporting was good, and he won several awards for it. 

It was his human interest stuff, some of it never published, that got my attention.

His mother, my grandmother. 

She had a subtle way of insulting people. 

Years ago, there was a race driver named Steve Krisiloff. He was NOT attractive. He looked like Alfred E. Neuman from Mad Magazine. 

One day she said, "He's unfortunate-looking." A family legend was born that day.

2-1960s and 70s Mad Magazine 

Everybody read it, even Mom and Dad. 

My favorite cartoonist at Mad was Al Jaffee. 

He would insert tiny (often delightfully gross) details into a panel that one would have to look for...and then you'd shit your pants laughing. 

Mad would also put tiny Jaffee vignettes in the margins of a page and BETWEEN panels. 

If he wanted to depict someone or something barfing, the vomit would contain complete chicken bones, eyeballs, insects, veins and arteries. You get the picture. 

Perfect content for juvenile boy with juvenile tastes and interests. 

One of my faves was a piece called, "A photo of a jackal retching." It still makes me piss myself. 

The vomit is pouring outta the poor sick animal and hitting the ground. 

On the ground is a small animal...maybe a mouse...running thru the stream of puke using a leaf as an umbrella. 

Now that's attention to detail I can admire! 

If he was depicting a drunken dirty slob, there would be several flies buzzing around his head. 

My buddies and I folded up with laughter about this shit even during our high school days, which at the time Mad Magazine was a shadow of its former self. 

If you look at my blog's right hand panel...up at the top is an ode to Mad. "Our Price 50 cents. Cheap" 

Mad did that on their front cover where the price tag was.  

Another thing about Mad. It was an introduction to political satire, current events, and pop culture...even though I didn't understand much of it at the time. 

Vietnam, Nixon and politicians, hippies and protests, race relations and civil rights, recreational drug use, women's rights, the sexual revolution, current cinema. 

Big stuff for a kid to digest.

3-National Lampoon

...the magazine, not the movies...but the movies came much later and were definitely a part of my development too. 

The magazine itself was like Mad all grown up and at college. Party like a frat boy, and nothing's scared. 

The throwback parody of a typical edition of a Sunday newspaper was legend with my older brother and I. 

We both delivered newspapers as kids, so we knew all about the extra heavy Sunday edition with all its extra content and advertising. 

Lampoon's version was exactly the same, but with a more mature version of Mad Magazine treatment to every page. 

A few years ago, my brother found a complete original version of it online in pristine condition and bought it. 

Youdda thunk he'd discovered the Rosetta Stone with his excitement!

4-Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In

...a weekly TV comedy show. Like Mad Magazine on TV, but a little bit more mature. 

Politics, pop culture, sex, current events. 

The entire family would gather and watch it. 

Again...I didn't understand a lot of it, but I knew that for some reason Goldie Hawn's writhing, painted, bikini clad visage was something special!

5-The Tonight Show/Johnny Carson

As we got older, we (my brother and I specifically) were allowed to stay up later. 

I enjoyed the standup comedians the most. 

Sometimes if it got too late on a school night and we couldn't afford to lose so much sleep, my brother and I would set up a tape recorder next to the TV speaker and record the audio for later. 

I can remember my father saying he hated Don Rickles, which I found particularly odd coming from him. 

 I LOVED Rickles! What a talent. 

He destroyed people, but I knew he wasn't serious. 

I think there was a lot of love in Don Rickles people didn't see.

6-Monty Python's Flying Circus 

My father's mother, previously mentioned, watched A LOT of PBS. 

I generally found PBS to be stuffy, sterile, and mind-numbingly boring....Something only nerds and people who think they are smarter and better than the unwashed masses consume. 

Then I discovered these absurd Brits and a different, foreign worldview. 

My dad howled with laughter. Mom love it too. 

I don't recall my sisters taking to it like my brother and I did. 

My brother and I had a couple of their 33 1/3 record albums, and we could recite the bits by heart! 

ONE particular bit, amongst many, has been part of my repertoire for decades. 

In the original bit, a couple meets another couple for the first time. 

After knocking and being welcomed in, the homeowner's wife (actually a man in drag) greets the new visitors and says, "I'd shake hands, but I've just wiped lard on the cat's boil."

Motherfucker! 

I use that same line all the time when I'm taking part in a family cookout/gathering, and I'm handling the food!  

Python's movies were great also. The Life Of Brian. The Holy Grail. The Meaning of Life. All gut busters, and provided countless one liners for a lifetime.

