I’d say I pull of wearing my Converse Chuck Taylor’s with any attire. I’ve worn them for work and play, with casual clothes and in suits. They are my go-to shoes for whatever I am doing. However I recall one time in my life when my Converse shoes just didn’t work with what I was wearing.
When I was stationed at Kings Bay, Georgia I had my own dorm room but I had to share the bathroom with my neighbor, it’s called having a suitemate. You just had to remember your key when you went to the bathroom because the door to the room locked when it was closed.
I never walked into the bathroom barefoot, the thought was just disgusting to me. When I had to shower I wore a pair of bathroom sandals I had, but when I was just using the bathroom I would just throw on whatever pair of shoes I had close to the door.
One day when I got off work, I changed into my usual evening apparel, no shirt and just my boxers. June’s a hot month in Georgia; I did whatever I could to keep cool. When nature called I grabbed my phone, because it’s boring in the bathroom, and threw on my pair of Chuck’s sitting by the door.
After I finished my business in the bathroom and reached for my key, I realized I had forgotten the essential tool for opening my door. Wearing only my boxers and a red pair of Converse shoes I realized I was in trouble.
I sent a mass text to a few of my friends letting them know I needed help. All I got back was “working midnight tonight, sorry.” Great I thought.
I had one other person I could call, my corporal, who happened to be my direct marine supervisor in the office I worked in.
I stared at his number in my phone for a good minute before I made the call. I had only been working in marine training office for a little over a week and didn’t want them to think this would be a regular occurrence. Still, I was in trouble and I knew marines had to help marines… I just hoped that rule carried over to a sailor working for the marines.
He answered his phone on the second ring, what an obedient marine. “Hey, what’s up” he said. “Heeyy” I said back, I wasn’t sure if I should make small talk before I asked him if he could get me someone to open my door for me. “I need a little help if you don’t mind” I said, “I’m stuck in my bathroom naked and without my room key.”
“Hahahahahaha” was all I heard back, “what do you want me to do?” he said. I asked if he could get a copy of me key but he told me only I would be able to do that with an I.D. So he said he’d bring me some clothes I could wear and head over to the building that managed the dorms.
When I heard him knock on my door I quickly opened it only to be greeted with a flash from a camera phone and laughter.
The next day at work my mishap was the talk of the office and became the running joke of the training department. When I look back on it, the whole thing was funny and a story I frequently tell. I always say I’m just glad I decided to keep my boxers on that day.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Pooping Rainbows in my Chucks
“Everything works out in the end.” I have lived the most recent part of my life by this statement. In the past I had been a very stress-filled person. I worried about the little things and tried to change the past. I learned that worrying about the stuff I had no control of only made me feel strained. So I began living life by doing what I could to make situations better and letting go of the parts of life I had no control over.
A few of my friends and I took a trip to Chicago this past winter. It was a couple’s date. Juan and Jordan, Steff and Ryne and Emmagizer and I, went to the Shedd Aquarium. We stood in line outside in the cold for almost an hour before we made it though the doors of the aquatic museum. After purchasing our tickets the three couples explored the grounds of the Shedd.
We were having a hoot as we walked around the aquarium. We were like children on a fieldtrip as the six of us learned about fish, turtles, sharks, dolphins, whales, stingrays, and my personal favorite, the otters.
Before the gang left the museum, we visited the gift shop, not to purchase anything but to take ridiculous pictures of the toys, hats and clothing the Shedd Aquarium offers.
As we all left the museum, two of the members of our entourage were worried that they would not make it to the train before it left Chicago. Which would cause the four people who took the train two extra hours to get home.
I was leading the group through the streets of Chicago and I may have made one or two wrong turns in the process. However I remained confident that everything would be okay and the train would be there when the four group members got to the train station.
My optimism was not shared with the rest of the group. Jordan yelled at me to “stop pooping rainbows because everything was not going to be okay.” Emmagizer and Juan agreed that it would all be all right, but as we walked, we hit a dead-end. I had the feeling in my stomach that we were lost but in the distance I saw a police car. The other members of the group were all afraid to approach the car but I said that the officer would know how to get to the train station. I asked the policeman if he could give my friends a ride to the train station and he agreed.
There was only enough room in the squad car for four people so Emmagizer and I walked back to Michigan Ave. The two ladies who were frustrated that they would be late to catch their train suddenly seemed to feel bad that Emmagizer and I were going to walk to the Magnificent Mile alone.
The night ended up quite well. Emmagizer and I had a wonderful dinner at California Pizza Kitchen and when I texted the group to see if they made on the train they said they did, with three minutes to spare. It just goes to show you that it’s sometimes okay to poop rainbows because everything has a way of working itself out.
A few of my friends and I took a trip to Chicago this past winter. It was a couple’s date. Juan and Jordan, Steff and Ryne and Emmagizer and I, went to the Shedd Aquarium. We stood in line outside in the cold for almost an hour before we made it though the doors of the aquatic museum. After purchasing our tickets the three couples explored the grounds of the Shedd.
We were having a hoot as we walked around the aquarium. We were like children on a fieldtrip as the six of us learned about fish, turtles, sharks, dolphins, whales, stingrays, and my personal favorite, the otters.
Before the gang left the museum, we visited the gift shop, not to purchase anything but to take ridiculous pictures of the toys, hats and clothing the Shedd Aquarium offers.
As we all left the museum, two of the members of our entourage were worried that they would not make it to the train before it left Chicago. Which would cause the four people who took the train two extra hours to get home.
I was leading the group through the streets of Chicago and I may have made one or two wrong turns in the process. However I remained confident that everything would be okay and the train would be there when the four group members got to the train station.
My optimism was not shared with the rest of the group. Jordan yelled at me to “stop pooping rainbows because everything was not going to be okay.” Emmagizer and Juan agreed that it would all be all right, but as we walked, we hit a dead-end. I had the feeling in my stomach that we were lost but in the distance I saw a police car. The other members of the group were all afraid to approach the car but I said that the officer would know how to get to the train station. I asked the policeman if he could give my friends a ride to the train station and he agreed.
There was only enough room in the squad car for four people so Emmagizer and I walked back to Michigan Ave. The two ladies who were frustrated that they would be late to catch their train suddenly seemed to feel bad that Emmagizer and I were going to walk to the Magnificent Mile alone.
The night ended up quite well. Emmagizer and I had a wonderful dinner at California Pizza Kitchen and when I texted the group to see if they made on the train they said they did, with three minutes to spare. It just goes to show you that it’s sometimes okay to poop rainbows because everything has a way of working itself out.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Chuck, Let’s Get Kicked Outta Applebee’s
In the movie Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby, Will Ferrell character Ricky Bobby makes the comment, “let’s go get kicked outta Applebee’s” referencing a previous scene where his family get’s kicked out of an Applebee’s.
In real life, my good friend Phil and I decided to take a trip of our own to Applebee’s. As we walked through the doors of the restaurant in Joliet, I said, “let’s go get kicked outta Applebee’s” not knowing how true this statement would soon be.
Phil and I sat at our table drinking a bucket of Bud Light having a peaceful evening together. Phil began to get a little tipsy and decided to crush a piece of ice in-between two bottle caps. As quickly as the thought “crushing the ice is not a good thing to do” passed through my head: the ice cube shot out of the two bottle caps like a bullet.
From the table behind me I heard a lady, and I use that term loosely, screamed, “Are you f@#king serious?” I turned around out of curiosity to find two heifers, disguised as women, and a man, who must have been the herdsman. Needless to say, it was a rather large table.
The piece of ice landed on one of the cows plates and she looked at Phil and me and said, “do you think this is funny, my meal is ruined.” I quickly apologized and said it was an accident. She mooed back with, “I don’t care, and my meal is ruined!”
Now I’ve been known to instigate situations on occasion. In this instance, I noticed that she had eaten her entire meal with the exception of a few vegetables, go figure. So I said to the angry livestock, “Your meal is only ruined because you ate the whole thing, stop trying to get a free meal.”
