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43

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#43. I once went whitewater rafting.

Actually, I’d like to go again. I know several people who raft all the time, so maybe I can sneak my way into one their trips again. The first time was fun, though the main source of adventure had little to do with the rapids.

My wife and I took the trip about six or seven years ago. It was a group outing with a bunch of people from her department at work. Most of us had never been rafting before, so we took on a fairly tame bit of river with just a few series of rapids. I ended up in a raft with my wife and a couple of girls from her lab. One of which was, um, rather large. I wouldn’t normally mention such a thing, but it turns out to be important. So bear with me.

So, we get through the first couple of rapids okay, and we take a break. There are maybe six boats and a couple of kayaks on this trip, and we’ve probably been in the boats for an hour or so. At this point, the guides sent a couple of people ahead to spot us on the next stretch of whitewater, and to take pictures as we go past. So, the remaining experts gather us around and prep us — you want to stay left here, and then paddle around the rock to the right there, and then head for the left fork, and we’ll meet up at the end. Fine.

So we take off — our boat’s near the back of the pack, and we watch some of our friends skitter to the left, and then toward the rock on the right, and then it’s our turn. Well. We paddle to the left, and into the rapid, where we get jostled around a bit. More than a bit, actually. For a few seconds, it’s quite a chore to hold onto the paddle and stay in the boat. And apparently too great a chore for our, um, big-boned friend, who falls over into the water. I catch it out of the corner of my eye, and lean back to help. It seems that she’s not quite all the way in the water; she’s tumbled forward, but her legs — and ass — are still in the boat. Meanwhile, we’re still running through this little bit of whitewater. Perfect.

So, not wanting her to do a faceplant into an onrushing rock or anything, I help her back into the boat. Or rather, I try to help her back into the boat. Unfortunately, with the slippery raft and an oar in one hand and the water whooshing by, I can’t manage to do much more than grab the belt loop on the back of her jeans and lift her out of the water. Not onto the raft, you understand. Just out of the water. Mostly.

By now, we’re pretty much out of the rocky area, and heading toward the rock on the right. Which we’d be doing whether we wanted to or not, since this girl is now acting as both a rudder and an anchor on the right side of the boat. So luckily, going to the right was in the plan already. Bit of luck, that. But now, the rest of us in the boat have just a few seconds to get her back in before we hit the next fast stretch, just on the other side of the rock. So my wife comes over to help, while the other girl tries to keep us on course. I finally manage to grab both a belt loop and a hand of the girl who’s still half-overboard, and pull her back toward the boat. My wife pushes her from behind, and the girl gets a grip on the raft, and between the three of us, we heave her back into the boat. Face-first. And on top of me. Naturally.

This, of course, is when the guide decides to snap the picture of our boat.

The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful. By comparison, anyway. But when we got back to the base, we saw that the pictures had already been developed and posted for us to see. Most of them had three or four smiling, happy faces. Some, taken in calmer water, even showed people waving or giving thumbs up to the camera. Real Kodak moments.

And ours? Well, way over on one side of the boat is a grim-faced girl with a paddle, trying desperately to control the raft. On the other side, you can see my wife’s back and flailing arms, as she pushes on our friend coming back into the boat. As for the friend, all you can really see is her ass flying back into the raft, with her legs splayed and gyrating as she topples forward. And then there’s me. You can just see my terrified, wide-eyed face over the girl’s ass, as I realize that she’s about to crash directly down onto me. I look like the guy in The Scream. It’s quite a photo, let me tell you.

And yet, I’d go back. I’d love to go back, actually. It was really a lot of fun, despite the flailing and the splashing and the near-disaster. I just think I’ll have to pick and choose who to go with a little more carefully. Medium-sized people. Strong, but wiry. That’s what I’m looking for. See, if I knew that I could stay in the boat myself, then I’d go after little itty-bitty people, to make it easier to help them. But given that mine might be the next fat ass that needs hauling out of the water, I think I’d better have at least a little muscle on board. Maybe that way, I’ll at least be back in the boat when the picture’s snapped. I think we see quite enough of my ass as it is. Don’t need it on film, thanks just the same.

42

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#42. I have read — and reread — all five books in the Hitchhikers’ Guide trilogy.

Okay, so that’s not so much of an accomplishment. These books have sold how many millions of copies? And you gotta figure that not everyone is buyin’ ’em just to use as coasters or doorstops. There are probably even a few other crazy folks who go back and read the whole set from time to time, like me. Or a few thousand, more likely. Douglas Adams fans are kooky that way.