7-Firesign Theater

Not sure how my brother got exposed to this, but glad he did. 

Also a source of many one-liners, and also content I didn't fully understand.

It has been said that Firesign Theater is best enjoyed whilst under the influence of LSD.

I wouldn't know of such matters.

8-Saturday Night Live

...the classic early years cast, Ackroyd, Belushi, Murray... but also including Eddie Murphy, Steve Martin...especially Martin's first two comedy records. 

We memorized these summbitches too! 

Mom and Dad were along for the ride with this one. 

Not so much for Firesign. 

I don't think I could have handled my parents on an acid trip.

9- P.J O'Rourke 

I could have included him with National Lampoon, but I think he deserves his personal place in my history. 

He did the Lampoon thing. 

He did automobiles with Car & Driver magazine. 

He did Rolling Stone magazine. 

I read all of it. 

He wrote "Give War a Chance," which was about his coverage of the Gulf War, which, as you know...I wuz thar. 

Looking back on it now, he may have influenced my decision to leave the Corps. 

I loved his style. 

It was "me"...if I was more intelligent.

10-Bob and Tom

Fucking obvious. 

I grew up in Indy. I was here before them. 

I was here for all of it, even before syndication.  

I wanted to be in radio. I wanted to be a part of B&T. 

I admittedly wasn't good enough. I sounded terrible on-air, and I knew it. 

My forte was production and writing...I could have been of service to them in that aspect, but it never happened. 

I got over it rather quickly, though. 

To me, I always believed the strengths of B&T lay with the producers and bit players...who were oftentimes the same people! 

Bob was goofy, and all he seemingly talked about was tits, beer, the Beatles, and cigarettes. 

Apparently a good man, and obviously there was more to him than that, but he was not especially interesting to me. 

Tom's always been a fucking neurotic basket case...especially now. 

Reportedly very generous, but I'm sure I couldn't have dealt with his many mental quirks, and it might have come to blows between us!

11-Rush Limbaugh

 

I know. 

A completely divisive character. 

Loud. Sure of himself. Obnoxious sometimes. (I don't give a fuck. I loved him.) 

But it ain't braggin' if you can do it. 

Woke me up to conservatism and politics. 

Reported about the early stages of Iraqi tomfoolery in Kuwait with an ominous tone. I just knew it would swallow me up. 

Two of my favorite quotes from him: "Brevity is the soul of wit."-may not have originally been his. I don't know, nor do I care, and I can't be arsed to look it up. 

"Illustrating absurdity by being absurd." -golden

12-Andrew Dice Clay's comedy CD The Diceman Cometh

 

Whilst getting bounced around in a 5-ton (6-wheeled troop-carrying truck) I overheard a small group of Marines discussing a comedian and describing some of his bits. 

I thought, "That sounds like something right up my alley." 

I asked the jarheads who they were talking about, and the rest is history. 

Talk about absurdity. This guy had it all. 

Sexism, racism, homophobia, xenophobia....every gottdamned phobia there was, this guy was sounding off about it and making liberal PC heads explode...all while doing it in an accent/attitude that I have always loved. 

The New York/Jersey/Boston/East Coast/Italian/Jewish/Irish...fuck me...who knows what amalgamation of shit it was. 

I found it gut-bustingly funny and entertaining...But it was all there, and I was gonna consume every fucking drop of it. 

An innocuous, "Hey buddy. Got the time?" 

Got a reply of, "Eh? You can't afford a fucking watch? What do I look like? Big fucking Ben to you? Go fuck yourself. Your mother's a whore did I ever tell you that?" 

I needed oxygen after that.

I have a friend who I met thru work who eventually came to be like a little brother I never had. 

I love this dude. We both had a demented sense of humor. 

Anyhoo, I used Dice one-liners with him all the time. 

When I told him to go fuck himself, he'd reply, "MY mother's a whore.!" 

Turning it around...instead of calling my mother a whore he was calling his OWN mother a whore.

Doing two things at once...avoiding all possibility of offending me (wasn't EVER going to happen), and insulting his own mother, with whom he had a terrible relationship.

13-Robin Miller 

A local racing journalist. 

Worked for the Indianapolis Star newspaper, same as my dad, but I think Dad was on his way out as Robin was on his way in. 

A good friend knew him personally very well. 

I asked him to ask Robin if he knew my dad. I never heard back about the subject, so I don't know. 

What I DO know is that I was EXTREMELY jealous of my friend's relationship with Robin, but I didn't try to force my way into it. 