At this point the muscular herder stepped between his herd and said, “you know, we came here for a nice meal and you two assholes ruined it.” At this point Phil kept hiding his chuckles behind his napkin and was no use to me in verbally combating these animals. I also couldn’t get passed the idea that although Applebee’s has decent food, it wasn’t as outstanding as the cow farmer was making it seem. So I said to the herdsman, “really? You wanted a nice meal and you came to Applebee’s?”
This wrangler was not appreciating my humor and the cows were getting increasing angrier, I assumed because they hadn’t eaten in roughly ten minutes. At this point the manager of Applebee’s had moseyed over to our two tables to try and calm the situation. Before anything got out of hand Phil and I agreed to move to a different location of the restaurant.
The rest of our evening was uneventful until the cattle driver and his cattle decided to head off into the sunset. As they left the gaucho carried a glass of water, walked up to Phil and as he dumped it on Phil’s lap he said, “take that!” Phil through the cup at the rancho’s back but he kept walking. Good thing too because he couldn’t have beaten us pretty badly. I joked with Phil about how I liked that the farmhand said, “take that” as he left. We joked about how the guy had so much time to come up with a cheeky quote and landed with, “take that.” Honestly saying, “enjoy your bath,” “cool off,” or even “here’s your ice back” would have been so much better.
The whole experience was is a story Phil and I continue to tell. I’m mostly just glad it didn’t end with me getting my ass kicked in my Converse shoes.
In real life, my good friend Phil and I decided to take a trip of our own to Applebee’s. As we walked through the doors of the restaurant in Joliet, I said, “let’s go get kicked outta Applebee’s” not knowing how true this statement would soon be.
Phil and I sat at our table drinking a bucket of Bud Light having a peaceful evening together. Phil began to get a little tipsy and decided to crush a piece of ice in-between two bottle caps. As quickly as the thought “crushing the ice is not a good thing to do” passed through my head: the ice cube shot out of the two bottle caps like a bullet.
From the table behind me I heard a lady, and I use that term loosely, screamed, “Are you f@#king serious?” I turned around out of curiosity to find two heifers, disguised as women, and a man, who must have been the herdsman. Needless to say, it was a rather large table.
The piece of ice landed on one of the cows plates and she looked at Phil and me and said, “do you think this is funny, my meal is ruined.” I quickly apologized and said it was an accident. She mooed back with, “I don’t care, and my meal is ruined!”
Now I’ve been known to instigate situations on occasion. In this instance, I noticed that she had eaten her entire meal with the exception of a few vegetables, go figure. So I said to the angry livestock, “Your meal is only ruined because you ate the whole thing, stop trying to get a free meal.”
At this point the muscular herder stepped between his herd and said, “you know, we came here for a nice meal and you two assholes ruined it.” At this point Phil kept hiding his chuckles behind his napkin and was no use to me in verbally combating these animals. I also couldn’t get passed the idea that although Applebee’s has decent food, it wasn’t as outstanding as the cow farmer was making it seem. So I said to the herdsman, “really? You wanted a nice meal and you came to Applebee’s?”
This wrangler was not appreciating my humor and the cows were getting increasing angrier, I assumed because they hadn’t eaten in roughly ten minutes. At this point the manager of Applebee’s had moseyed over to our two tables to try and calm the situation. Before anything got out of hand Phil and I agreed to move to a different location of the restaurant.
The rest of our evening was uneventful until the cattle driver and his cattle decided to head off into the sunset. As they left the gaucho carried a glass of water, walked up to Phil and as he dumped it on Phil’s lap he said, “take that!” Phil through the cup at the rancho’s back but he kept walking. Good thing too because he couldn’t have beaten us pretty badly. I joked with Phil about how I liked that the farmhand said, “take that” as he left. We joked about how the guy had so much time to come up with a cheeky quote and landed with, “take that.” Honestly saying, “enjoy your bath,” “cool off,” or even “here’s your ice back” would have been so much better.
The whole experience was is a story Phil and I continue to tell. I’m mostly just glad it didn’t end with me getting my ass kicked in my Converse shoes.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Chuck Heaven
I know that most of the stories I write on this blog involve past experiences. I’m not saying that this entry is not a past incident but it doest involve the very recent past. In fact, it happened last weekend on a drip to DeKalb.
This past weekend I drove to Northern Illinois University to visit my girlfriend. After sitting at her house for a few hours, my girlfriend Emmagizer and I decided to take a trip to the mall. After a few twists and wrong turns we made it to the Outlet mall located a few miles from NIU.
Shopping for me is about as fun as watching a golf tournament, however this trip had something a little more exciting. It’s not just that we bought Mrs. Fields cookies and of course they hit they spot. This trip involves something even more special. To my complete surprise as we walked along the sidewalk of the outdoor mall; we came across a Converse Store.
Never in my life had I ever seen a tangible store dedicated to the Converse brand. I felt like higher than Charlie Sheen, as if I too had tiger blood. I walked through the isles of the store taking in all products of the wonderful store. Chuck Taylor shoes were everywhere. There were more styles of Chucks then I ever knew. Some with leather, suede, high-tops, low tops, and everything you could ever imagine.
I could hardly contain myself. I saw a pair of Chucks that had an amazing argyle design. I felt like they made that argyle pattern just for me. Who else could rock a pair of argyle shoes better than me? Of course, I didn’t have any money and could only window-shop. I felt like I left my child on someone’s doorstep as I left. I wanted to leave a note on the shoes the read, “I can’t afford these shoes right now. But please take good care of them. Tell them one day I will return.” It was sad and I still think of those wonderful shoes sitting on the shelf of the store.
One day I hope to return there and buy those argyle patterned Chucks. However until that day comes I will keep dreaming of my shoes that could be.
This past weekend I drove to Northern Illinois University to visit my girlfriend. After sitting at her house for a few hours, my girlfriend Emmagizer and I decided to take a trip to the mall. After a few twists and wrong turns we made it to the Outlet mall located a few miles from NIU.
Shopping for me is about as fun as watching a golf tournament, however this trip had something a little more exciting. It’s not just that we bought Mrs. Fields cookies and of course they hit they spot. This trip involves something even more special. To my complete surprise as we walked along the sidewalk of the outdoor mall; we came across a Converse Store.
Never in my life had I ever seen a tangible store dedicated to the Converse brand. I felt like higher than Charlie Sheen, as if I too had tiger blood. I walked through the isles of the store taking in all products of the wonderful store. Chuck Taylor shoes were everywhere. There were more styles of Chucks then I ever knew. Some with leather, suede, high-tops, low tops, and everything you could ever imagine.
I could hardly contain myself. I saw a pair of Chucks that had an amazing argyle design. I felt like they made that argyle pattern just for me. Who else could rock a pair of argyle shoes better than me? Of course, I didn’t have any money and could only window-shop. I felt like I left my child on someone’s doorstep as I left. I wanted to leave a note on the shoes the read, “I can’t afford these shoes right now. But please take good care of them. Tell them one day I will return.” It was sad and I still think of those wonderful shoes sitting on the shelf of the store.
One day I hope to return there and buy those argyle patterned Chucks. However until that day comes I will keep dreaming of my shoes that could be.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
K-9 Converse
Not every occasion with my Converse shoes involves feces or the police. There are times when I do great things for other people. This tale does not involve feces or the police. It also does not involve great things for other people.
Before I left for the Navy I wanted to get in shape. I decided that running would be the best way to achieve this. On those sunny summer afternoons I would go for a jog in my Chuck Taylors. Usually running one to two miles although on occasion I would run up to five miles. I felt energetic when I ran and could feel my body get healthier. I knew that when I got to boot camp I could easily run the mile in less than ten minutes, the standard time for a sailor.
From time to time my feet would get bloody from running in the rubber-soled shoes. It became apparent to me that Chuck’s were not the best track shoes. However I felt stylish in my blue converse’s as I ran the streets of Shorewood.
I kept myself at a steady jog; I was never one to over exert myself. I wasn’t looking to run a marathon, just keep my figure.
