Hassle Hassle

NOTE: While digging through some old files, I came across this. It was written in (if the time stamp is to be believed) late 2003. I figured I would go ahead and share it with you now. After all, it is a traditional family story:

My first years in school were smack dab in the middle of the CB radio fad. You remember the CB radio, right? Breaker, breaker, one-nine … you got a smokey on your tail. So, my folks, who always tried to keep up with the times, installed a CB radio in each of their cars. In a day and age before the cell phone, it was pretty handy. Mom was in nursing school and didn’t leave until 7 or 8 in the evening. She could get in the car and tell Dad she was on her way.

Of course, this meant that everybody in the family had to have a CB handle. The name that would be used on the CB. Dad doled them out, we didn’t get to pick our own. My brother got “Bone Rack.” He was always pretty scrawny, so the name fit and he kinda liked it. What did I get? “Fat Man.” As in, “Na na na na na na na na Fat Man!” I was not a fat kid, a little chunky maybe, but I was not fat!

Dad liked to give us nicknames. It was something he did out of love. Y’know, the kind of love that degrades and demeans. That kind of love.

I was twelve and a half years old when my baby sister was born. Yeah, little gap there. Guess you could say she was a surprise to everyone. And from the time she was very little, I was her favorite. She loved her big brother. Loved me!

Around the time she was starting to walk pretty well, she took to calling me, “Hassle.” Hassle? For weeks and weeks, I couldn’t figure it out. She would come up to me, arms outstretched, wanting to be picked up, and say, “Hassle, hassle.” I had no idea where it came from. Until one Sunday afternoon …

Dad and I were watching a ball game on TV while my sister was playing with one of her puzzles on the floor. After a while, Dad turned to me. “When are you gonna take out that trash, asshole?” “Hassle, hassle!” Ah … I get it. My lovely baby sister calls her favorite big brother … asshole. Thanks Dad!

After a while, we broke her of the habit. She didn’t take to calling me “asshole” again for about fifteen years

My Personal Favorite Super Hero Costumes of All Time

A boy's imagination only needs the four-color spark of a comic book to take off! Those of us who were drawn to the heroes of the comics, were initially drawn because, hey, they looked so dang cool! Here's my favorites ... I would love to hear yours.

10. Sandman (Golden Age)

Okay, I admit it. I've never so much as even read a Sandman comic. Don't know anything about him. Don't know his secret identity, exactly what kind of gun that is he's carrying around ... nothing. But every time I see the character with his suit, gas mask, hat and cape (cape and a tie ... that's an odd combination) I want to pick up a book and read just to find out. Sure ... you could very easily argue that "this is just some guy wearing some stuff on top of the suit he wears to the office everyday," and maybe that is exactly what makes the design so intriguing. I probably will never be a fan, but the get-up is enough to peak my interest ... and that's what makes a great superhero costume!



9. Banshee

Sean Cassidy has long been one of my favorite comic book characters and certainly my favorite member of the X-Men. For decades he's been an under-utilized character ... in fact, until the recent X-Men: First Class film, I bet many of you had never even heard of him ... hell, in the comic books these days, he may or may not even be alive. But his kick-ass power (he screams ... really loud!), Irish heritage and murky background have always made him interesting to me. Add on top of that a funky green costume (like I said, he's Irish) with a big, wide collar and weird striped wing-things that have never quite been explained (and each artist makes up their own rules about how large they are) and I'm hooked. Recent artists have incorporated more of the standard X-Men costume to his design, but I like it green and with the '70s collar!



8. Green Lantern (Alan Scott from the Golden Age)

Leave it to little known DC characters from the Golden Age to make this list over and over again. Sure, with the new film and DC's pushing of the character in the comics, the "new" Green Lantern may be more recognizable, but there is something about the sheer "busy-ness" of Alan Scott's costume that always caught my eye. Green pants, red shirt, old school lantern logo and long cape with giant collar ... it gives him more of a magical warrior feel (his ring is magic, all the "new" lanterns are some kinda cosmic power) that's at home with both modern superhero mythos and classic myth. A really cool "probably takes him an hour to get dressed" design.