They would meet up with absolute, bona fide racing legends at a local diner that sat in the shadows of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and have epic bench racing sessions. 

I desperately wanted into that circle but it never happened...maybe because I didn't push the issue like a fangurl asshole about with my friend. 

 Anyhoo...Robin was a hardcore CART guy, and he wasn't afraid of saying it. 

Most of the IRL folks hated Robin with a passion. 

I didn't care for him at the time, but I appreciated his style. 

As the years went on Robin did a lot of TV work also. 

When the two series merged, Robin was still reporting and commenting. 

As he got older, he became a fixture in the IndyCar paddock, embraced the series, drivers and fans, and everybody, including me, came to love him. 

His death in 2021 rocked the racing community, and left a huge hole that, to this day, hasn't been filled. 

I wish I could have met him.

 

 

I Want To Fly Jets! Really? My Grandmama Wants To Fly Jets Too!

 

Another IU story, but this time with a little different twist.

Ever since I can remember, I have been fascinated with flying, and I thought being a fighter pilot was just about the bestest thing a guy could do.

The idea of being blown to pieces by a SAM (surface-to-air missile) never entered my mind.

Gregory "Pappy" Boyington, Richard Bong, Francis "Gabby" Gabreski, and Chuck Yeager were all heroes of mine, and I devoured any material I could find about them and their contemporaries. 

The way things ought to be

Charles Lindberg was on my list as well.

So, second year first semester, while I was at IU/Bloomington, I had the brilliant idea to check out their U.S. Air Force ROTC program.

In order to be a fighter pilot you had to have 20/20 uncorrected vision. This I learned at IU ROTC. 

My eyes were/are fucked. 

I could be a navigator, but hell...with my math aptitude? Forget that. 

I could be a refueling boom operator, but that didn't appeal to me at the time. Glorified gas station attendant. 

In the Marines I could shoot the tits off a mosquito at 500 yards. 

Fuck being a pilot! 

Sorta.

Anyhoo...I took the first year class.  I had no idea what I was getting into.

They gave us uniforms, but not much training on how to wear them, customs and courtesies, etc.

The Marine that I would later become would have been amused and horrified at my ROTC behavior whilst in uniform.

We had a few lessons about Air Force history with an Air Force officer as the instructor, but I remember thinking that I could have given a better lecture.

I also remember thinking, "I shouldn't have smoked that bowl of weed before walking over here from the dorm...in uniform.  I can't handle this shit right now."

An officer/instructor once asked me what was wrong with my eyes.  There was nothing wrong with my eyes, because I hosed them down with Visine before I came into class.  I replied something about allergies or having just left the swimming pool and the chlorine and all...

He knew better I'm sure.

I often blew off a ROTC classes, and when I did show up, I was ordered to write an explanation.

(Ordered is funny because I was not obligated to do shit at this point.  I had signed nothing, and nobody was gonna tell me what to do.  Not even me!)  

I said I was running late and I thought it would be rude to barge in and interrupt the class. 

How thoughtful of me, right?  

It was all bullshit of course.  

The real reason was that I had gotten a snoot-full of beer and weed with my buddies back in the dorm, and I blew ROTC class off.

Now, some of you might be saying at this point, "Gawt Damn Zoomie!  You were a gargantuan fuck-up!  Stoned outta yer mind and yer gonna fly F4s and kill commies for Christ?  Nobody's ever gonna even let you get near a pushback tug.  Kill yourself!"

Guilty as charged!

I took the above picture, in 1982, with the same camera my dad used in Vietnam in 1966, where he took the below picture.  It's probably the same F4!

The occasion was an ROTC "field trip." 

We rode in vans from Bloomington Indiana to Grissom Air Force Base near Peru Indiana. 

Then we hopped on a KC-135 refueling aircraft (think Boeing 707) and headed for March Air Force base in California. 

 

On the way, we refueled the flight of F4s. 

Up to that point, I had NEVER flown in an airplane before!

We arrived at March AFB California, got up close and personal with various mesmerizing aircraft, and then settled in. 

By "settled in" I mean I and few buds got into some cheap government subsidized beer...but nothing crazy or outta hand.

One fine California dusk we were gathered outside the barracks smoking and joking when evening colors was called.

"Evening colors" is when the post flag is lowered and "retreat" is played.

At this time, all persons are required to stop whatever they are doing, stand at attention facing the colors or the bugle music, and render a proper hand salute until the bugle music ends.