One particular day on my jog I ran past a familiar house. Normally the man who lived in the house was outside doing yard work. This day the garage was open but no one was there. As I ran past I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. I turned to see a German Shepherd that came up to my hip chasing behind me.
I looked forward scream and forced my body into a dead sprint. I ran past three houses before I saw a trunk parked under a tree on the side of the road. I ran onto the bed of the truck in one quick motion and jumped onto a limb from the tree. The German Shepherd barked from below me.
Finally the owner of the dog came running over. He angrily said, “what’s wrong with you? You never run from a dog.” As if I was supposed to stand there as this giant beat charged at me. In a stressful situation the body says, “we can stand our ground or we can get the Hell outta here.” I went with the flight part of the biological response.
I collected myself and walked the rest of the way home. Periodically checking my rear for anything that may attack. Now every time I drive past that house I think of the dog. Just like when I pass the tree I picture my hanging upside down like a scared squirrel.
Before I left for the Navy I wanted to get in shape. I decided that running would be the best way to achieve this. On those sunny summer afternoons I would go for a jog in my Chuck Taylors. Usually running one to two miles although on occasion I would run up to five miles. I felt energetic when I ran and could feel my body get healthier. I knew that when I got to boot camp I could easily run the mile in less than ten minutes, the standard time for a sailor.
From time to time my feet would get bloody from running in the rubber-soled shoes. It became apparent to me that Chuck’s were not the best track shoes. However I felt stylish in my blue converse’s as I ran the streets of Shorewood.
I kept myself at a steady jog; I was never one to over exert myself. I wasn’t looking to run a marathon, just keep my figure.
One particular day on my jog I ran past a familiar house. Normally the man who lived in the house was outside doing yard work. This day the garage was open but no one was there. As I ran past I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. I turned to see a German Shepherd that came up to my hip chasing behind me.
I looked forward scream and forced my body into a dead sprint. I ran past three houses before I saw a trunk parked under a tree on the side of the road. I ran onto the bed of the truck in one quick motion and jumped onto a limb from the tree. The German Shepherd barked from below me.
Finally the owner of the dog came running over. He angrily said, “what’s wrong with you? You never run from a dog.” As if I was supposed to stand there as this giant beat charged at me. In a stressful situation the body says, “we can stand our ground or we can get the Hell outta here.” I went with the flight part of the biological response.
I collected myself and walked the rest of the way home. Periodically checking my rear for anything that may attack. Now every time I drive past that house I think of the dog. Just like when I pass the tree I picture my hanging upside down like a scared squirrel.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Sobriety Chucks
There is never a more perfect time to encounter Shorewood’s finest wearing low top Converse shoes than when you are completely sober. If the meeting with the police ends in a humorous story and no citations, than it’s even better.
My best friend Phil aged to 22 three years ago. For his birthday I was in Missouri visiting my sister when a blizzard came across the small southern county. I called Phil and told him that I wasn’t going to make it to his birthday because of all the snow. What Phil didn’t know was that I was only joking about not making the party and that I was already home when the blizzard hit.
I knew that Phil was going bowling because many of our friends were not 21 years old yet. I also had an accomplice who was keeping me updated on the status of the partiers. After about an hour of bowling and drinking I showed up to see my buddy Phil, who was shocked when I walked in the bowling alley… and a little more than drunk.
Phil gave me a drunken man’s hug and stumbled back over to his lane. After a few more hours of drinking, Phil decided it was time to go home. During the ride Phil filled me in on his night before I made it to the bowling alley. I heard about all the beer and shots people were buying him and how he hit a pillar in the bowling alley after the bowling ball skipped across three lanes during his turn. Needless to say, my good friend was pretty hammered.
I got Phil home just after midnight, but I thought that was too soon to call it quits. His mom had two bottles of wine sitting on the kitchen counter and I convinced him to continue to drink. We each had a glass, followed by Phil polishing off the rest of the bottle.
Through his drunken slurs, Phil said he wanted to visit his girlfriend for a ...um, late night rendezvous. I agreed that if he called her and she answered I’d take him to her house. Sure enough, she answered. Since it was his birthday and I am a good friend, I told him to call me when he was ready to be picked up.
I went home and fell asleep for about an hour when I got a call from Phil, ready to be picked up. When I got to the girls house I saw Phil standing behind a bush peeing on his girlfriend’s house. He waved at me like an idiot and stumbled into the car. I noticed in his hand was an empty bottle of wine and asked if he and his girlfriend drank the whole bottle. He said, “nope” at first I felt relieved but then he said, “I drank it all.” The only thing I could think was, “oh dear!”
Just as we made it out of the subdivision and onto the country roads of Shorewood and Minooka, Phil needed me to pull over. It seemed he was experiencing flu-like symptoms. He felt dizzy, had a headache and of course, he had to puke.
I quickly pulled the car over and let him do his thing. Occasionally asking if he was okay and he’d respond with a thumbs up. After a few minutes of puking and Phil chucking the empty bottle of wine he said he was good to go. But just as he was reaching for the car door he began puking again. At this point I noticed a car had pulled up behind us and stopped.
Nervous that this vehicle was a cop I told Phil to get in my car. He said, “It’s not a cop” and began shouting at the car to “go around.” Phil continued shouting, “go around, go around” and motioning with his hands for the car to go around my car when suddenly in my rearview mirror I see blue and red flashing lights. Phil looked at me from the other side of my car door and said, “Oh shit, I think it’s a cop.”
The cop approached my car and asked if everything was all right. I told him I was just driving drunky home. The officer asked for our driver’s licenses. I handed him mine from out of my pocket. Phil however had a little more trouble. Rather than opening the car door he decided to dive through the passenger window to hand over his license. Of course this ended in him dropping it on the car floor. Which in turn made him fall through the window onto his face, before he successfully handed off his Illinois license to one of Shorewood’s finest.
As we waited for the cop to decide our fate, I couldn’t help but look at my friend and laugh. I wondered how we always managed to end in crazy situations. The cop finally came back and even though Phil tried to get into a jurisdiction battle with the officer. The policeman decided to let us go as long as I took Phil straight home.
As I drove away I was happy that we didn’t get any tickets, that Phil was going home safe and that I didn’t mess up my summer Converse shoes.
My best friend Phil aged to 22 three years ago. For his birthday I was in Missouri visiting my sister when a blizzard came across the small southern county. I called Phil and told him that I wasn’t going to make it to his birthday because of all the snow. What Phil didn’t know was that I was only joking about not making the party and that I was already home when the blizzard hit.
I knew that Phil was going bowling because many of our friends were not 21 years old yet. I also had an accomplice who was keeping me updated on the status of the partiers. After about an hour of bowling and drinking I showed up to see my buddy Phil, who was shocked when I walked in the bowling alley… and a little more than drunk.
Phil gave me a drunken man’s hug and stumbled back over to his lane. After a few more hours of drinking, Phil decided it was time to go home. During the ride Phil filled me in on his night before I made it to the bowling alley. I heard about all the beer and shots people were buying him and how he hit a pillar in the bowling alley after the bowling ball skipped across three lanes during his turn. Needless to say, my good friend was pretty hammered.
I got Phil home just after midnight, but I thought that was too soon to call it quits. His mom had two bottles of wine sitting on the kitchen counter and I convinced him to continue to drink. We each had a glass, followed by Phil polishing off the rest of the bottle.
Through his drunken slurs, Phil said he wanted to visit his girlfriend for a ...um, late night rendezvous. I agreed that if he called her and she answered I’d take him to her house. Sure enough, she answered. Since it was his birthday and I am a good friend, I told him to call me when he was ready to be picked up.
I went home and fell asleep for about an hour when I got a call from Phil, ready to be picked up. When I got to the girls house I saw Phil standing behind a bush peeing on his girlfriend’s house. He waved at me like an idiot and stumbled into the car. I noticed in his hand was an empty bottle of wine and asked if he and his girlfriend drank the whole bottle. He said, “nope” at first I felt relieved but then he said, “I drank it all.” The only thing I could think was, “oh dear!”
