Well, I plunged right in and told Charlie he could ask me some questions. I told him I might leave one-word answers as opposed to his answers which would fill a library. Prolific doesn't begin to describe that boy! But I'll be a good sport and answer with at least two words. But first . . .
THE RULES!
1 - Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2 - I will respond; I'll ask you five questions.
3 - You'll update your journal with my five questions, and your five answers.
4 - You'll include this explanation.
5 - You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.
And now Charlie's questions:
1) Pick one number that's been associated with you at some point -- grade, height, age, weight, IQ, street address, whatever. Now, let's say you could change that number. What's the number, what does it mean, what do you change it to, and why?
Four. Four is the number of times I've had the crap beaten out of me. The first was in Junior High. When I was a freshman, I tripped a 7th Grader in the hall between classes. I don't know why I did it, but there it was, and he was calling me out. I stood up and put my fists in front of me. Now, you must understand, I was a very small freshman. In fact, when I graduated high school in 1985, I was around 5'6" and 95 lbs. In the two years following graduation, I grew to 5'11", but back then, in 9th grade, I was smaller than this 7th grader. Anyway, there I was, preparing to fight, trying to get my nerve up to do something when WHAM! I was on the floor, the inside of my cheek split open. I figured I'd had enough and sat back down on the bench next to my friends. The kid tried unsuccessfully to goad me back into fighting. Finally he left. But my friends took over where he left off. They couldn't stand it. They were embarassed to be seen with me. So when the kid came back, evil sneer plastered on his face, I stood up and said, "Let's fight again." After an initial look of shock and wonderment, he resumed without missing a beat, like he'd bookmarked the incident. All I remember was the room spinning around, lockers in my face, and girls laughing at me.
The second time was by a former friend of mine. One summer he suddenly decided he didn't like me. I still don't know why. For about three months he tried to get me to fight him, but with my fighting record, I didn't feel like it. Then one day, at church, I determined that I had taken his crap for the last time. I told him to meet me behind the chapel after class. He didn't say another word to me until we were outside, our fists up. Then he started in as always: "Go ahead, hit me." So I hit him in the eye. I'd never done that to him before so he was quite surprised. For that, I hit him again, same eye. He started crying! He actually started crying. He said, "Stop it! I have to see the bishop in a few minutes and I can't see him with a black eye!" So I hit him in the lip. It was just the two of us. No one else around, and I was loving it. He finally started to attack me but it wasn't much, just a little wrestling, then a woman saw us and broke it up. That afternoon, he sent his brother to call me out. He said he was waiting over by the Clark's house. I knew what this meant. The whole neighborhood was there waiting to see a fight. I don't know why, but I went over there, and sure enough, about thirty kids were crowded around him on the lawn. He didn't talk this time, he just jumped on me. With all those people there I got performance anxiety and froze. He had told his big brother that I had ambushed him for no reason, so his brother coached him. He pummeled me.
Wow, this is a lot more than two words, eh? The third time was in the Valley in L.A. I was friends with the Mods. You know, they rode scooters and listened to The Who and watched "Quadrofinia. The way we dressed was very distinctive. One day, my friend and I were walking down Sepulveda Blvd. when we heard a bunch of guys singing "F*** the Mods" to the tune of "Jingle Bells." I glared at them but my friend pushed me on, and we began to cross the street. When we got to the middle of the road, a chicken bone flew past my ear. I turned around and saw a skinhead who was at least eight feet tall and 600 lbs glaring at me. "What the &*@! were you staring at," he yelled. I said, "I wasn't looking at anything," and he punched me, splitting my lower lip. I fell to the road and the light changed. I looked around for help but the traffic just drove around us, the drivers laughing at me. My friend, bless him, pulled me to my feet and we ran to the other side of the street. When we got there, four of the guy's friends had joined him and they jumped on me, pounding and kicking me on the ground. My friend, bless him again, yelled at them to stop and they turned on him. Finally we got into a drug store. They didn't follow us in but stayed outside, singing the song at the top of their lungs.
The final (?) time was in Idaho. I was walking a friend to her apartment which was in the area where all the illegal aliens lived. One of them, a very short hispanic guy, ran over to me and whacked me in the back of the head with something. I was a punker, dressed strangely for that area, so the cowboys and jocks hated me. That's why what happened next surprised me so much. As I was facing off against this guy, a cowboy in a very large pickup stopped and got out. He told me to get out of there and began pounding on the Mexican kid. He must have been more of a bigot than a punk-hater. We left and I thought it was over. It wasn't of course or I wouldn't be telling it now. I took my friend home and hung out with her for a while, nursing the bump on my head. A few minutes later, the door crashed open and four mexicans came in, led by the one who'd hit me. One of them had a chain, one had a belt and one had a stick. They pummeled me.
So that's the number: Four. What would I change it to? Well, I thought I might change it to none. Understandable, right? But then I wouldn't have any of these cool stories to tell (even though they make me sound like a pussy.)
2) You find a shoebox in the back of your closet, and discover that anything you put into it (besides money or jewels) is magically cloned when you close the box. So what do you have in your house right _now_ that fits in half a shoebox, and that you would want more of?
I would have to say my drawing supplies--pencils, erasers, sharpeners, blending stumps, etc. I'm always losing that stuff and it gets expensive.
3) You're given the opportunity to spend a weekend with an unlimited budget, travel options, whatever supplies you need, etc. But you have to spend the weekend alone, and you can only be gone from the hours of five pm on Friday to a minute before midnight on Sunday night. Where do you go, and why?
This is going to be a boring answer. I'd have to say anywhere in Europe, because, while I've traveled all over the U.S., I haven't been outside the states. And if I have to narrow it down, I'd say Germany. I have four years of German under my belt and I've never had a chance to use it.
4) You can have the power to put anyone within the sound of your voice to sleep with a single word. If you accept the gift, you'll never be able to turn it off. Do you want the power, and if so, what will you choose as your 'trigger' word and how will you use it? That's easy. The word would be "booger" because I don't use it in everyday conversation so I don't think I would slip and put my wife to sleep while she's driving, for instance. How would I use it? That's easy too. I'd use it every time my kids get up in the middle of the night.
5) You have the ability to magically bring one person back from the dead and set up a ten-minute meeting with him or her with any living person (excluding yourself). Who do you get together, and why?
A couple of years ago I could get all noble and put Saddam Hussein with Ghandi to see if the latter could teach the former anything about leading a nation, but it's too late for that. Why can't the living person be me? I'd get Stevie Ray Vaughan over here to teach me a few licks. But I can't so who would I put together? Hmmmm. That's a toughie. Every combination I think of is with the idea of an opporunity to be taught by someone from the past. The thing is, we have their lessons already. We just need to read them. So I'm just going to put Louis Armstrong with BB King to see what kind of music they come up with together.
Great questions, Charlie.
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