MAGAZINE
I’m not sure what happened. I was being held and slowly read by some woman when all of a sudden she rolled me up and started to choke me and violently whip me around. After having my face smashed into the arm of a lawn chair a couple of times and then into the surface of a picnic table, I was tossed to the ground. It was a terrible and demeaning experience that I’ll never forget.
LAWN CHAIR
I don’t know what his problem was, but the magazine I was hanging out with abruptly got up and smacked me twice for no reason.
BRENDA’S PHONE
Brenda was talking into me when the incident happened. I didn’t get to see or hear anything because Brenda is such a loud and obnoxious phone talker. Whenever she uses me it’s like I’m cut off from the world. If I had enough power in my lithium battery to electrocute her face, I would. Seriously, I would do it. She is that annoying.
LITHIUM BATTERY
I second that.
OINTMENT
I am effective at temporarily relieving pain and itching associated with insect bites, minor burns, sunburn, minor skin irritations, scrapes, and rashes due to poison ivy, poison oak, and poison sumac.
SQUIRREL IN NEARBY TREE
I am still too upset to talk about what happened. I was good friends with Chris. I can’t believe what that woman did to him. He was a hardworking, God-fearing bee, who had a family and a good job. What that woman had against him, I’ll never know. To tell you the truth I don’t think she even knew him. What a bitch. I’m going to find out where she lives, go to her yard, and act crazy on her fence.
TREE
No comment.
GOD
Forcing a bee to commit suicide is one of my biggest pet peeves. This is not good for this Maureen person.
Who I Am
Who am I? That is a simple question, yet it is one without a simple answer. I am many things—and I am one thing. But I am not a thing that is just lying around somewhere, like a marker, or a toaster, or a housewife. That is for sure. I am much more than that. I am a living, breathing thing, a thing that can mark with a marker and toast with a toaster and house with a housewife. And still, I am much more.
I am a man.
I am also a former baby and a future skeleton, and I am a distant-future pile of dust. And I am also a Gemini, who is on the cusp (Taurus cusp).
I am “brother” and I am “son” and I am “father” (but just according to one person, who does not have any proof but still won’t seem to let it go). Either way, I am moving very soon and not letting her know about it. I am asking you to keep that between us.
I am trustworthy and I am loyal, but at the same time I am no Boy Scout. No, I am certainly not. I am quite the opposite, in fact. And by opposite I do not mean Girl Scout. No. I mean Man Scout. And by that, I do not mean Scout Leader. In fact, I am not affiliated with the Scouts at all. You know what—let’s just forget about the Scouts and scouting altogether. Okay?
I am concepts and thoughts and feelings and outfits. And I am each of these all at once, unless I am in the shower. Then I am not outfits, because that would be uncomfortable.
To some I am known as “Chief.” And these are usually people who work at Radio Shack or who try to sell me shoes in the mall. To others I am known as “Buddy.” These are people who dwell in bars and wonder if I’ve “got a problem” or what it is that I am “looking at.” And still to others, who are in that same bar, standing just off to the side, I am “Get him!”
I am he and I am him. I am this and I am that. And I am, from time to time, “Roberta.” But I am not going to get into that right now.
People have known me by many titles. In high school, I was “Student” and “Key Club Vice President” and “Queer Bait.” In college I was “Pledge” and then “Disappointed” and then “Transfer Student” after that. And now I am still amazed at how picky certain so-called “brotherly” organizations can be. And I am actually glad that they didn’t pick me for their stupid fraternity. I amen us.
To some I am Myth and to others I am Milt, mostly because I have told them that this is my name—even though it is not even close to my name. I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a pita. Why the pita? That counts as another mystery.
I am everything and I am nothing. I am just kidding, I am not everything and nothing. That would be ridiculous. I am just everything.
I am what I eat. And I am this especially when I bite my nails.
I have been called many things, like “Hey You” and “Get out of the Way!” and “Look Out!” And then, some time later, “Plaintiff.”
I am my own worst critic. I am going to give you an example now: “I am not being me enough” is the kind of thing I am prone to say. See what I mean? I am sure you do.
I am the silent majority.
I am a loud minority.
I am not talking about Puerto Ricans when I say that, because I am not a racist. I am just clearing that up. And, by the way, I am someone who has Puerto Rican friends. In fact, I am pretty sure I have at least one friend from each of the races (Hi, Dao-ming).
I am friend. I am foe. I am fo’ sho’. What up y’all?
I am sorry about that. I was just talking to one of my race friends, a black one. I am white and I am black. And I am both of these when I am dressed as a mime. And then I am—shhhhh.
I am Batman, but only on Halloween. And then I am not invited to many parties. And I am fine with that, because that just makes me an even more accurate Batman (because Batman does not go to parties as “Batman” but only as Bruce Wayne). I am right about this.
I am someone who likes to go to the park. But I am not the guy with the Labrador retriever and the tennis ball and the tattered book under his arm, who is wearing fleece and is kind of tan. No. I am not that guy. I am sick of that guy and all of the women who talk to him.