Just as we made it out of the subdivision and onto the country roads of Shorewood and Minooka, Phil needed me to pull over. It seemed he was experiencing flu-like symptoms. He felt dizzy, had a headache and of course, he had to puke.
I quickly pulled the car over and let him do his thing. Occasionally asking if he was okay and he’d respond with a thumbs up. After a few minutes of puking and Phil chucking the empty bottle of wine he said he was good to go. But just as he was reaching for the car door he began puking again. At this point I noticed a car had pulled up behind us and stopped.
Nervous that this vehicle was a cop I told Phil to get in my car. He said, “It’s not a cop” and began shouting at the car to “go around.” Phil continued shouting, “go around, go around” and motioning with his hands for the car to go around my car when suddenly in my rearview mirror I see blue and red flashing lights. Phil looked at me from the other side of my car door and said, “Oh shit, I think it’s a cop.”
The cop approached my car and asked if everything was all right. I told him I was just driving drunky home. The officer asked for our driver’s licenses. I handed him mine from out of my pocket. Phil however had a little more trouble. Rather than opening the car door he decided to dive through the passenger window to hand over his license. Of course this ended in him dropping it on the car floor. Which in turn made him fall through the window onto his face, before he successfully handed off his Illinois license to one of Shorewood’s finest.
As we waited for the cop to decide our fate, I couldn’t help but look at my friend and laugh. I wondered how we always managed to end in crazy situations. The cop finally came back and even though Phil tried to get into a jurisdiction battle with the officer. The policeman decided to let us go as long as I took Phil straight home.
As I drove away I was happy that we didn’t get any tickets, that Phil was going home safe and that I didn’t mess up my summer Converse shoes.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Baby Chuck's
A fresh pair of Converse shoes can throw off my whole month; one of my worst experiences was babysitting my nephew when I was twenty. There is something about a young twenty-year-old who sleeps till noon and can barely manage feeding and cleaning himself. This young twenty-year-old does not scream, “world’s greatest babysitter.”
I of course had to wake up at the crack of dawn to babysit my nephew so my older sister could go to work. Apparently children are people too. Despite the fact that I rarely count them when claiming the amount of family members I have. I just figure the mom and baby are one, until the kid is at least able to carry a conversation with me. In any event, my nephew did show human emotions.
He cried when I changed the channel from the hypnotizing Baby Einstein DVD. Honestly I felt like I was doing him a favor turning off the movie. If you haven’t seen this crap, consider yourself lucky. The DVD is like something a cult would play before a meeting to wipe your mind clean of thought. It is complete randomness with colors and creepy puppets. I found myself losing about an hour of my life without even knowing it. It was as if I was stuck in a trance. The worst thing is that you have the option to play the DVD on repeat. So you could hypothetically get stuck on the couch all day staring at the TV screen.
When I babysit I lounge on the couch and keep the kid alive. As long as he is breathing, the day is a success. I would probably even let him cry if the sound wasn’t so annoying. Eventually the child will get so tired of crying the kid would just pass out. Have you ever heard the ear-piercing scream of a child? For Christ’s sake, if you take away his or her pacifier, you’d think someone stabbed Janet Leigh while she was showering.
Sometimes though the kid will just cry. I feel like they cry because they hate me. It’s the child’s way of giving the middle finger. “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” for not entertaining me more than putting on this crappy DVD. “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” for not letting me out of this highchair. “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” for feeding me this crappy vegetable diarrhea looking mush. Then there is my favorite, “Hey Mike, F@*K YOU” now change my diaper.
The smell of a baby’s fecal matter smells like death. I occasionally watch the documentaries of WWII when there’s an interview with a war veteran. The former sergeant is describing the horrible smell of bodies laying on the beach and he say’s, “I cannot describe the awful smell, you wouldn’t know unless you’re there” all I can think is, “Oh sergeant, I feel your pain.”
The smell of poo vapors flying off my nephew crushed my soul. I couldn’t come within ten feet of him without the overwhelming feeling of nausea. I would dry heave as I tried entering the room where he was balling his eyes out. I think he could smell himself too. I had to do something, more for my health than for his. I held my breath and ran into the room I would soon have to fumigate.
I grabbed my nephew and threw him in the back seat of my car. It was October and a little chilly but I needed to role down my windows or the smell would overwhelm me. I took the little poo factory to the only place I could think, my mom’s work. I frantically tried to call my mother as I speedily drove through Joliet. She never answered so when I get to her office I parked in a handicap spot, held my nephew as far away from my body, like he was a bomb about to explode, and ran into the building.
I knew the receptionist at the desk and she recognized me right away. Hastily I spewed my words at her, “I need my mom right now,” she ran like someone was about to die. Quite frankly, I thought the smell would steal my life soon. When my mom walked over she saw me holding my nephew like an un-athletic girl holds a football and started to laugh. I had to remind her that it was not funny and I needed help.
She took the little guy off my hands and I sat down in a chair because I needed some serious rest. I looked at my shoes and for once, I was happy that they were clean. If for some reason they had smelly baby poop on them there was a good chance I would be scared for life.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Basketball Chuck's
Did you know that Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars shoes were originally produced in 1917 in an attempt to capture the basketball shoe market?
I’ve worn Converse shoes off and on since about second grade and I have always found them to be comfortable and unique. I even wore my Converse shoes during basketball tryouts in seventh grade. Wearing Chuck Taylor shoes during the day and wearing them during athletics are two completely different scenarios but I am not going to gripe about how painful it is to rebound in Chuck’s. Instead, I’m going to tell you about how I broke my hand wearing my classic blue Chuck Taylor’s.
I wasn’t the best basketball player. Just the year before, in sixth grade, I scored only six points the whole season. However, on defense I was an unstoppable force. I could steal the ball quicker than Satan steals an unlucky soul. I would fly across the court with disregard for life or limb. In fact, I was so great at defense that I was willing to break my hand for a team that I was trying out for.
The day the bones in my hand choose to leave it’s God given position: I was on a 3-on-3-scrimmage team. I must say I was on my game this day. Sure I wasn’t scoring points but that just wasn’t my style. I was working the defensive skills putting my hands in the face of my opponents, blocking shots and passes left and right. You could hear the sound of my Converse soles rubbing on the ground as I left smudge marks on the court. Then all of the sudden my teammate missed a shot and as I dove for the ball saving the shot from the damnation of being turned over: my left hand was smashed under the weight of my chest as I fell to the floor.
A shocking pain traveled up my arm as I stood to my feet. When I looked at my hand I knew right away… something’s not right. My pinky finger was a good inch off the side of my hand, my ring and middle fingers had nearly changed positions and all three of these knuckles formed one giant knuckle on my middle finger. My Chuck Taylor’s and I floated over to my coach and I said, “Coach, I think I broke my hand.” He told me I just dislocated it but I thought it would be wise to go to the hospital.
I waited nearly an hour for my mom to come pick me up from the tryouts and take me to the hospital. It seemed like days before the hospital staff called me to the back. My hand wasn’t very painful until I looked down and reminded myself; that should probably hurt. It felt like I had no hand at the end of my arm, just space. The nurses took an X-ray of my mangled hand and I waited for a doctor to come in the room to tell me the news.
As Doogie Howser, M.D walked in the room he held the X-ray in his hand and as he continued to look at the film he said, “Well I don’t see any breaks,” then he glanced at my malformed hand and said, “Let me check the X-ray again.” I immediately felt like I was receiving topnotch care. The young doctor walked back in the room after only a minute and said, “Yeah there are numerous breaks in your hand.” I said, “you think” and felt hopeful about my abilities to someday become a doctor.
A specialist was called to the hospital to fix my deformed hand. When the new doctor walked in he seemed to know what he was doing. He was wearing regular clothes, not the normal scrubs with a lab coat. The new smart doctor said he was at a baseball game when he was paged to come to the hospital. He didn’t seem to mind being called away from the game… until he put my hand back in place; it was as if he was taking out some rage on my poor hand. No one told me that he was going to do the repositioning of my fingers right there in the room with no numbing or laughing gas. It felt like he was getting me back for missing his baseball game.