7. Dr. Strange

Interestingly enough, Marvel's magic wielder, the Sorcerer Supreme has some similarities to Golden Age Green Lantern ... busy color scheme with gigantic collar ... but adds more of a tunic and sash to the wardrobe making him feel less like a superhero and more like a character from a Dungeons and Dragons game. Dr. Strange's appearance also increases in "cool quotient" with the funky hand motions he makes to cast spells. Rumor has it that Marvel may make a Dr. Strange movie in the near future ... I wonder how true to the design they'll stay with this one. I'm sure there's been plenty of artists over the years who were excited to draw the book, only to discover that drawing all that detail on the fringes of his cape got to be a little old after a while.



6. Space Ghost

Space Ghost makes the list even though he was not created or designed for comic books, but rather for the Hanna-Barbera cartoons in the 1960s. Even though Jan, Jace and Blip were all pretty lame, there was just something cool enough about Space Ghost to make him must-see Saturday morning fare. With his simple and sleek design, a mostly white costume with black cowl leading into a “who knows what the shape of it really is” yellow cape, Space Ghost was proof-positive that you didn't need to get too complicated to have a really killer super hero suit. Plus, he had those things around his wrists ... that made him invisible (or in the cartoon, an outline!) and the simple triangle with a ... well ... a "space ghost" logo.



5. Dr Fate

Another hero I never really followed as a comic book loving child was Dr Fate. A sorcerer (with a succession of hosts) who became a founding member of the Justice Society of America. I always thought the helmet (the Helm of Nabu) was awesome, but never really cared about the fact that Nabu's spirit would possess the character. I also never really had a full understanding of just what the heck his powers were ... it seemed that each successive writer just made a few more things up. But the simple design with almost-medieval golden helmet combined with matching cape (with collar!) and the Amulet of Anubis just made Dr Fate one of the coolest looking heroes around.



4. Captain Marvel (DC Comics)

For those of us who grew up in the '70s, Shazam! was must-see-TV. Of course, we weren't paying all that great of attention and most of us never realized that the character's name was actually Captain Marvel. Shazam was the old wizard who gave him his powers. Only problem is, those of us who only watched the show knew nothing about the wizard -- all we knew was that he had the powers of Solomon, Hercules, Atlas, Zeus, Achilles and Mercury and every-so-often, he would talk to them. But hey ... who cares? The point is that Captain Marvel had one of the most kick-ass super hero costumes ever. I mean, a golden lightning bolt on a red shirt? Cool! Add in the sash and unusual (and short) cape, and the "World's Mightiest Mortal" was one of the world's best-dressed heroes.



3. Angel (from Marvel Comic's X-Men)

Like most of the rest of the X-Men, poor Warren Worthington III has had more than his fair share of wardrobe changes over the years. First there was the plain yellow and black standard issue X-Men uniform, then the silly red shirt with suspenders look ("did they hold his wings up?") then a number of variations including the popular (but ultimately ugly) Archangel outfit fully equipped with razor-tipped steel wings. But the simple white and blue outfit with halo logo was just perfect. Sure, there was also another red costume that was an exact duplicate of this one, but the blue softened him more and made me reflect more on mythology. This was the modern Icarus ... the winged man. After all, what are super heroes if not the Greek gods of our generation?



2. Batman

Perhaps no major superhero has ever had the myriad of subtle changes to his wardrobe that Batman has had. From giant ears and purple gloves to black latex rubber, the number of incarnations of Batman's outfit is only matched by the number of gadgets in his utility belt. But for me, a child of the '70s and '80s, the Neal Adams-era Batman with gray tights, blue flowing cape (that was always catching some wind) and pointed ears is it! A loving middle-ground between Adam West and the armor-wearing Christian Bale in the recent movies. Other generations may reflect on the animated series or the Tim Burton movies ... but I'm from the post Adam West, Superfriends, Mego action figures generation. This is MY Batman ... and I love the design!