We never got the memo, and we continued with our shenanigans during colors, so a salty and attentive staff NCO Airforce bubbuh made sure we got the good news.

IU ROTC was very lax, and they didn't really give much attention to customs and courtesies. 

It was, "Here's a uniform. Wear it." 

Very little practical instruction on how to do anything properly. I guess we were supposed to absorb such knowledge thru osmosis or some shit. 

 

The USMC was wildly different. That shit was pounded into us daily for a solid three months. 

Later as a Marine...whenever I was on a base and colors sounded, I absolutely LOVED rendering the proper respect to the event. 

It was an honor and privilege. The history of it, the folks who served and sacrificed before me all came to mind. 

 

I absolutely DESPISED the Marines who "ducked colors." Those are the shit-birds who would run into a building to avoid having to stand at attention for 30 seconds and salute.

Anyhoo...Even with all this glorious immersion into flying and the Air Force, I was still drinking too much and smoking weed.

I was spiraling outta control.

I said goodbye to ROTC, and dropped out of university. 

I had dead-end, shitty jobs making fuck-all-nuthin' for money.

I was getting depressed, and I felt terrible about myself and my current station in life.

I didn't like what I had become, and it was nobody's fault but mine.

I guess the good thing is that I actually realized all of it, and I knew I had to make some changes.

Drastic changes, or I was gonna end up dead or in jail.

I needed discipline and structure.

So I found myself in a strip mall parking lot that contained a multi-services recruiting center.

"Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines!  What a great place to start!"

I didn't have any idea which branch, and didn't care either.  I just knew I had to go.

I wasn't all gung ho, Semper Fi do or die, goodnight Chesty Puller where ever you are.

I sat in my vehicle for quite some time, then I went in.

I looked at a few brochures of all the branches for a few minutes...and I was being totally ignored by pretty much all of them.

While the Army, Navy, and Airforce recruiters were smoking and joking and jerking off, the only guy who bothered to come out of his office and approach me was a Marine.

His name was Staff Sergeant Stanfield.  

I'll never forget him.

He never lied to me.  He told me it'd be tough, and that it wasn't for everybody.  He didn't make any promises.  He said the change would be forever, and he was right.

I signed on the dotted line.  It was November 1983, and I would ship for boot camp in January 1984.

In the meantime, I had one more wrong mistake to make.

Wearing my old IU ROTC shirt...

When it came time to ship, I wore my IU Air Force ROTC t-shirt to USMC boot camp! 

THAT went over real well. 

I was still a moron at that point.

Now, some of you might be saying, "Zoomie!  You can't POSSIBLY be that stupid!  Please say you're joking and you really didn't do that!"

On the contrary.

I was, and I did!  

I actually gave it some thought. 

I figured it would show them that I was a fellow traveler and supporter of the military. 

That I was on THEIR side, and we could be pals! 

 

About 30 seconds after stepping onto the yellow footprints and seeing that nothing ANY one of us recruits did would stop the coming hell-storm, I was clawing at that goddamn t-shirt with my bare hands trying to rip it apart so it wasn't legible! 

 

Mission failed.

Louis Cameron Gossett Jr. is not amused

Anyhoo...

As the plane rotated and went wheels up from Indy to San Diego, I thought of Led Zeppelin and "Going to California."

Spent my days with a woman unkind,
Smoked my stuff and drank all my wine.

 

Made up my mind to make a new start,
Going To California with an aching in my heart.

 

Someone told me there's a girl out there
With love in her eyes and flowers in her hair.

 

Took my chances on a big jet plane,
Never let them tell you that they're all the same.

 

The sea was red and the sky was grey,
Wondered how tomorrow could ever follow today.

 

The mountains and the canyons started to tremble and shake
As the children of the sun began to awake.

 

Seems that the wrath of the Gods
Got a punch on the nose and it started to flow;
I think I might be sinking.

 

Throw me a line if I reach it in time
I'll meet you up there where the path
Runs straight and high.

 

To find a queen without a king;
They say she plays guitar and cries and sings.
La la la la

 

Ride a white mare in the footsteps of dawn
Tryin' to find a woman who's never, never, never been born.

 

Standing on a hill in my mountain of dreams,
Telling myself it's not as hard, hard, hard as it seems.

Right.

I also thought, "This is my last chance.  If I fail at this, I'm done, and I won't return to Indiana ever again."

Not So Fast Times At Speedway High: Dad Goes Full Beast Mode...Again

It was exactly like this, but completely different.  Maybe.