I am the Walrus, but not the one you’re probably thinking of. I am the other Walrus, the one who is less the Walrus in the sense of legendary music and more the Walrus in the sense of his tendency to lie around in places for too long.
I am bravery. I am courage. I am valor. I am daring. I am holding a thesaurus.
I am the sun. I am the moon. I am the rain. I am the Earth. I am these when I am taking mushrooms with Kevin. I am good friends with Kevin. I am not sure what Kevin’s last name is.
I am sometimes referred to as “Ex-CUSE me” in an annoyed tone of voice, because apparently I am in the way. I am SO sorry. I am supposed to be some sort of mind reader, I guess. I am moving out of the way now as slowly as I possibly can. I am doing this and there’s nothing you can do about it.
I am often the one they call “You,” but I am no more “You” than you. I am me. And yetI am more “Me” than you are me or can ever be. I am confused.
I am neither here nor there, but there—a little to the left. Yeah. That’s me.
I am waving at you. I am waving right at you now.
I am looking right at you.
I am wondering why you are not waving back. I am starting to feel awkward.
I am going to leave now.
Bugle Virtuoso
World-renowned bugle virtuoso Fritz Grindler will play a special concert at the Igor Hindenberg Memorial Pavilion.
Born and raised in Dingleberry, Tennessee, Grindler studied with preeminent Bugle Master Lefty Eisenstein at Juilliard before gaining fame as “Bugler Exemplar” for the Torrance Symphony Orchestra. After spending a year in Europe as Distinguished Bugler in Residence with the Lichtenstein Philharmonic, and then six months with the Munich Pops, Grindler returns to the United States, performing several exclusive, limited engagements in select cities. The Hindenberg Memorial Pavilion is proud to present this bugler of unparalleled talent.
Grindler’s program will feature numerous classic pieces composed for bugle. Some of these include “First Call” (the signal for the buglers to assemble, commonly used at horse racing), “Charlie Reveille” (“reveille” is the French w
ord for “wake up”), “Long Reveille” (a longer signal to “wake up”), “Reveille U.S.” (“You gotta get up, you gotta get up, you gotta get up this morning”), and “Reveille Reveille” (“Seriously, you gotta get up”).
Grindler will also tackle the notoriously difficult “Reveille Dormir,” which is a snooze waltz (from the French for “You don’t gotta get up right now… but you will have to in a little while”).
The program will also include the famous suite composed for dealing with flags and other chores, including “To the Colors” (“Come look at the flag”), “From the Colors” (“Okay, you can stop looking at the flag now”), “Meal Time” (“Come to the cook house door, boys, come to the cook house door”), and “Reveille Reprise” (“Just making sure you got up”).
Grindler will perform the well-known U.S. Cavalry composition “Charge!” as well as the lesser known “Variations on Charge!,” which includes “Come On, Everyone!,” “Go that way quickly!,” and “Go already! What the hell are you waiting for? A special invitation?”
And, for the first time ever in the United States, Grindler will perform some of his own, original compositions for bugle. Among these pieces will be the delicate “Sonata for Waking Up,” the playful “Fugue-get-about-it,” the challenging “Variations on the Heimlich Maneuver,” and the atonal, avant garde “Bugle in Your Face in E Minor.”
In what is sure to be a rare treat, Grindler will be accompanied for portions of the program by a man shouting directions, the Italian shouting tenor Paolo Boboli.
Tickets can be purchased by calling the Igor Hindenberg Memorial Pavilion Box Office at 555-7432 or online at www.IgorHindenbergMemorialPavilion.com/boxoffice/tickets/grindler.
Some Drawings
Superhero. (just lying down)
Sneeze.
Christian Beach Towel.
Pony with Second Ponytail.
Clown Flip-Flops.
Ventriloquist Funeral.
Shish-ke-Bobs.
Narcoleptic Pole Vaulter.
Thanks for buying this book, by the way.
TWO
Dad
I have trouble communicating with my father. I always have. I just can’t relate to him. Of course there is the generation gap between us (he was almost forty when I was born). That certainly has not helped things. But it’s more than that. Fundamentally, we are just too different. In fact, sometimes I feel like we couldn’t be more different from each other if we tried. But my father is different from just about everyone I’ve ever met, which is no surprise when you consider his upbringing. He was raised by wolves.
You may have heard stories about the boy who was raised by wolves. Most people have. I know I have, just about every day of my life. My father has always had a knack for bringing up that subject. No matter what the conversation is about, he will find a way to relate it back to wolves:
PERSON TALKING TO MY DAD: “It’s pretty hot out today.”
MY DAD: “Yeah it is. And, you know, this weather feels even hotter to a wolf, because of the fur and everything. Speaking of wolves…”
It doesn’t matter how remote the topic is, my dad will find a way to make it about his wolf upbringing:
PERSON TALKING TO MY DAD: “The economy is really in trouble.”
