Secret Drum-Kit Man, Secret Drum-Kit Man

My wife mentioned that someone was throwing out a few pieces from a drum kit and we should go get them for the kids. She had noticed the pieces on a treelawn while driving home from grocery shopping, but the minivan was filled.

While owning any pieces from a drum set might sound like a terrible idea for a family like mine with two children in the house, ages two and eight, I found the idea intriguing. 

Many, many years ago my wife had been a drummer in a punk rock band, and my kids loved to bang on things with the rogue, residual drumsticks that turned up once in awhile in our house.  I encouraged it, even, and had set up a makeshift drum kit in the basement, built from an upside down laundry basket, a cardboard Pampers box, and a couple of small, plastic garbage cans. 

 The hitch: she wanted me to go get them. 

Understand,  repurposing trash, saving stuff from the garbage dump, finding interesting things -- I have no problem with the concept. It is the execution that bothers me. 

I am pathologically uncomfortable with being the one to take things from someone's garbage.

After putting my foot down with arguments such as "You know how uncomfortable that makes me" and "I might get shot," I gave in, mainly because my arguments sounded incredibly wimpy. 

 I would brave the cold December Ohio air, freezing rain, black night, potential angry pitbulls or crazed homeowners, and attempt to get the drum kit pieces.

My eight-year old, Andrzej, having heard my opposition, bravely stated he was coming with me.

"Andrzej, you don't need to do that," I said.

"No, I'm going, dad," he said. "I'll call 9-1-1 on your cellphone if you get shot."

After assuring Dre that Daddy had been a bit over-dramatic, and after clearly stating we were not stealing but were saving items from the trash dump, we headed to the door. 

I grabbed a flashlight on the way out, explaining to Andrzej we probably wouldn't need it. He wanted to carry the flashlight, and again, I repeated we were not using it unless absolutely necessary,  as I wanted to do this without drawing attention.

And what better way to be stealthy on a black Ohio night than in a bright white Toyota minivan?

Dre and I got into our stealth vehicle (which felt to me as if it was glowing), and soon found the items. I pulled to the curb and turned off the lights. Well, attempted to turn them off.

I spun the headlamp control that poked out from the steering column, but still the lights remained on. 

I had forgotten. The van has a convenience feature where the headlights stay on when the engine is running. 

If you are planning to be a private eye, my advice is to not drive a Toyota Sienna minivan, as sexy as that sounds.

Okay, I thought. No worries. It's rainy and dark. I'll leave the lights on. That seemed less sneaky than shutting the minivan off. Plus, I wanted it running in case I needed to make a fast getaway, in the unlikely event that the former drum kit owners had sworn a death oath that  the kit would make it to the dump, and NOBODY was going to thwart their plans.

Andrzej hopped out of the van, the flashlight on before his feet even hit the ground.

I'm not sure what happens to kids, but they seem to lose all motor control in the arm that holds a flashlight. I have seen the same phenomenon at a Cub Scout campout. 

The flashlight beam is in the air, spotlighting a bird's nest, down at the ground, over into my eyes,  back in the air, over to the side, air, other side, air, ground, back,  my eyes, repeat, skipping around as fast as a third-grade mind scrambling for explanations after being caught sneaking candy. 

In this case, the flashlight beam seemed primarily to shoot into the house windows, fully missing the drum kit items.

"DAD!" shouted Andrzej. "HERE'S THE DRUM. WE BETTER BE FAST!! WE DON'T WANT ANYONE TO NOTICE!! COME ON!!" The flashlight beam cut the air crazily, the light in my eyes and the volume of my son's voice temporarily stunning me.  I forgot where I was.

The freezing rain on my head brought me back to my senses, and I moved to the drum kit, a sparkly, beat-up bass drum and snare. I tossed them into the the back of the van. At the last minute, I forced myself to move slowly, showing I was absolutely comfortable with this act.

I hopped in the van and tore off down the road.

At home, I unloaded the two drums, satisfied with my secret mission. I sniffed to myself, proud of my exploits.

"Did you get the cymbal stand?" my wife asked.