1. Superman

The template from which all other superhero costumes are created. Tights and cape, logo/symbol on the chest, a belt and (if you feel like it) some underwear on the outside. There is no better design for the daydreams of a young boy. All you needed what a red towel to tie around your neck, and you too could go "up, up and away!" It just doesn't get better than the Man of Steel.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

Let's be real for a moment ... we all lie. Maybe little white lies, but we all lie. Its human nature to withhold a truth or try to control another's perception of us. We've all made up excuses for why we were late for work or school. We've lied about our successes and failures ... what's the difference between telling so-and-so that you make $60,000 a year when you only really make $48,000 ... and we probably all lied to our parents in a vain attempt to get out of trouble when we were children.

You lied to your boss. So what? Told your Mom a fib about how well you were doing in school. Who cares?

Unfortunately some of us will lie to ourselves.

You can get away with those other lies ... you can trick and deceive others ... but you can't really deceive yourself. Or can you? I've certainly never been able to pull it off. I'm too emotional ... too riddled with guilt. It's not a question of self-awareness, but rather a question of being too sentimental and temperamental. But I discover more and more that others are capable of doing it. You can convince yourself, or at least appear to convince yourself, that the lie is truth ... and maybe it is, but it isn't your truth. It's just a lie that you think is better than your truth.

Sometimes it seems to be an attempt to conform. Your friends and family all believe that you should think this way or that, that you should have this particular opinion, they advise you that you should take a course of action that you don't really feel is right. And you do it ... you go along with it ... even though in your heart-of-hearts you know it is wrong. Hell ... the idea might have been yours to begin with! Sure, it seems like a good idea ... it seems like the right thing to do or feel or think ... but is it? You fight with that doubt as your inner-self tries to assert control, but you beat it back. You force yourself to believe in a non-truth. And you have to live with those repercussions.

The unfortunate thing is that you can't really fool those who have an honest bond with you. Just as you could never quite fool your parents and just as your children can't quite fool you. Because while they may hear and acknowledge (and perhaps even believe) your lie with their eyes, ears and brains ... the hearts are also speaking to one another ... and you can't fool a heart. You can only fool yourself.

A Lot Can Happen Between the Bridge and the River

Where I grew up, it was flat. FLAT! Those of you who have never visited the South Plains of Texas may not fully understand the severity of that statement. It was flat! It felt like you only needed a good pair of binoculars to see China. Flat!

This, naturally, meant that I had very few interactions with heights. I had no reason to fear heights, because I never really encountered "height." Sure, my hometown of Lubbock TX had a twenty-story building, but I had never even stepped foot in it until I was 22. And like most young boys, I climbed my fair share of trees, ran around on a number of roofs and even spray painted my initials onto a water tower. In high school, as part of theatre classes, I climbed ladders to hang lights dozens of feet above the stage. Not once was I ever afraid ... I certainly didn't have a fear of heights.

In fact, I still don't think I do.

But that doesn't mean that fear and discomfort aren't right around the corner.

In the year 2000, at thirty years of age, I had my first encounter with vertigo. It was frightening, debilitating, dizzying and ... for a brief moment or two ... certainly seemed life-threatening. I remember that first 'attack' vividly:

I was standing on a packed 33rd Street/Queens Boulevard platform waiting for the 7 train to take me back into Manhattan. It was 5:30pm and the platform was as crowded as can be. It was a hot May afternoon as I stood on the edge of the platform and peeked down the tracks ... the train was at the 40th Street station and would arrive in moments. "Thank God," I thought, "I hope the A/C is working in my car."

I then glanced over at the green glass of the Citigroup Building (One Court Square) that reflected the sun. And in an instant, I was all-but delirious ... the world was spinning, I wasn't sure I could keep my balance, sound seemed to fade and the approach of the coming train seemed muffled. A cold sweat ran down my back and dripped from my nose. I felt I would fall over (onto the tracks!) in a second. As the train pulled into the station and passengers piled on, I forced my way to the back of the platform and crouched between a bench and a garbage can, trying to maintain my composure through sheer will-power.