So, let’s see. Maybe I can set myself apart, after all. I also own — and have read — both of Adams’ Dirk Gently books. They’re… um, different. They’re written with his same flair and humor and genius, but they’re… well, different. Not better, not worse, just different.

Actually, it’s tough for me to compare anything to the first three books of the Hitchhikers’ Guide. Including the two books that followed in the series. I discovered the first three books all at once, back in high school or before, and they hit me like a spoonful of dwarf star. In other words, hard. Suddenly, whole new worlds were opened to me. I could be a smartass, and clever, and tongue-in-cheek, and get away with it. Maybe even published! Oh, I’d never do those things as well as him, but who else does, anyway? Douglas Adams was a voice in my wilderness, a bona fide absurdist satirical genius. There’s something about those first few books that changed my life.

But a lot of people can say that, too. I’m not sure that they do, but they can. So what else? Okay, how about this? I also own the entire series of Hitchhikers’ Guide TV shows, which I used to catch on PBS. A few years ago, I got them in a box set dealie, with the VHS tape packaged with backup copies of the first two books. Now there’s a show, folks. In what other series could you simulate a two-headed character by plopping a lifeless mannequin head on some actor’s shoulder, and have it matter not one damned bit?

The show wasn’t about effects (thankfully), or T & A (though Trillian’s not that bad looking, actually), or any of the other modern tricks that producers and special effects monkeys use to detract from the fact that there’s no fucking plot to speak of. No, the Hitchhikers’ Guide was all about being clever. Devilishly, fiendishly, sublimely clever, and that’s what it was, both in the books and onscreen.

Unfortunately, what we’ve got of Douglas Adams’ is all we’re going to get. He passed away of a heart attack a while ago, and will grace us no further with his wit and satire. I’m a little ashamed to say that I found out well after the fact — I’d have thought I’d be more on top of important things like that, but I missed it. When I did find out, I went out and bought Starship Titanic in book and PC game forms; it was one of his later projects, and I thought it would be a good way to catch up with an old friend. I finished the book pretty quickly, though I haven’t meneged to get around to playing the game yet. One of these days…

Perhaps the best book of Douglas Adams’ I’ve ever read, though, was the Salmon of Doubt. The second half is a hodgepodge of chapters from a book of the same name that he was working on at the time of his death. It’s good, but obviously unpolished and incomplete, so it’s a bit hard to know for sure where he was going with it. The first half of the book, though, is amazing. In it are letters, essays, and personal stories covering a variety of topics; I especially remember one about him wearing a rhinoceros costume head while climbing a mountain (for some good cause, which I can’t remember; I’m sure that’s some further indication that I’m going straight to hell), and another about some neighbor dogs that used to keep him company while he was writing in Arizona. Or Nevada. Or somewhere like that; just read the damned book and stop relying on me for details, okay?

Anyway, I know that I’m not the expert on all things Adams, nor his very biggest fan. I haven’t seen the movie made about his life (Life, the Universe and Douglas Adams), and only just discovered that an authorized biography (Wish You Were Here) is in the works. Still, I’m a big, big fan, and feel privileged (and giggly) to have had his works in my life. I only wish he were still around to bring us more. Rest well, Mr. Adams, and thanks for all the fish.

41

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#41. I’m a green belt (retired) in Tae Kwon Do.

Okay, when I say ‘retired’, I suppose I really mean ‘disinterested’. I’m not sure you can ever really retire from martial arts, or renounce it, somehow. How do you give back the ability to roundhouse kick? (Well, yeah, eighteen years or so of beer-drinking and bad beer haven’t exactly helped. But I could still do one. You know, if I wanted to. I just choose not to kick, that’s all.)

Anyway, I got into Tae Kwon Do in high school. I stuck with it for about eight or nine months, I think, which would probably make it a record at the time. I tended to go through interests pretty quickly, and get distracted at the drop of a hat. Lucky thing I got through that phase, eh? Oh, shut up.

So, in this particular sport, the belts go from white to yellow to green to… let’s see, green with a brown tip, and then to brown, and then red, and blue — or blue, and then red, I forget — and finally black. I was just a couple of weeks away from testing for the brown-tipped green belt when I got into something else and stopped going. (Of course, the joke’s on them — the way I dragged the belt around and played with it at home, it was already brown-tipped. Hah!)

But it was fun while it lasted, I suppose. Certainly, I was in the best shape of my life back then, thanks to the added flexibility, regular exercise and metabolism of a hyperactive field mouse. And I got to break boards every now and then, which was pretty cool. I even remember a little bit of the technique and moves, though I don’t think I’ll be trying out my now-tender feet on any two-by-fours anytime soon. Plus, there’s a fair chance I’d pull a groin or something trying to kick anything above chest level. It’s been a long time, I’m afraid.