---------------

The awesome pic at the top is from a cool online t-shirt shop called Going Postal T-Shirts. 

I will gladly accept a pulp magazine-styled tee from them. I am size Medium, but better get a Large.

 

Zero Memories

Today I was attempting to recall a name of a co-worker from years ago, and I couldn't remember. 

There is a very specific feeling of frustration when you can't access a memory -- like an itch in your brain, or that infuriating tingle when your foot falls asleep. Oddly, it makes me feel like I should spin around -- I never do, but it seems that if I could just untwist myself from whatever invisible coil of time I got myself tangled in, I would remember.

I try tricks, and sometimes they work -- forcing myself to calm my brain and then telling myself I don't really care if I remember is one I often use. Reverse-psychology on my own brain, as if it were a little kid. Sometimes I think it is.

A complementary trick is to envision circumstances or situations related to the lost memory. In the case of the lost name, I envisioned the office space and the voices of co-workers from the same time, trying to force them to say the sought after name. They didn't cooperate, and instead started talking about other things, and soon I was remembering random elements from the office like someone's lunch box or the keypad security system -- memories of no immediate use.

The good thing about forgetting a name, however, is you remember it or you don't. You don't kind of remember a name and then feel uncertain as to whether it is the right one or not. 

Not so with other memories. I remember, or think I remember, buying a Zero candy bar in middle school, opening it up, and seeing ants march out of the sealed wrapper -- no wait, not just out of the wrapper, but out of the middle of the candy bar.

This scenario seems highly unlikely -- that there were somehow ants living inside the middle of a Zero bar that was sealed up, but that's what I remember. Did it happen? I don't know. Why would my brain lie?

Because it is a little kid.

Sometimes I think I need to approach memories more like art and less like documentation -- a painting can be sincere and meaningful even if it isn't realistic in a classic sense -- my memories might not always be linear or complete, but they can provide the essence of a time, highlighting select, if random, elements to create an emotional picture.

I'm not sure that would be so great if I was on the witness stand being asked what I remembered of a specific night -- I remember I had a tape dispenser that chipped, and I stepped on a pistachio shell. I don't remember the accused, but I do remember at least three people hummed songs that day, or maybe it was the week before....

I guess our entire being, though, is based on memory, regardless of how wispy and electrical it is -- we go to work, stay angry, eat certain foods, tell ourselves of our worth or lack thereof, all based on memories of previous moments.

Trouble is, those moments might be an abstract painting, or they might be ants marching out of a Zero bar. 

If all else fails, though, I guess we could try spinning.

Manly Beauty Tips from Thought Bubbling

I am 45 years old, but people often say I look younger and ask me if I have a secret. Is it diet? Stress management? Exercise?

No.

The answer is moisturizer.

I put moisturizer on my face every day, borrowing whatever cream or lotion my wife has in the bathroom.

My face has smelled like a lilac bush, an ocean breeze, cucumber & mint, lemongrass, a romantic evening, and even a spiced pumpkin, but it hasn't dried out.

Now if you are a guy you likely do not know much about moisturizers or such, so below I've added a question and answer session for queries I imagine my male readers might posit.

Read and look younger.

---------------------------------------
Reader: But Thought Bubbling, I'm a single guy with no access to those creams and lotions you mention. You're not suggesting I go out and BUY moisturizer, are you?

Thought Bubbling: Of course not. Instead, slather on any moisturizer you find in the bathrooms at parties or social events.

Reader: I don't go to parties or social events.

Thought Bubbling: Look for testers at the department store.

Reader: I live in the woods miles away from civilization.

Thought Bubbling: Maybe an aged, weathered look isn't so bad, then.

Reader: Won't moisturizers make my nose swell up like Marsha Brady's in that Brady Bunch episode?

Thought Bubbling: No. She was hit in the face with a football. It was not caused by moisturizer.

Reader: Moisturizer -- Is that the condensation on the shower curtain?

Thought Bubbling: No. That would be moisture.

Reader: I found something in the bathroom that smells pretty like a woman but has an open flame. Is this moisturizer?