I logically knew that I was okay ... I wasn't going to fall over. I tried to rise to my feet ... and the sensation of imbalance increased. So I crouched again (how I must have looked to all the other strap hangers coming and going from the platform), squeezed my eyes shut and tried my best to concentrate ... just focus and make it go away.

After several minutes (which felt like hours) it did.

Over the following months, these 'attacks' would occur and re-occur with alarming regularity. Some were minor and brief, others incapacitating and several minutes long. I began to refer to the time spent in an 'attack' as "the gap between the bridge and the river." In time, the fear felt during the attack diminished ... because I had confidence it would end. No matter how hopeless or helpless I felt nor how frightened I was that the end of the 'attack' might mean the end of my life, I had the will-power to see it through and the faith that I would be alright.

A lot can happen between the bridge and the river.

For me, it was a fascinating analogy. What must be going through a man's mind after he has thrown himself from the bridge and before he hits the river? It was a phrase I had first heard from my brother when he was going through an exceptionally rough patch ... he felt he had tossed his life away and was just waiting for the end to come and hit him in the face. As a means of reassuring him I told him that "a lot can happen between the bridge and the river."

And that, my friends, is how my still occasional bouts with vertigo shape my character and my faith. They are a reminder. No matter how low I feel, no matter how grim the situation, no matter how certain (or uncertain) the outcome ... I have the will-power and the faith that something will happen to spring me back to the bridge to continue my journey.

And one day ... one day when I'm hurtling through space headlong towards the dark and murky river ... I may just sprout wings and fly.

A Tribute to James -- Part Three (of Three)

The summer of 2008 will be remembered by most Americans as the summer gas prices went through the roof. For James and I, it was the summer of guessing how far we'll go on whatever gas we might actually have in the tank. When your car averaged 16 miles per gallon when it was new (17 years before) and is now averaging 10 on a good day, $5.00+ per gallon gas on a limited income gets to be a dicey situation.

Needless to say, James spent more time than he deserved on the side of the road and I did more than my fair share of walking to the filling station to spend my pocket change on enough gas to (hopefully) get us home that day.

But the great thing about James: when I really needed him to, when I coaxed and loved him along ... when the chips were down, he came through. Each and every time! So when we were late to work a time or two because we ran out of gas, I didn't complain.

By the summer of 2009, gas was back down to an almost reasonable price but my gas mileage was getting worse and worse. Now James was 18 years old. Now he had ... well, maybe 200,000 miles ... we don't know, because one day his odometer just set itself back about 50,000 miles for no apparent reason. On top of that, his acceleration was decreasing and from time to time dark smoke billowed out his tailpipe. "Oh James, please hang on."

While at the Midas station to get an oil change they diagnosed the problem. James' fuel pump was about to go. So once again I dropped every penny I had to get him back up and running. And after the fuel pump was in, he ran great! For about three days.

I had to go out of town for a series of comedy gigs in New Jersey, but my neighbor took James to his own mechanic as a favor and discovered ... that the fuel pump had been installed incorrectly. Oh ... and because of that, we had about another $1600 worth of repair that would need to be done. I didn't have the money ... but no matter ... I loved James and you'll do whatever you have to for those you love, right? Somehow or another, we got it payed off and James was back up and running. All you can truly wish for your loved ones is health, and for James, he had it ... so long as I didn't mistreat him.

In February of 2011 my life once again spiraled out of control. I didn't have a home or a family, but I had my splendid red engine. In fact, he became my home and a place I felt safe (and could sleep). I had a reclining driver's seat to nap in and somebody who was actually deserving of my affection, even if others might consider him a twenty year old hunk of scrap metal. In March, with no other choice, James and I went on our last adventure ... a comedy gig in Savannah and, if luck could stay with us, a final trip to Texas. That was a lot of miles for a 20 year old Blazer! So with a shiny new radiator installed, off we went to Georgia for what turned out to be an excellent gig ... followed by a horrible tragedy.