The doctor gently grabbed my hand and quickly turned my fingers straight and bent it forward. There was no warning, no breath held, no nothing; I just screamed. Then he wrapped my hand with a bandage and splint and said, “You’re going to want to take a lot of ibuprofen.” I left the hospital with my hand throbbing in pain and I felt like I may have wanted to leave it messed up with the unbearable pain I was feeling having it fixed.
I didn’t make the team season and I officially retired from basketball from that day forward. The scuffmarks my Converse shoes left on the court that day is proof of my dedication to the team. Of course, my messed up middle finger is proof that I made a doctor miss a baseball game.
I’ve worn Converse shoes off and on since about second grade and I have always found them to be comfortable and unique. I even wore my Converse shoes during basketball tryouts in seventh grade. Wearing Chuck Taylor shoes during the day and wearing them during athletics are two completely different scenarios but I am not going to gripe about how painful it is to rebound in Chuck’s. Instead, I’m going to tell you about how I broke my hand wearing my classic blue Chuck Taylor’s.
I wasn’t the best basketball player. Just the year before, in sixth grade, I scored only six points the whole season. However, on defense I was an unstoppable force. I could steal the ball quicker than Satan steals an unlucky soul. I would fly across the court with disregard for life or limb. In fact, I was so great at defense that I was willing to break my hand for a team that I was trying out for.
The day the bones in my hand choose to leave it’s God given position: I was on a 3-on-3-scrimmage team. I must say I was on my game this day. Sure I wasn’t scoring points but that just wasn’t my style. I was working the defensive skills putting my hands in the face of my opponents, blocking shots and passes left and right. You could hear the sound of my Converse soles rubbing on the ground as I left smudge marks on the court. Then all of the sudden my teammate missed a shot and as I dove for the ball saving the shot from the damnation of being turned over: my left hand was smashed under the weight of my chest as I fell to the floor.
A shocking pain traveled up my arm as I stood to my feet. When I looked at my hand I knew right away… something’s not right. My pinky finger was a good inch off the side of my hand, my ring and middle fingers had nearly changed positions and all three of these knuckles formed one giant knuckle on my middle finger. My Chuck Taylor’s and I floated over to my coach and I said, “Coach, I think I broke my hand.” He told me I just dislocated it but I thought it would be wise to go to the hospital.
I waited nearly an hour for my mom to come pick me up from the tryouts and take me to the hospital. It seemed like days before the hospital staff called me to the back. My hand wasn’t very painful until I looked down and reminded myself; that should probably hurt. It felt like I had no hand at the end of my arm, just space. The nurses took an X-ray of my mangled hand and I waited for a doctor to come in the room to tell me the news.
As Doogie Howser, M.D walked in the room he held the X-ray in his hand and as he continued to look at the film he said, “Well I don’t see any breaks,” then he glanced at my malformed hand and said, “Let me check the X-ray again.” I immediately felt like I was receiving topnotch care. The young doctor walked back in the room after only a minute and said, “Yeah there are numerous breaks in your hand.” I said, “you think” and felt hopeful about my abilities to someday become a doctor.
A specialist was called to the hospital to fix my deformed hand. When the new doctor walked in he seemed to know what he was doing. He was wearing regular clothes, not the normal scrubs with a lab coat. The new smart doctor said he was at a baseball game when he was paged to come to the hospital. He didn’t seem to mind being called away from the game… until he put my hand back in place; it was as if he was taking out some rage on my poor hand. No one told me that he was going to do the repositioning of my fingers right there in the room with no numbing or laughing gas. It felt like he was getting me back for missing his baseball game.
The doctor gently grabbed my hand and quickly turned my fingers straight and bent it forward. There was no warning, no breath held, no nothing; I just screamed. Then he wrapped my hand with a bandage and splint and said, “You’re going to want to take a lot of ibuprofen.” I left the hospital with my hand throbbing in pain and I felt like I may have wanted to leave it messed up with the unbearable pain I was feeling having it fixed.
I didn’t make the team season and I officially retired from basketball from that day forward. The scuffmarks my Converse shoes left on the court that day is proof of my dedication to the team. Of course, my messed up middle finger is proof that I made a doctor miss a baseball game.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Booger Brown Converse's
I have been wearing a version of Converse Chuck Taylor’s for most of the decision-making time of my life. The times when I may not have always been considered an adult but I was picking out my clothes in the morning. That is what I call the decision-making periods of life. These are the years when I wore sweatpants with a polo shirt and of course, my chucks. I looked like a cross between Doug Funnie and Skeeter Valentine.
Needless to say, as cool as I felt walking through the halls in my pair of red Converse shoes, I was not as welcomed as one may think. The Michael Clinton of today was not the Michael Clinton who roamed the halls of Minooka Community High School between 2000 and 2004. The young Michael Clinton was soft spoken and made a point not to be noticed. A very reserved young man who was known by his teachers as the “shy kid” just trying to make it through the horribleness of high school.
MCHS was probably like every other high school in the country. It had its popular group, athletes, smart kids, gothic punks and of course, the geeky-nerdy-losers. I was in more of the geeky-nerdy-loser group. I had my friends who I would eat lunch with, and tell jokes to. Around my friends, I was slowly becoming the immature, loud, aggravating person I am today.
However, when I was in class and all the groups of popular kids, athletes and everyone else began to mix. I would stay in my shell and hope that I wasn’t noticed. High school was a time when kids get made fun of for anything different. When you are as weird as me, it opens the door for much criticism. Flying under the radar just seemed like the smart thing to do. Especially when my efforts to fit in came at a terrible cost.
For instance, my football career was short the summer of my sophomore year. I decided I’d give the sport a try. I had always been a fan of football and thought it looked easy enough. The head coach was my homeroom teacher and I was on his good side so he liked me. In fact, he was kind of excited that I wanted to play on the team.
The first day of practice I was placed as a wide receiver, because I was tall and skinny. The scrimmage that day was a combination of varsity and junior varsity on offense against the varsity defense. Once I got my route I was going to run for the upcoming play I lined up ready for the snap. As I looked to my left the quarterback looked right into my eyes and gave me a nod. I felt like Wile-E-Coyote standing in the shadow of a falling piano waiting to get crushed. Basically, I had a bad feeling about this. After the ball was snapped and I glanced over my shoulder I saw the quarterback throwing a pass to the smallest receiver on the field, me. Just as my fingers scratched the pigskin a very large varsity quarterback hit me like a Mack Truck. I flew about 10 yards before I hit the ground and rolled nearly another 10 yards. I got up, walked to my coach, took off my pads and said, “I’m done!” and I quite the team. I learned that day, trying to fit in just wasn’t worth it.
That was why staying below the criticism radar was so important. I would show up for school everyday at 7:30, then go to all my classes saying as little as possible and at 3:02 in the afternoon I left school after sighing a breath of relief. Of course, there are things in life that just happen because… well, God just hates us. It was the day of sophomore year photos and I was wear a plaid button-down orange shirt and sporting a classic buzz haircut. I smiled my best smile for the cameraman and the bright flash of white consumed my vision. I rubbed my eyes and walked over to my friend who turned and said to me laughing, “you have a booger hanging from your nose?” I couldn’t believe it. The day my photos came, sure enough, there was the big brown booger, stealing all the attention from my smile. I couldn’t believe that the photographer took the picture with that thing hanging from my nose.
In high school, no matter how cool I thought I was wearing Converse Chuck Taylor’s. I will always be remembered as that kid who had the booger hanging from his nose in the yearbook.
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Needless to say, as cool as I felt walking through the halls in my pair of red Converse shoes, I was not as welcomed as one may think. The Michael Clinton of today was not the Michael Clinton who roamed the halls of Minooka Community High School between 2000 and 2004. The young Michael Clinton was soft spoken and made a point not to be noticed. A very reserved young man who was known by his teachers as the “shy kid” just trying to make it through the horribleness of high school.
MCHS was probably like every other high school in the country. It had its popular group, athletes, smart kids, gothic punks and of course, the geeky-nerdy-losers. I was in more of the geeky-nerdy-loser group. I had my friends who I would eat lunch with, and tell jokes to. Around my friends, I was slowly becoming the immature, loud, aggravating person I am today.