The year is 1981, I'm a high school senior, and I'm on top of the world! It is my oyster!  I can do anything!  The future's so bright, I need to don a welding helmet!  I'm invincible!

I'm also a virgin. 

Damn. 

Sure, I liked girls. 

Girls are all I ever thought about. But when I was faced with the possibility...nah...pretty positive it woulda been a sure thing...I couldn't do it. 

Sorta.

The plumbing was fine, it was everything else that was fucked up.

In modern parlance, the hardware was good to go, but the software needed some work.

Why? 

I don't think I was ready emotionally or mentally for it. 

My head...the one on my shoulders...would have exploded.

Generally speaking, the following is where I was:

-My mindset was off in La-La Land for sure.

-I have a general WGAF attitude about senior year because I'll have enough credits to graduate, even if I take several blow-off, half-credit classes.

-My main interests my senior year were hanging out with my buddies, beer, weed, rock 'n' roll, kiss a girl if the opportunity arises, and cruising in my bad-ass 1969 Ford Torino station wagon.  

It is called "The Race Car" for obvious reasons.

Heading to Daytona for Spring Break, 1981.

The school swim team I've been on for my fourth year has become a drag, and my performance there has been nothing but lackluster the entire time.  

The only thing I've done that has impressed my head swim coach is to show up for every practice. 

The swim team assistant coach, who is a little weasel, has been workin' my last nerve.

I'll call him Mr. Buckhorn.

Anyhoo...one of my blow-off classes is Stage Craft...which entails much fucking off, cigarette smoking, and occasionally building sets for school plays/dramas/musicals.

My little sister, one year behind me, is in drama club, and she is extremely talented.  She can sing, act, and memorize lines like a pro. 

Unlike me, she's also popular, so there's a possibility of me poaching some of her weird/quirky/cute girlfriends who are also in theater. 

Somehow, my little scheme actually worked, and I attracted the attention of a real-life girl!

I'll call her Fergie. 

Fergie was my FIRST girlfriend.

One of the sets I helped construct for the drama club was covered with various bits of generic graffiti that the audience could see. 

Maybe the set was supposed to be a back alley or something...I don't remember. 

I noticed one of the bits of graffiti was "Fergie + Zoomie." 

How cute is that? 

She must have put that there.

The "Race Car" had bench seats. Most cars back then did. Nothin' better than Fergie sliding over next to me! 

Like the band Cake says, "Stick-shifts and safety belts, and bucket seats have all got to go." 

We dated for quite a while my senior year, and even into my first semester at IU Bloomington and she was a high school senior. 

She was a fine young lady from a good family.

Having Fergie as my first girl friend really made me feel good at the time. I was on cloud nine actually, for quite a while. 

I didn't think it would ever happen. 

"Wow, I have this girl who actually thinks I'm special and worth her attention.  She actually WANTS to be with me, and is enthusiastic about it!" ...a new, strange, and wonderful feeling.

I should have told her then how she made me feel. 

I didn't because I was a clueless, inexperienced kid.

She wasn't just a piece of meat to me. She was special, she was attractive, and I'm pretty sure she wanted to take the relationship further.

Maybe.

I couldn't do it.

She never begged. 

She had too much dignity, and besides, I wasn't THAT good-looking! 

We eventually went our separate ways.

I will always think fondly of her.

###

My little sister, who was close friends with Fergie, told me many years later, "She REALLY liked you." 

I said, "Yeah, I know." 

Sis repeated, "No....I mean she REEEEEAAALLLY liked you!"

Imagine Fergie is Sammy Hagar, and she is singing this to me.  That is precisely how it all played out. Allegedly.

###

So...one fine evening, a buddy from the swim team and I are out cruising in the race car and getting a belly full of beer.

We decide it would be a great idea to pay Mr. Buckhorn a visit at the school auditorium where a school play is being performed.

Mr. Buckhorn is there kinda as a chaperone/security guard to help keep idiots like my buddy and I from getting stupid and ruining everything for everybody.

I have a plan, and if my plan works, I will accomplish absolutely nothing.

I will walk up to Mr. Buckhorn...close enough that he will be able to smell the pungent, vile aroma of stale beer on my breath, and quietly say, "H-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i Mr. Buckhorn.  How are you doing on this fine evening?"

...and that's exactly what I did.

I wasn't loud or disruptive, but I had made my point.

My point was that I was a fucking maroon.

Mr. Buckhorn got the message loud and clear.