Protective of James and concerned about money (we hadn't made as much at the gig as we had hoped) I decided to head back north to Wilmington. We would go to Texas on another day. Thirteen miles across the South Carolina border it happened: a sudden, loud 'thunk' and we lost all power. I knew immediately what had happened ... James had thrown a rod. With less than $200 to my name, I did the calculations: $200 to tow it to the next town, several hundred more (if not a thousand) to rebuild the motor ... there was no other choice ... this would have to be the end.

I spent the night trying to sleep in James on the side of the highway waiting on my friend Kyle to come and get me (and all of my meager possessions, which were in the backseat) and at the advice of a State Trooper, we would leave James by the side of the road. I had no other choice. It was the last thing in the world I wanted to do ... but I had been doing the last thing in the world I wanted to do a lot lately. For the six and a half hours I sat in James for the last time, I talked to him, thanked him ... and wept. He was my best friend ... and there was nothing I could do to save him.

Kyle arrived and we unloaded James and put everything in Kyle's car. I fought back tears in the early morning hours. Then, with everything unloaded and ready to say goodbye one last time, I grabbed one of James' hubcaps (more of a lug-nut cover, really) and vowed to keep it with me always. A memento from Jamesy-James ... my spendid little red engine.

That hubcap now hangs on my wall ... and I will keep it with me always. If told that I could only keep one thing in my house, and everything else would be destroyed, I think I'll grab it first. Because so long as I have it, I'll have a little piece of James with me as well.

A Tribute to James -- Part Two (of Three)

Christmas was fast approaching ... and it was going to be another lean one. Getting moved, renting a new (over-priced) house and buying the new Blazer had pretty much put me right back in the poor house. Then again, I've spent the majority of my life in the poor house, so I certainly wasn't worried. Better yet, I did have enough cash stashed away to make the trip up to Lynchburg to spend Christmas with my youngest, Ty. So it didn't matter that I wouldn't receive any gifts this year. It didn't matter that I had no Christmas decorations. All that mattered was that I had a vehicle that should (in theory, at least) get me the 280 miles I needed to travel to see my little one.

I knew I had a less-than-honest gas gauge, but figured I would just fill-up more often than might be necessary. No biggie. Other than a minor oil leak (that I couldn't pinpoint), there was nothing else mechanically wrong with my new red Blazer. Or so I thought.

Having left Wilmington at about 6:30pm (it was already long past sundown) I would make another discovery regarding my new form of transportation: once I got up to about 45 mph, the speedometer stopped working. And by "stopped working," I mean that the needle would drop back down to zero even though I was hauling ass on the Interstate. So, without having a clue as to how fast I was going, I tried to keep pace with the other cars on the road and made the assumption that so long as I wasn't passing many people, the odds were I wasn't speeding.

I checked into a cheap motel in Lynchburg a little after midnight, grateful that my new ride had made the trip. I would hit the sack, get some sleep, get up bright and early the next frosty morning and go see my son. It was going to be a good Christmas!

In the morning, I walked out to the parking lot and noticed a HUGE puddle of oil under the Blazer. "Well, my minor oil leak looks like it got a little more major." Undeterred, I put a quart of oil in and drove off to get my boy and have a little breakfast. Ty was excited when his father pulled up in his "brand new Jeep." No ... technically it wasn't anywhere close to brand new, and no, it wasn't a Jeep. But it looked like one. And it had been washed the day before, so it was just as shiny as anything brand new.

"What's he called?" Ty asked me.

"Who?"

He smirked at me from the backseat and, looking in the rearview mirror, I could see him roll his eyes.

"Your Jeep."

"I don't know. I hadn't thought of a name yet. What do you think we should call him?"

Without hesitation he replied, "James. 'Cause he's really spendid!"

Now, if you're not familiar with Thomas the Tank Engine, you might not get the reference. But being the good Dad (or at least, as good of a Dad as I can be) I caught on. We decided to name him after the red diesel engine from the Railway Series of books. From that moment on, his name was James. Or as Ty and I lovingly called him, "Jamesy-James."