Thought Bubbling: No. You are looking at a scented candle. Do not put that on your face.

Reader: I don't actually put the moisturizer IN my eyes, do I?

Thought Bubbling: No. Do not moisturize your eyeballs.

Reader: Will moisturizer give me super powers?

Thought Bubbling: Yes. Yes it will.


....

Thought Bubbling: Not really.

Coconut Scented Candle

Post-Halloween candy is scattered around the office in bowls, but everyone has picked out the chocolate, leaving Smarties and gum. 

Fine by me, really, since I've been eating healthy, but today I wanted something, so I settled on an Ashlynn coconut Dum-Dum*.

Ahh, coconut. Fake coconut. An artificial flavor so strong it is like eating a smell, and I remembered....

I remembered the coconut-scented candle I gave to my third-grade teacher Miss Stein as a Christmas gift. 

This would have been 1971, yet I completely remember that candle - I picked it out myself, you know. It was square and layered brown and tan. That candle seemed like the best gift IN THE WORLD an adult could receive.

It was that coconut smell, man.

In that coconut-scented candle, I sensed the beginning rumblings of cool, a consideration not yet relevant to my third grade mind. 

I sensed exotic places where coconuts might grow, and places where real people might actually light scented candles, especially a scented candle that smelled like a coconut.  

I sensed luxury, because here was an item that served NO REAL PURPOSE OTHER THAN TO SMELL GOOD!

I breathe in that ghost-of-Christmas-past candle and realize adults never know what leaves an impression on a child. Thirty-seven years later I smell that particular interpretation of coconut, feel the weight of the candle, remember the colors so well I could point them out on a Sherwin-Williams paint swatch, and fully relive the pride and satisfaction of giving that fragranced wonder to my teacher. 

I will try to keep that in mind with my kids -- the knowledge that at any seemingly minor occaision to me they might be storing a memory in a Permanent Place -- My oldest son, who is nineteen, will already have memories involving me that I won't even be able to place.

Still, those considerations aside, I do think my vivid memory is in part to the magic of coconut smell, and from the indesputable fact that the candle truly was the most incredible gift any teacher could ever receive.

*From the Spangler Candy Dum Dum website: Coconut - the flavor chosen by our Pop Star 2007 Grand Prize Winner Ashlynn from N. Carolina

Photo is of Coconut the donkey from Little Friends Ranch. I don't know how he smelled.

Watch the Vote, Play the Vote

Finally, no more election ads, robocalls or fliers -- an end to the political media offensive.

As bad as the campaign barrage was, though, the campaigning was still fought old school, and while mudslinging was heavy on the Internet and through emails, it was the old paradigm of provided information -- maybe slanted or inaccurate, but just information - an ad or opinion to interpret and apply.

There is an entirely untapped market, however, that we have yet to face.

Video games and cartoons.

Sure, Democratic political ads were placed on video games this year, but I'm not talking ads. I'm talking about the games and cartoons themselves.

Listen, marketers recognize the influence of the tweens on parents, which is why they sell autos to kids who can't drive and food to kids who don't shop.

One day, candidates will create cartoons and games to create their own branded identities with kids, leading to action figures and plastic fast-food toys and Lego playsets and breakfast cereals. Just accentuate traits, quirks, desired messages, and you've got a brand. This was a missed opportunity for:

Palin -- face it, Palin sounds like a superhero name, especially when written in an uber-cool font -- maybe something with fighting wolves and polar bears and such -- plus, the secret identity thing would have worked well -- daytime, shopping (lots of laughs with the ole buying a purse gag each episode) and going to hockey games, nighttime, triple-flips to fight the bad guys -- the Demon Cats.

Obama -- capitalize on his Hawaiian past -- maybe something with a volcano or lava. In cartoon form, he could easily become a sober Reed Richards, Bruce Wayne type of powerhouse. And what better bad guy name to face than McCain?

Unless the Republicans had spun it first with ...