The next day I was informed that I would serve a week of in-school detention in a small windowless room with a bored and angry teacher standing guard.

I would only be allowed out of that dungeon for lunch and restroom breaks.

I was also kicked off the swim team.

Nothing happened to the buddy who was with me, because he was smart enough to NOT blow beer breath into a teacher/coach's face.

I informed Dad of the situation.

I had absolutely no idea what happened next would transpire.

Seems Pops went to pay Mr. Buckhorn a little visit shortly thereafter at the high school.

I don't know where the two of them met.  It may have been the school office, the pool, the hallway, Mr. Buckhorn's classroom...who knows? 

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'...hilarity ensued just like it did almost ten years prior with the infamous baseball incident, and I wasn't there.

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.

Jesus H. Christ, Pops.  Enough.

Thanks, but you can stop doing that for me, Dad.  I don't need it done, OK?

I really didn't care about getting thrown off the team, except for the fact I would not be able to earn my "Varsity Letter."  For some reason, that mattered to me.

Oh well.  I got over it.

Not having to muck around with swimming meant I basically didn't have to do shit the rest of the year.

It was liberating...like a weight had been lifted.

Sour grapes?

Who's to say?

Certainly not me.

I didn't hold a grudge against Mr. Buckhorn.  He was doing his job.

In fact, I encountered him having car trouble on the roadside a few months later, and I helped him.

I told him then that I had no animosity towards him, and that he did what he was supposed to do...help maintain order at the school.

###

I was spinning my wheels in a quagmire of beer and weed, making a mess, and going nowhere fast.

I had no earthly idea what I wanted to do after high school.

I didn't have any passion about attending university, but many of my friends were going to IU Bloomington.

At the last minute, I decided to do the same.  I sent in my application very near the deadline, and I was surprisingly accepted.

I was a fucking sheep and following my buddies, but what the hell else was I gonna do?

Join the fucking Marine Corps?

Please...

The Tunnel and the Beat Down

Here's another anecdote about may father and his youngest brother, and it is family legend.

I'll call my uncle, Paul.  (He was in on IT when it was in its infancy, and also the guy who gifted me the M1 Garand rifle.)  

Obviously, dad was a scrapper. 

A newspaperman like in the movies. Sorta. 

Smokin', drinkin', carryin' a piece sometimes...think Mickey Spillane/Mike Hammer. 

Anyhoo...Uncle Paul was an IT guy, yes, but he wasn't some puny, douchebag nerd with a pocket protector and a slide rule. 

He was dad's size, but in better overall physical condition due to his having two legs that hadn't been turned into mincemeat as a child. 

Smart as a whip AND physically powerful.

And yes...Uncle Paul was a scrapper too! 

So one day the two of them went to a motor car race. 

I think it was the Hoosier Hundred champ dirt car race at the Indiana State Fairgrounds in Indy, and I'm not certain, but we'll roll with that. 

The track at the fairgrounds was a one mile dirt oval horse racing track used for auto racing also. 

Apparently, Dad and Uncle Paul consumed copious amounts of alcohol during the race. 

After the race, they were walking thru a pedestrian-only tunnel that went under the track and allowed fans on foot to go to and from the infield and the outside grandstand area. 

Well, seems as if one unknown dumbass decided he'd take his car thru this crowded tunnel, and may have slightly bumped my father or my uncle. 

I'm not certain of some details, but I figure in my dad's mind he was not going to get hit by a car again, and now was just about as good a time as any to get some delayed payback for the traumatic injuries he suffered as a kid. 

Either my dad or Uncle Paul physically pulled the driver outta the car, and may or may not have administered a beat down. 

Allegedly.

The other brother went over to the passenger side of the car, and was about to serve out similar justice to the passenger! 

When it was discovered that the passenger was a female, that plan stopped. 

I don't think they got arrested, and I like to think they both got a round of applause from the other folks in that tunnel. 

When they got home, dad was really fucked up, Uncle Paul less so. 

I couldn't have been more 6-7-8 years old at the time, and I didn't quite understand what was going on when Uncle Paul helped dad up the stairs and put his drunk ass in bed. 

It was the first time I'd ever seen my old man totally wasted, and it would be the last. 

Kinda harkens back to me falling face first into my plate of spaghetti in front of my kids. That shit never happened again either. 

Now, some of you people might be saying, "Zoomie! Your dad (and maybe Uncle Paul) was a drunk, abusive bastard with anger issues!" 

Meh...

I don't think so. 

Who's to say?

Certainly not me.