However, when I was in class and all the groups of popular kids, athletes and everyone else began to mix. I would stay in my shell and hope that I wasn’t noticed. High school was a time when kids get made fun of for anything different. When you are as weird as me, it opens the door for much criticism. Flying under the radar just seemed like the smart thing to do. Especially when my efforts to fit in came at a terrible cost.
For instance, my football career was short the summer of my sophomore year. I decided I’d give the sport a try. I had always been a fan of football and thought it looked easy enough. The head coach was my homeroom teacher and I was on his good side so he liked me. In fact, he was kind of excited that I wanted to play on the team.
The first day of practice I was placed as a wide receiver, because I was tall and skinny. The scrimmage that day was a combination of varsity and junior varsity on offense against the varsity defense. Once I got my route I was going to run for the upcoming play I lined up ready for the snap. As I looked to my left the quarterback looked right into my eyes and gave me a nod. I felt like Wile-E-Coyote standing in the shadow of a falling piano waiting to get crushed. Basically, I had a bad feeling about this. After the ball was snapped and I glanced over my shoulder I saw the quarterback throwing a pass to the smallest receiver on the field, me. Just as my fingers scratched the pigskin a very large varsity quarterback hit me like a Mack Truck. I flew about 10 yards before I hit the ground and rolled nearly another 10 yards. I got up, walked to my coach, took off my pads and said, “I’m done!” and I quite the team. I learned that day, trying to fit in just wasn’t worth it.
That was why staying below the criticism radar was so important. I would show up for school everyday at 7:30, then go to all my classes saying as little as possible and at 3:02 in the afternoon I left school after sighing a breath of relief. Of course, there are things in life that just happen because… well, God just hates us. It was the day of sophomore year photos and I was wear a plaid button-down orange shirt and sporting a classic buzz haircut. I smiled my best smile for the cameraman and the bright flash of white consumed my vision. I rubbed my eyes and walked over to my friend who turned and said to me laughing, “you have a booger hanging from your nose?” I couldn’t believe it. The day my photos came, sure enough, there was the big brown booger, stealing all the attention from my smile. I couldn’t believe that the photographer took the picture with that thing hanging from my nose.
In high school, no matter how cool I thought I was wearing Converse Chuck Taylor’s. I will always be remembered as that kid who had the booger hanging from his nose in the yearbook.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Navy Chuck's
When I was 19 I joined the United States Navy. It was one of those decisions that everybody I knew tried to talk me out of but in the end, I signed on the dotted line. It was chilly in November when I left for Great Lakes Naval Base and my feet were getting cold through the canvas in my Chuck Taylor's. The Chuck’s I wore that day were one of my proudest pairs of shoes. They were deeply worn in, like a La-Z-Boy that has only cradled one ass.
I was dropped off at the O’Hare Airport in Chicago where I would sit in the USO office until a bus would come and take me to my impending doom of bootcamp. I sat in the USO office for hours as more and more recruits waiting to be a part of the U.S. Navy flooded in. I was getting bored and annoyed with all this waiting but when I closed my eyes for a quick nap, the door to the room flung open and hit the wall with a loud bang. I awoke up from my nap like someone had dropped me from the roof a building during my sleep. A voice screamed for two rows, guys on the right and girls on the left- over and over the voice yelled this- I was scared, I was nervous, I regretted signing my name on the dotted line, and no one in this room was going to care.
It is amazing how fear can control a person. As we walked from this crowed room through the airport being yelled at by two men in a black United States Navy uniforms with a red rope hung over their shoulders I wondered why anyone would listen to them. We outnumbered them almost 50 to one, yet we did as we were told. Single file lines all the way to the buses parked out front and I did not dare stray from the lines or exchange my sight for the view I had of the back of the head of the young man in front of me. I knew we were going to Great Lakes Naval Base, but what waited for me there I did not know, and when I would leave I knew would be in two months and if things continue as they have so far, it would be two months of hell.
The bus ride was short and quiet, creepy quiet, like when you are in your house by yourself for the first time at night with the power out. I felt like throwing up, wondering how I ever thought college could possibly be harder then what I had ahead of me. When the bus finally stopped at Great Lakes Naval Base, we took attendance of the people on the bus, this was not your everyday classroom attendance either, it was the equivalent to what I would imagine prison attendance would be like after a revolt and the guards just rounded up the stray prisoners and they are very pissed at them demanding your name and last four digits of your social security number. As we left the bus in a single file line I was the second person from the front and grateful not to be first, because the first person was being yelled at like a child who just broke his mothers favorite vase and now his mother, who had been hanging on her last thread of sanity, just snapped on him in a verbal rage. The only difference here is that the kid first in line is being yelled at before he does something wrong, in this case, his task as the leader of our single file line is to exit the bus, walk to the door of the building and stand there and NOT open the door. This is a nerve racking task when the man yelling at you is 6’4” and about to rip out of his uniform because his muscles are so huge that the material is going to fly off his body like the Incredible Hulk. This kid was scared, I know he was scared because I was scared and I was not even being yelled at. We left the bus and headed towards our destination and I discovered a sea of black uniformed men and women with red ropes over their shoulders and very short tempers like someone did not hug them enough as children. This sight must have been just too much for my not so fearless line leader because he did something horrible… he reached for the door, like a moth flying into a bug zapper on a wonderful summer day, this poor sap was heading for ultimate doom. I wanted to tell him to wait, I wanted to grab him and pull him back, but most of all I wanted to cover my own ass, so instead I did nothing and figured I would just see how this played out.
Like something you would see on the nature channel it was like the lions pouncing on the lonely zebra as three men in black uniforms and red ropes surrounded my line leader with a listening complex and yelled at him until his eyes welled up with tears and ordered him to the end of the line. Now I understand their decision to move this poor sucker to the end of the line, fate had handed him this unfortunate position of line leader and the difficult task of not touching a door. It was a no brainer; he needed to be removed from this position, however through his ignorance he had promoted me to this position of dumb luck and now I had to be the one who would mindlessly follow the orders of these angry people in black uniforms with red ropes. I was suddenly unsure of myself; I was sickened with the thought of embarrassment, and worst of all I really had to pee.
My first task as line leader was to walk through the door and down the hall while staying next to the wall and stop at the end of the hall. Okay, I thought to myself I can do this, I just had to remember how to walk first. It was like walking with two numb legs. I felt more like I was floating than walking and I stayed so close to the wall that my right shoulder rubbed against the bricks as I headed down the hall. Everything was going great until I met an obstacle in my way; someone had left a mop leaning against the wall right in my walkway. I had strict orders to walk next to that wall- it was time for my leadership skills. I had two options, to walk around the mop or walk through it. I went with the ladder; however as a skinny man in a black uniform with a red rope quickly and very unkindly pointed out to me, that was not the correct choice. He shared some insight on my intelligence and decision making process and when he was finished I was not lucky enough to go to the end of the line, instead I got his verbal lashing and had to continue down to the next hall still in front of everyone else and stand outside a room where I heard a lot of commotion and yelling. Now my heart was beating so fast I could see it through my shirt, I was sweating like I had just ran three miles in a dead sprint, and I still had to pee.
At this moment I, and everyone else who would soon become a recruit for the United States Navy, was in civilian clothes. I of course was still wearing my comfortable Chuck Taylors. This however would change as we entered the room of commotion and noise. We were issued white t-shirts some very uncomfortable white BVD briefs and a navy blue sweat suit. All the guys were in this room standing in columns and rows holding their new attire in hand and waiting for further orders on what to do next. Once everyone was in their designated position we began our quest to conform. We were told to put on our t-shirts first and here is the thing about that, I am not a large man being only 5’and 11” and weighing 150 pounds, so when I put on my large t-shirt I was swimming in it. The man in the black uniform with the red rope yelled at the group to find out if there was anyone who had a t-shirt that did not fit and slowly about 20 hands went into the air to let him know we had the wrong size. After we traded our old t-shirts for new ones we were told to try them on. Now you may ask yourself why I would care to tell you this part of my experience here at Great Lakes Naval Base, but you see when I traded my large t-shirt for a medium, I was handed another large t-shirt. The man in the black uniform now asked again if anyone had a shirt that did not fit, and I was the only person to raise their hand. All of the sudden I was alone, I was humiliated, and I really had to pee.