McCain. John McCain -- tough guy name (close to Diehard's John McClane). With cartoons, age doesn't matter -- just give him cool gadgets and a motorcycle, preferably not fueled by petroleum.

Biden -- umm, he, well -- okay, Biden wouldn't translate into an interesting character however you drew him. Turn him into a cute, talking rabbit and be done with it.


The gears are turning, aren't they?

I know you are already thinking about the possibilities for Dennis Kucinich.

Things that go bump -- Happy Halloween

Anyone who knows me knows I love Halloween, and while I have cut back on my diet of horror movies, they are in my blood...my cold, red blood.  

This season, however, I haven't had time to catch a single monster movie, so Thursday night, after getting the kids into bed, finishing the cub scout blog and putting away the dishes, I treated myself to a guilty pleasure -- an online horror game. 

I selected a free Flash game from Psionic called Ghostscape, a creepy little mystery where you walk around an evil haunted house and take pictures of supernatural activity. The game is set up for casual gameplay so no  complicated controls -- pretty much load and go.

These games can actually be unsettling, and while this one was not high on the scary scale, it was well-done, if easy, and the ambient sounds and visuals did their spooky job . Fun stuff. 

However, I didn't finish the game.

Around six minutes into the game, I heard a thumping noise -- a real one, not one coming from the computer speakers. All the lights were off, so the real atmosphere mimicked the ghostly atmosphere of the game. I turned the speakers down and listened. Someone, or something, was shuffling down the stairs in the dark.

"Hello?" I called out. No answer. The someone/something shuffled into the dining room. I heard table legs scratch across the wooden floor just like the sound of the chairs that moved in the game by poltergeist activity. I got up to investigate. "Hello?" I asked again.

Our dining room does not have an overhead light, but is lit by a table lamp -- translation: no light switch to flip. As I walked in the darkened room, I saw a small, still figure crammed in a chair, the kitchen table pushed up against it. 

"Andrzej?" I asked, moving to the light. Still, no answer.

In Ghostscape, bloody, cryptic messages occaisionally appear and disappear on the wall -- warnings such as "We will devour you."  As I clicked on the lamp, my eight year old son Andrzej

delivered what sounded like a message from the ghostworld of the game.

"I'm really afraid. I don't want to have to do it." His hands were moving in an uncomfortably unnatural way, and his eyes were glassy.

"Do what?" I asked. "Dre, you're giving me the creeps, boy. What's going on? Are you asleep?"

I'm not sure why I thought it made sense to ask someone who was likely sleepwalking if he was asleep. I guess I thought if he was awake, he would at least answer in the negative. Instead, he answered in some type of garbled nonsense.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I asked.

"No, I'm just...I'm not...what...oh, nevermind...I want to go to sleep. Nevermind."

I led my open-eyed, sleepwalking third grader upstairs back into bed. As a last ditch effort to dispel the heebie jeebies I now had, I said, "Dre? Did you have a bad dream?"

Dre pulled on the covers, said something to the effect of, "I don't know... where...okay, night dad, see you...nevermind...I just...nope...I'm fine...*yawn*" and fell asleep.

Great. Finally. Peace at last. Now back to my game.

You know, I'm not really in the mood for this game anymore, I thought.

Instead I played Stranded by designer Bart Konig, where then entire object, set to relaxing music, is to hit fish with rocks. That's it. Kind of a low-tech, zen fishing game.

Listen, it's an odd game, but unless you're a pixelated fish, you won't get the shivers.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!!

Note: If you would like to try out these oddball games, check out www.JayIsGames.com, where you can play all types of games, see a variety of Flash expression pieces and find the creative merging of art and games.  Thanks, Jay!

Fishing for Fire: Surviving Camp Beaumont

This past weekend, my son and I camped out with Cub Scout Pack 11 at Camp Beaumont in rural Ashtabula County in Ohio. No TVs, PCs (or Macs), PlayStations, XBoxs or Wiis.

Also, none of the in-home nighttime constellations of LEDs from baby monitors, microwaves, answering machines and DVD players (if you look closely, you can see Sirius the dog -- see? His ear is that green light from the cell-phone charger, although people now call this constellation Sirius XM.)