MY DAD: “Tell me about it. I think they really need to raise consumer confidence. Speaking of things being raised, when I was raised by wolves…”
I won’t bore you with any more examples. Suffice to say, Dad’s wolf thing is a constant presence in our lives.
"0em" width="27">Whenever someone new meets my father I have to prepare them for it. People often get confused by my dad’s accent, because he talks with a pronounced growl. On top of the growling, Dad can become quite aggressive, especially if you look him directly in the eye. And I always have to tell people not to throw a Frisbee anywhere near my father, because he will chase it and catch it with his mouth, or at least try to, as it bounces off his face.
I’ve always had to be careful about where I bring my dad. He was a chaperone to my prom. That turned out badly. I guess the strobe lights set him off or something, because he went ape shit and tried to maul a couple of people on the dance floor. Luckily he’s not actually a wolf, so one of the other chaperones (my chemistry teacher Mr. Ronner) was able to wrestle Dad to the ground and subdue him. Even though no one got hurt, it made the rest of senior year suck for me, especially chemistry class.
I read somewhere that some parents have trouble letting their children shine, especially those who have become accustomed to being in the limelight. That’s my dad. From the minute he became part of society he was lavished with attention. And, man did he lap it up (pun intended, by the way).
In our town everyone always talked about my father and his “remarkable story.” Whenever anything remotely involving wolves happens, people contact my dad for a sound bite or for one of his trademark “wolf freak-outs,” which he is always more than happy to do for the morning radio DJs and local newspeople. It is so embarrassing. And going to the zoo with my dad has always been a nightmare. You’ve never seen a know-it-all until you’ve seen my father at a zoo.
Look, I realize that his story is remarkable-ish. And I understand that being raised by wolves is not an easy experience. Nobody is denying that. But he’s not the only one who had a tough upbringing. Mine was hard too. Not many people ever think about that. No one ever thinks about the guy who was raised by the guy who was raised by wolves. Well that happens to be my life, and I’m here to tell you that it’s just as hard, maybe even harder than being the guy who was raised by wolves.
First of all, you have a non-wolf imparting wolf teachings. This is confusing under the best conditions. When I was a little kid it was more than confusing, it was downright upsetting. The chasing, barking, and general canine behavior my father displayed around the house often terrified me and ruined a lot of my childhood experiences (not to mention my bedroom furniture).
My father’s wolf background really colored my view of the world as a child. Dad hated fairy tales. If you even mentioned one to him, he’d launch into one of his long, self-righteous speeches about wolf stereotyping and the damage done to the wolf community by the “prey-biased fairy-tale media.” His parenting skills were minimal to nonexistent. And when he did try to raise me, it felt a lot more like being trained than being raised. Although, I have to admit, it was often quite effective. When your father bites you in the back of the neck, you learn things pretty fast.
Of course, Dad never stopped to ask me about my interests. He just assumed that I was interested in wolves.
Every year, when Halloween came around, guess what we had to be?… Yep, a pack of wolves. And my mother went right along wit it, just like everything else Dad wanted. She always enabled him. And if I tried to talk to her about it, she would say things like “What do you expect, he was raised by wild animals”—as if I didn’t know that already. Thanks, Mom.
One time I asked my mother if she thought she would have been with my father if he had not been raised by wolves. She got really quiet and looked hurt. Then, without saying anything, she turned, walked off, and went into the backyard to feed my father. I never brought it up again.
Mom’s not the only one who enables my dad. My little brother, who is an actual wolf my parents adopted, is crazy. It doesn’t take a genius to guess who Dad’s favorite is… Yep, it’s my brother, Gary, the real wolf. Gary and I never got along as kids/cubs. And now as adults we don’t even talk (mostly because he can’t). But even if he could talk, he’s so unreasonable and ferocious, I wouldn’t want to talk to him anyway.
When Dad had our last name legally changed to “Wolf” it didn’t sit well with a lot of people, least of all with me. Having the first name “Wolf” was already hard enough for me. Then finding out suddenly that I would be called “Wolf Wolf” for the rest of my life just flat out pissed me off.
Try going to a dinner party and getting introduced as “Wolf Wolf”:
&n
bsp; MY FRIEND: “Have you two met? No? Well let me introduce you. This is my friend Wolf Wolf.”
ME: “Hey.”
CUTE WOMAN: “What?”
When I say my name, people often think I’m joking, or worse, barking. I remember complaining to my father about this and then having to listen to one of his usual lectures about how I’m not proud of my wild roots, etc. Man, he is so out of touch.
Sometimes Dad has the wolves over. This never goes well. My grandparents, if you can even call them that, are even harder to relate to than my father. They’re actually crazy. When I’m with them I get the feeling that they would kill me if we weren’t related. Dad disagrees with me about this, but he just doesn’t understand. He can’t see anything outside of his little wolf bubble.
One time, when I was actually attacked by a wolf (no relation), my father pretty much took the wolf’s side, even though he didn’t even know the wolf personally. That really hurt, and I’ve never forgotten it.
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