These days, I just have to content myself with being able to close the silverware drawer from across the room, or shutting the dishwasher without bending over. Before I was married, I could also push in the salad crisper in the fridge with a slo-mo front kick. But my wife saw me once, and threatened to unleash a big ‘Hiiiiy-yah!‘ on me if I put my filthy feet in the refrigerateor again. So clearly, that move is out of my repertiore. She doesn’t know any martial arts herself, you see, but she’d still probably kick my ass. This self-defense shit isn’t worth a damn against an angry wife. You’d think they’d have invented a martial art for that by now.

40

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#40. I have three jokes that I can drag out for at least an hour apiece.

Okay, so obviously I can’t print them here. I’d be typing until next Tuesday if I tried to post even one of them. I mention it only to confirm for you that I’m not just verbose when it comes to the print medium. I can also be a lousy wordy windbag in the speech department, too. Especially after a few beers, which — of course — is when most jokes get told.

Of course, the other reason I tell you this is because we might meet up one day. Maybe you already know me, or maybe we’ll get together at some time in the future. Either way, hear me now and believe me immediately: do not ask me to tell one of the three jokes. Seriously. I’m not kidding, people. I can drag them out for a friggin’ eternity, and I absolutely will tell them if asked. And once I see the horror and dismay on people’s faces, I will take perverse pleasure in striiiiiinging things out just that much longer. So please, if you have a brain in your head, never, never, never ask me to tell you about Nate the Snake, the Carrot Family, or ask me How to Catch a Blue Elephant.

Maybe you’ve heard these jokes before. Maybe they haven’t even taken that long, or the teller has let you off the hook early. Well, not in my house, sistah. Homey don’t play the ten-minute joke game. You’d better have a comfy seat and a full drink when I get started, because I’ll add shit to these jokes until your head spins around like a top. Tangents, asides, backstory — it’s all there. I’ll make shit up as I go along; I don’t care. You’ve been warned.

Just to prove it, I’ll tell you about someone who didn’t listen to the warnings, and how sorry they were. It was a chilly fall night in 1993. (See, all the details make it more believable, right?) Our department was on its annual ‘getaway’ camping weekend out in the hills of Pennsylvania somewhere. I’d only been in the department for a couple of months, but I’d located the other smart-asses pretty quickly and had assimilated myself into their corny, cynical culture. So we spent a lot of time and energy annoying the hell out of each other, which included telling stupid jokes and playing tricks and similar tomfoolery.

Well, apparently word had gotten around to the administrative staff that I was something of a joke-teller. And the head administrative assistant — who was pretty well liquored up at this point — wanted to hear a joke. I think she asked for the carrot joke. Well, not so much ‘asked’ as ‘demanded’:

Her: Hey, Charlie. I hear you tell jokes. Tell us the one about the carrot.

Me: Um, no. Really, you don’t want to hear that.

Her: C’mon! Tell the joke!

Me: Nah, I really —

Her: Tell the fuckin’ joke! C’mon, ya pansy, fuckin’ tell it!

Me: Look, I’m serious. You really don’t want to hear it.

Her: Fuck that! Tell the joke! Tell the fuckin’ joke!

Me: But you don’t —

Her: Goddammit, if you don’t tell that fuckin’ joke… Tell the fuckin’ joke!

This went on for a while, actually. I would leave for a beer, or to play a game of pool, and when I came back, it was, ‘Tell the fuckin’ joke!‘ She’d go off for a drink, or to the bathroom, and come back with ‘Tell the fuckin’ joke!‘

So, finally, I caved. I told the fuckin’ joke.

So, I get started. Now, none of these jokes sound all that complicated at the beginning; it’s just that there are a million places to throw extra shit in there that makes them take a lifetime to tell. And I was out to prove that she really didn’t want to hear it — like I warned her — so I threw in a million and one things. Then a million and two, and I just kept going. After five minutes or so — maybe a quarter of the way through, if I’d kept going at the same rate — she piped up again.

Me: And so, the Carrot family moved into —

Her: Stop it!

Me: Stop what? I’m tellin’ the fuckin’ joke.

Her: Just stop. Finish the fuckin’ joke!

Me: I’m gettin’ there. Hold on.

Two minutes pass…

Her: Goddamn it, finish the joke!

Me: Wha? What’s wrong?

Her: Stop telling the fuckin’ joke!

Me: Don’t you want me to finish?

Her: Yes! No! Fuck, I don’t know. Get to the fuckin’ punchline.