No. It was Thought Bubbling -- unplugged.

We did have a cell phone, however, and although it was shut off for most of the trip, that phone did save the day.

Navigating by way of a printout from Google Maps, Dre and I found ourselves on an empty gravel road in Rock Creek, Ohio, with nothing but trees and the occasional trailer with rusting cars permanently parked in the weeds. Narrowing the location between 2000 and 3000 State Road, we saw, well, more trees.

In perfect monster movie fashion, Dre nervously said, "Dad, I got a bad feeling about this."

Finally, we saw a woman walking alone down the road, her artificially bright auburn hair springing all over as if fleeing the two inches of gray roots chasing it like the hounds of hell.

I slowed the car. "Excuse me," I asked. "Do you know where Camp Beaumont is?"

The woman slowly, and I mean slowly, turned. "Beauuuumonttt. Hmmm. There was a Beaumont School, years ago ... but it burned down. " [Long pause] "You must be lost."

I thanked the nice lady and drove off, afraid to look in my rear-view mirror only to find she had disappeared.

Now in all fairness, I'm not certain she had said the school had burned down, but that is how I remember it. Thirty-eight years of watching horror movies will do that to your memory.

We finally stopped the car at the intersection of two gravel roads -- it wasn't like anyone would be waiting for us to move -- and called the Pack Leader Mr. Moosebrugger for directions. We were close, but not on the right road or even right town. We headed on to Austinburg.

(As an aside -- isn't Moosebrugger the perfect name for a cub scout pack leader? Like something from a slapstick cub scout movie featuring Martin Lawrence -- Ahh, Hellll Nahhh, as a raccoon pops out of the toilet in the outhouse and chatters at him. Just a thought.)

The pack had a campfire in a fire pit rimmed with railroad ties. Only adults and Webelos (a Webelo is a cocoon stage between cub and boy scouts) could be inside the ties, so of course all the younger kids pushed up to the edge (step outside the square, take your feet off the ties, no, white ash is very hot). One kid, caught up in the thrill of fire, forgot the rules altogether and stood over the fire with a burning stick saying, "Look! I'm fishing for fire!" Apparently the cubmaster found those fish to be akin to piranhas. The cub did not win a badge for fishing.

So the highlight for me, besides knowing my son had a great time? Was it the satisfaction of braving the elements in a tent in 36-degree temperatures? Or the crisp, fresh air so different than in the city, or the mid-day nap in absolute quiet when the troop was out doing archery?

No, the highlight for me was something much more personal and meaningful. It was my moment of vindication.

See, I always carry a Sharpie(R) marker with me -- you never know when you'll need a Sharpie. It's a quirk. Whatever. Anyway, for the big dinner Saturday night, the troop was assembling chicken and vegetable platters wrapped in tin foil to be tossed directly on the fire in a synchronized, assembly line fashion. I could hear two scout fathers discussing the logistics of the meal when I thought I heard one say something about looking for a Sharpie.

I sauntered over, seeing my chance to be a hero, except I wasn't sure I had heard it right. After all, it seemed unlikely they would have been talking about a Sharpie. I bided my time, and after some basic chit chat, I said, as nonchalently as I could, "So, did I hear you say you were looking for something?"

I had played my card.

"Yeah, John had a Sharpie around here, but we can't find it. We need to put names on the tin foil."

"I HAVE A SHARPIE!!!" I said with way too much enthusiasm, pulling my sharpie from the pocket of my mud -covered pants. "I ALWAYS carry a Sharpie. People laugh, but you never know when you might need a Sharpie, that's what I always say!"

Boy, were they surprised -- and guess what, I wasn't even a cub scout or boy scout when I was a kid. Nonetheless prepared. Call me the campfire hero.

The best day of my life.

The rest of the trip really pales to that, but suffice it to say everyone knew whose meal was whose, and although my son was off playing and wasn't there to see my triumph, I feel warm inside knowing I saved dinner for him and the rest of the kids.

That, my friends, is the spirit of scouting.