After my unwelcomed moment in the spotlight the group I was with was broken into smaller groups and sent to different areas. My group was the urine test group and it could not have come any sooner. A man in a black uniform with a red rope gave us instructions to drink water and walk up and down the hallway until we had to go pee, and to not enter the restroom unless we had to urinate. I needed to do no such thing. I had to pee and was happy to do so. I grabbed a cup and turned for the restroom which I was now instructed to refer to as a “head.” When I walked into the head I noticed the toilets were long tubs like you would find at Wrigley Field or in a barn for cows to eat out of. Also in the head, I found a little Asian man about five feet tall in a khaki uniform, meaning he is a Navy Chief, and he was just standing there in the middle of the head. This was odd to me and I do not think you would find this any other place besides Great Lakes Naval Base. I walked over to the tub and was about to pee when the little Asian chief stood next to my shoulder looking at what would be a stream of wonderful yellow relief but instead was air and male anatomy because he was yelling at me about why I would walk into his head and not have to go to the bathroom. He asked what was wrong with me and demanded I leave the head at once for not sending a flow of glory into the little cup in my hand. I was very confused, I was very clammy and I did not have to go pee.
After 40 minutes of drinking water, walking up and down a hallway, being forced to join a new group of recruits because the group I was in had paid their water bill and moved on and watching the perverted little Asian chief leave the head, I was finally able to go pee.
I began missing my house. I was missing my lazy life. I missed my Chuck Taylors that were in a box with my address being sent to my parent’s house. I quickly learned just what navy stood for- Never Again Volunteer Yourself.
I was dropped off at the O’Hare Airport in Chicago where I would sit in the USO office until a bus would come and take me to my impending doom of bootcamp. I sat in the USO office for hours as more and more recruits waiting to be a part of the U.S. Navy flooded in. I was getting bored and annoyed with all this waiting but when I closed my eyes for a quick nap, the door to the room flung open and hit the wall with a loud bang. I awoke up from my nap like someone had dropped me from the roof a building during my sleep. A voice screamed for two rows, guys on the right and girls on the left- over and over the voice yelled this- I was scared, I was nervous, I regretted signing my name on the dotted line, and no one in this room was going to care.
It is amazing how fear can control a person. As we walked from this crowed room through the airport being yelled at by two men in a black United States Navy uniforms with a red rope hung over their shoulders I wondered why anyone would listen to them. We outnumbered them almost 50 to one, yet we did as we were told. Single file lines all the way to the buses parked out front and I did not dare stray from the lines or exchange my sight for the view I had of the back of the head of the young man in front of me. I knew we were going to Great Lakes Naval Base, but what waited for me there I did not know, and when I would leave I knew would be in two months and if things continue as they have so far, it would be two months of hell.
The bus ride was short and quiet, creepy quiet, like when you are in your house by yourself for the first time at night with the power out. I felt like throwing up, wondering how I ever thought college could possibly be harder then what I had ahead of me. When the bus finally stopped at Great Lakes Naval Base, we took attendance of the people on the bus, this was not your everyday classroom attendance either, it was the equivalent to what I would imagine prison attendance would be like after a revolt and the guards just rounded up the stray prisoners and they are very pissed at them demanding your name and last four digits of your social security number. As we left the bus in a single file line I was the second person from the front and grateful not to be first, because the first person was being yelled at like a child who just broke his mothers favorite vase and now his mother, who had been hanging on her last thread of sanity, just snapped on him in a verbal rage. The only difference here is that the kid first in line is being yelled at before he does something wrong, in this case, his task as the leader of our single file line is to exit the bus, walk to the door of the building and stand there and NOT open the door. This is a nerve racking task when the man yelling at you is 6’4” and about to rip out of his uniform because his muscles are so huge that the material is going to fly off his body like the Incredible Hulk. This kid was scared, I know he was scared because I was scared and I was not even being yelled at. We left the bus and headed towards our destination and I discovered a sea of black uniformed men and women with red ropes over their shoulders and very short tempers like someone did not hug them enough as children. This sight must have been just too much for my not so fearless line leader because he did something horrible… he reached for the door, like a moth flying into a bug zapper on a wonderful summer day, this poor sap was heading for ultimate doom. I wanted to tell him to wait, I wanted to grab him and pull him back, but most of all I wanted to cover my own ass, so instead I did nothing and figured I would just see how this played out.
Like something you would see on the nature channel it was like the lions pouncing on the lonely zebra as three men in black uniforms and red ropes surrounded my line leader with a listening complex and yelled at him until his eyes welled up with tears and ordered him to the end of the line. Now I understand their decision to move this poor sucker to the end of the line, fate had handed him this unfortunate position of line leader and the difficult task of not touching a door. It was a no brainer; he needed to be removed from this position, however through his ignorance he had promoted me to this position of dumb luck and now I had to be the one who would mindlessly follow the orders of these angry people in black uniforms with red ropes. I was suddenly unsure of myself; I was sickened with the thought of embarrassment, and worst of all I really had to pee.
My first task as line leader was to walk through the door and down the hall while staying next to the wall and stop at the end of the hall. Okay, I thought to myself I can do this, I just had to remember how to walk first. It was like walking with two numb legs. I felt more like I was floating than walking and I stayed so close to the wall that my right shoulder rubbed against the bricks as I headed down the hall. Everything was going great until I met an obstacle in my way; someone had left a mop leaning against the wall right in my walkway. I had strict orders to walk next to that wall- it was time for my leadership skills. I had two options, to walk around the mop or walk through it. I went with the ladder; however as a skinny man in a black uniform with a red rope quickly and very unkindly pointed out to me, that was not the correct choice. He shared some insight on my intelligence and decision making process and when he was finished I was not lucky enough to go to the end of the line, instead I got his verbal lashing and had to continue down to the next hall still in front of everyone else and stand outside a room where I heard a lot of commotion and yelling. Now my heart was beating so fast I could see it through my shirt, I was sweating like I had just ran three miles in a dead sprint, and I still had to pee.
At this moment I, and everyone else who would soon become a recruit for the United States Navy, was in civilian clothes. I of course was still wearing my comfortable Chuck Taylors. This however would change as we entered the room of commotion and noise. We were issued white t-shirts some very uncomfortable white BVD briefs and a navy blue sweat suit. All the guys were in this room standing in columns and rows holding their new attire in hand and waiting for further orders on what to do next. Once everyone was in their designated position we began our quest to conform. We were told to put on our t-shirts first and here is the thing about that, I am not a large man being only 5’and 11” and weighing 150 pounds, so when I put on my large t-shirt I was swimming in it. The man in the black uniform with the red rope yelled at the group to find out if there was anyone who had a t-shirt that did not fit and slowly about 20 hands went into the air to let him know we had the wrong size. After we traded our old t-shirts for new ones we were told to try them on. Now you may ask yourself why I would care to tell you this part of my experience here at Great Lakes Naval Base, but you see when I traded my large t-shirt for a medium, I was handed another large t-shirt. The man in the black uniform now asked again if anyone had a shirt that did not fit, and I was the only person to raise their hand. All of the sudden I was alone, I was humiliated, and I really had to pee.