Me: Okay, okay, I’ll try to speed it up.

Two more minutes pass…

Her: So help me, if you don’t stop tellin’ this fuckin’ joke…

Me: Look, I’m doin’ the best I can. Now you asked for it. Do you want to hear it, or not?

Her: Not if it’s gonna take this fuckin’ long.

Me: Well, I did try to warn you. You should have listened.

Her: Fuck. You’re a peckernose, you know that? Fine. Keep goin’, fucknose.

Me: Fine. And don’t worry; we’re almost half-way done already.

Her (running higgledy-piggledy into the woods): Aaaaauuuuuuuaaaa! Aaiiiieeeeeee! Gwuh! Huwoo! Uuuaaaaaaaoooo!

Me: Well, I did try to tell her…

So, at that point, I took (relative) pity on the other people there, and wrapped it up fairly quickly. Maybe another five minutes’ worth, or so. But I don’t have to be so nice, people. And I won’t be, if I know you know what you’re getting into. And especially if I know you know I know. And heaven help you if I find out you know I know you know I know. ‘Cause then you’re in deep shit.

So it’s best just not to ask in the first place. Let the example in the woods be your guide. You don’t want to be like the drunken lady, now, do you? I’m not sure they ever found her, by the way. She’s probably still out there, muttering, ‘Fuckin’ fuck… carrots… fuckin’ carrots… finish it… fuckin’ finish carrots… dammit carrots…‘ But hey — I did try to tell her. She got what she deserved.

39

Charlie’s “100 Things Posts About Me”

#39. In high school, I won awards for emulating Bill Cosby.

No, I wasn’t peddling pudding pops, or doing that funky little choo-choo half-dance that he likes to whip out when he’s forgotten how to be funny. Really, it’s better than that.

You see, before ‘the Cos’ was a lame, dorky sitcom star, he was an actual standup comedian. And funny, too, at least in places. I know, I know — it’s hard to imagine. But it happens. I hear Ray Romano was funny at one point, too. Who knew? Oh, and George Lopez, too, though I really can’t picture it. Have you ever watched that show? I’m still waiting for the punchline…

Anyway, back in high school, I was on the ‘forensics’ team. I joined up ’cause I heard that we’d get to dissect dead bodies and solve crimes and cool shit like that. Of course, I was sadly misinformed. It seems that ‘forensics’ in high school means something like ‘solo acting’, where you pick out a piece and perform it in front of a panel of adults, who then judge you on how cute you look while you’re making an ass out of yourself. Whee.

So, since I was stuck on the team — they made you sign a one-year contract, like a long-distance company or something — I tried to make the best of it. I wanted to do some Eddie Murphy, or maybe George Carlin. You know, really raunchy crap, to set my act apart from the other pimply goons up there talking. But the teachers put the kibosh on that before I could even finish the ‘My shit is stuff, but your stuff… is shit!‘ routine. Just another example of the Man keepin’ me down.

So, I fell back on Cosby. My dad had a few of his old comedy records, and they were actually pretty funny. I memorized a bit he did where Noah and God talked about building the ark, and ‘what the hell’s a cubit?‘ and ‘Really? Elephants, too?‘, or something like that. It’s been fifteen years ago, now — I’ve forgotten some of it. Cut me some slack, all right?

Anyway, I did pretty well with it. I placed in a couple of tournaments, or meets, or bowls, or whatever the hell we entered. I think I may have even won one, in the ‘Humorous Monologue’ category. In any case, I did well enough to join a few team members on a trip to the National Tournament my junior year. Which was fun, but there were just two problems:

1. The tournament was held in the exciting, exotic, excruciating city of Buffalo, New York. Yawn.

B. The meet was sponsored by the Catholic Forensic Association, or some similar organization.

Now, I don’t know why we went to a Catholic-affiliated tournament. Ours was not a Catholic school. It wasn’t even Episcopalian, or anything else, as far as I know. But somehow we got lumped in with the nun-fearin’ kids. Which was good in a way, I guess — believe me, nobody at this thing had a piece like mine, where God’s kind of an asshole, and Noah’s giving him a hard time about the instructions. I was completely original and unique, in terms of subject matter. So that was cool.

On the other hand, all the judges were nuns and priests and other miscellaneous Catholic minions, and so my particular brand of irreverent, blasphemous comedy didn’t go over so big. No wonder no one else was trying it. So, needless to say, I didn’t win, and I don’t think I fared very well. On the other hand, I’ve never been in a competition before or since where all the judges promised to pray fervently for my mortal soul. So I’ve got that goin’ for me, which is nice.