After my unwelcomed moment in the spotlight the group I was with was broken into smaller groups and sent to different areas. My group was the urine test group and it could not have come any sooner. A man in a black uniform with a red rope gave us instructions to drink water and walk up and down the hallway until we had to go pee, and to not enter the restroom unless we had to urinate. I needed to do no such thing. I had to pee and was happy to do so. I grabbed a cup and turned for the restroom which I was now instructed to refer to as a “head.” When I walked into the head I noticed the toilets were long tubs like you would find at Wrigley Field or in a barn for cows to eat out of. Also in the head, I found a little Asian man about five feet tall in a khaki uniform, meaning he is a Navy Chief, and he was just standing there in the middle of the head. This was odd to me and I do not think you would find this any other place besides Great Lakes Naval Base. I walked over to the tub and was about to pee when the little Asian chief stood next to my shoulder looking at what would be a stream of wonderful yellow relief but instead was air and male anatomy because he was yelling at me about why I would walk into his head and not have to go to the bathroom. He asked what was wrong with me and demanded I leave the head at once for not sending a flow of glory into the little cup in my hand. I was very confused, I was very clammy and I did not have to go pee.
After 40 minutes of drinking water, walking up and down a hallway, being forced to join a new group of recruits because the group I was in had paid their water bill and moved on and watching the perverted little Asian chief leave the head, I was finally able to go pee.
I began missing my house. I was missing my lazy life. I missed my Chuck Taylors that were in a box with my address being sent to my parent’s house. I quickly learned just what navy stood for- Never Again Volunteer Yourself.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Slippery When Wet
“The thing about Chuck Taylor Converse Shoes is they provide very little support, warmth and traction in the winter months.”
When my best friend Phil turned 24 on December 17, 2009 I knew the event would be a memory that would last forever. My buddies Fisk, Miah, Phil and I started our night around six in the evening at Phil’s house were we shared a case of Bud Light and watched “The Hangover.” We were at the beginning stages of inebriated smiles as the movie ended and we all left the house.
Now you see, I can neither confirm nor deny whether or not my buddies and I went to the gas station to buy 40 ounce bottles of beer for each of us as Phil’s girlfriend drove us to Buffalo Wild Wings. I can however say with assurance that Phil’s girlfriend was a very sober and annoyed designated driver. Once at Buffalo Wild Wings our main concern was taking in more alcohol rather than fill our bellies with food.
After all that, our night was about to begin. We headed to Naperville to some of our favorite bars all the while drinking excessively. I hadn’t seen Phil for a few months prior to this night of mischief so we were like giddy schoolgirls at recess. We ran around town and as we skipped through the cold night I began to notice that my Converse’s did not compare to winter galoshes. It was as if every piece of ice clinging to the ground was felt through my shoes as if I was a barefoot in ancient Rome.
It was around two in the morning when the gang decided to leave Naperville, mostly because the bars were closing. As we drove home Phil and I decided that the night was too short and needed to continue. We convinced Phil’s girlfriend Julie to take us to Harrah’s Casino and drop us off and we’d find a way back home. Phil and I happily drank beer, margaritas and took shots as we wasted our money on table games and slot machines. It wasn’t until five in the morning that we decided it was time to go. We exhausted every number in our phones trying to find someone to take us home. Unsuccessfully, we decided our best option in this intoxicated state was to walk to my apartment three miles from the casino.
It was cold and seemed like a good idea until we began our trudge over the bridge that connects downtown Joliet. On this slick hike over the inclined metal hill I fell twice and almost busted my head on one of the rails looking over the river below. The night wasn’t over until I fell roughly ten more times during our trip and my toes were left feeling as though I could break them off like snapping a carrot in half.
Since our adventure that night in December, I have managed to warm up and the bruises I received from falling so many times have vanished. However, I will always share that memory with Phil, of the time we stupidly walk through Joliet, IL drunk, cold and smiling to bring in a friends birthday.
When my best friend Phil turned 24 on December 17, 2009 I knew the event would be a memory that would last forever. My buddies Fisk, Miah, Phil and I started our night around six in the evening at Phil’s house were we shared a case of Bud Light and watched “The Hangover.” We were at the beginning stages of inebriated smiles as the movie ended and we all left the house.
Now you see, I can neither confirm nor deny whether or not my buddies and I went to the gas station to buy 40 ounce bottles of beer for each of us as Phil’s girlfriend drove us to Buffalo Wild Wings. I can however say with assurance that Phil’s girlfriend was a very sober and annoyed designated driver. Once at Buffalo Wild Wings our main concern was taking in more alcohol rather than fill our bellies with food.
After all that, our night was about to begin. We headed to Naperville to some of our favorite bars all the while drinking excessively. I hadn’t seen Phil for a few months prior to this night of mischief so we were like giddy schoolgirls at recess. We ran around town and as we skipped through the cold night I began to notice that my Converse’s did not compare to winter galoshes. It was as if every piece of ice clinging to the ground was felt through my shoes as if I was a barefoot in ancient Rome.
It was around two in the morning when the gang decided to leave Naperville, mostly because the bars were closing. As we drove home Phil and I decided that the night was too short and needed to continue. We convinced Phil’s girlfriend Julie to take us to Harrah’s Casino and drop us off and we’d find a way back home. Phil and I happily drank beer, margaritas and took shots as we wasted our money on table games and slot machines. It wasn’t until five in the morning that we decided it was time to go. We exhausted every number in our phones trying to find someone to take us home. Unsuccessfully, we decided our best option in this intoxicated state was to walk to my apartment three miles from the casino.
It was cold and seemed like a good idea until we began our trudge over the bridge that connects downtown Joliet. On this slick hike over the inclined metal hill I fell twice and almost busted my head on one of the rails looking over the river below. The night wasn’t over until I fell roughly ten more times during our trip and my toes were left feeling as though I could break them off like snapping a carrot in half.
Since our adventure that night in December, I have managed to warm up and the bruises I received from falling so many times have vanished. However, I will always share that memory with Phil, of the time we stupidly walk through Joliet, IL drunk, cold and smiling to bring in a friends birthday.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
The Vegan
One of the most awkward dates I had ever been on with my Converse shoes was when I was 21 and still at student at Joliet Junior College. I met a girl while having lunch. She seemed a little strange when I began talking to her and when I asked for her number she gave me an email address because she didn’t want a guy calling her house and having her dad answer. Almost immediately after that, she gave me her number and told me to call it just in case. Right away it seemed as though this girl had a few screws loose.
The next day I came to her house to pick her up for our date. I always take girls to the same place on a first date, Mongolian Barbeque. It was a cold day in January as we walked from the parking garage to the restaurant so I casually stated that it was cold outside as we walked through the doors of the restaurant. She took this as a invitation to invade my personal space and as she bear hugged me said “yeah, let’s warm up.”
Now, when someone bear hugs someone else, it’s very difficult to raise your arms because they are trapped between the bear huggers arms and your own ribcage. I’m sure she didn’t mean to bear hug me and just simply wanted to give a hug but she added this uncomfortable moment by whispering, “I hope this never ends.” I didn’t want to embarrass her by drawing attention to this absolute worst hug I had ever received so I just unnaturally twisted my arm to pat her on the back.
At this point in the evening it was clear that I wanted this date to end as soon as possible. However there was a wait at Mongolian Barbeque of about 30 minutes to be seated. I did not have that kind of time with this bag of crazy and because she mentioned she was a vegan I decided to take her to Noodles and Company.
In the middle of one of the worst spaghetti meals I had ever had in my life this nut job randomly asked me if I like Lindsay Lohan. Confused by this question I exaggerated my response by telling her “yeah, she’s alright.” This girl immediately responded with “I love her!” I was frightened. She then asked me if I knew how they made two Lindsay’s for the movie “The Parent Trap.” Again, I was puzzled. I told her I though it was done with two camera splicing the images together until it fit in the scene the director was shooting. She seemed offended when she responded with “No! They built a robot!” I politely smiled and nodded in agreement as I discreetly texted my buddy “I think I may get stabbed with a spaghetti fork tonight!”
When I finally got this psycho back to her home I walked her to the door like a gentleman and thanked her for coming out. I gave her a hug and she said, “I love you.” I get freaked out if a girl I’ve been dating for a year tells me that she loves me so imagine my shock when a girl I’ve known for an hour tells me she loves me. I was officially freaked out by this Sybil like creature and decided to break off ties with her over the next few weeks. I avoided her calls like the plague until they seemed to fade off into a bad memory. It’s been almost five years now since my incidence with this goofball and I pray everyday that I make it without any sort of communication with her.
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