I’ve spent too much time getting hit in the head growing up. Some who know me will say that explains a lot.
It started at a young age, three, I think. I was not the most graceful of tykes. At an age when my head was still a little soft (ok, ok, stop that snickering), I toddled my way right into the edge of a door jamb. I don’t recollect the incident but I am told I knocked myself out for a few minutes. In fact, I still have a nice little dent in my forehead from that bit of swiftness. And a weird urge to fall on the floor every time a door shuts.
At about age five, I was pretty certain my sister would stop the glider she as riding on the swing set when I got in front of it and yelled, “Stop!” She was only about five feet up in the air, after all. I’d like to blame that mental fart on my previous doorjamb experience, but I think I was just a clueless dork. That one I remember. Or at least I remember stepping in front of it, then a big blank spot and waking up on the couch with an icepack stuck to my forehead and a headache that made me wish baby aspirin came in cake size.
I think my sister thought it was pretty funny.
She must have, because a few years later she decided to see which was harder, my head or a rock. The rock won.
In fourth grade, one of my so-called friends decided to test the theory again, this time with the school pavement. Another big-time headache. I’m pretty sure by that time I could hear my brains sloshing around.
I managed to go a few years bang free after that. As a late teen, I hit a heavy bag too hard once that was mounted to a two by four to the ceiling in our cellar. The board wrenched loose and nailed me in the top of the head. TKO, round one, advantage bag.
Despite repeated head blows, I’m pretty normal now. Ok, no, I’m not. Sometimes I get old repeats of The Brady Bunch at the worst possible moment on my mind screen. That’s not so groovy. And there’s that whole Me and the Chimp flashback problem…
Hmmm. Maybe those who know me ARE right. It explains a lot.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Apple Jacking
I’m wondering about some things…
No, not why don’t chimps use toilet paper. Um, how do they…nevermind, that’s another piece altogether.
I am pondering deeper, more philosophical things. Such as why are Apple Jacks called Apple Jacks? They don’t look like jacks. Assuming anybody under my age even knows what those are. For those who don’t, they are some sharp little metal toys you grab by dropping a ball into the middle of them. The winner is the one with the least number of spikes embedded in their palm and who doesn’t need a Tetanus shot. Well, not really, but I did manage to get one jammed under a fingernail once. And immediately switched to checkers. I wasn’t the swiftest kid. But, no, Apple Jacks cereal is round, not jack-shaped. And I have never gotten one stuck in my hand. My throat, maybe, but not my hand.
I think Apple Jack is also some kind of moonshine or something. The cereal certainly doesn’t taste like booze and you can’t really get drunk on it. You can hurl it. It takes nearly a whole box, though. Take my word for that.
And does Apple Jacks really taste like apple? Not to me. I taste sugar. Yum, lots of sugar. And cinnamon. And eight good vitamins, that’s where it’s at. Vitamins always taste swell. That’s why there’s so much sugar, I think, to cover up the taste of the vitamins so kids will eat it. But of course you might not want your kids all that healthy once the sugar sets to work and has them bouncing off the walls and their teeth rotting out and apple-jacking up your dental bills.
Does anyone know why they are called such? I’d sure hate to die uninformed. Really. It seriously bugs me. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe the guy who named them was drinking too much Apple Jack and eureka! But I doubt it. I need to know. I really do. Because it will drive me crazy. Apple Jacks. Cereal of mystery. Path to emotional ruin.
But not alone in its ilk. So don’t even get me started on Sugar Smacks…
No, not why don’t chimps use toilet paper. Um, how do they…nevermind, that’s another piece altogether.
I am pondering deeper, more philosophical things. Such as why are Apple Jacks called Apple Jacks? They don’t look like jacks. Assuming anybody under my age even knows what those are. For those who don’t, they are some sharp little metal toys you grab by dropping a ball into the middle of them. The winner is the one with the least number of spikes embedded in their palm and who doesn’t need a Tetanus shot. Well, not really, but I did manage to get one jammed under a fingernail once. And immediately switched to checkers. I wasn’t the swiftest kid. But, no, Apple Jacks cereal is round, not jack-shaped. And I have never gotten one stuck in my hand. My throat, maybe, but not my hand.
I think Apple Jack is also some kind of moonshine or something. The cereal certainly doesn’t taste like booze and you can’t really get drunk on it. You can hurl it. It takes nearly a whole box, though. Take my word for that.
And does Apple Jacks really taste like apple? Not to me. I taste sugar. Yum, lots of sugar. And cinnamon. And eight good vitamins, that’s where it’s at. Vitamins always taste swell. That’s why there’s so much sugar, I think, to cover up the taste of the vitamins so kids will eat it. But of course you might not want your kids all that healthy once the sugar sets to work and has them bouncing off the walls and their teeth rotting out and apple-jacking up your dental bills.
Does anyone know why they are called such? I’d sure hate to die uninformed. Really. It seriously bugs me. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe the guy who named them was drinking too much Apple Jack and eureka! But I doubt it. I need to know. I really do. Because it will drive me crazy. Apple Jacks. Cereal of mystery. Path to emotional ruin.
But not alone in its ilk. So don’t even get me started on Sugar Smacks…
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Build it, Break it...
Last week I talked a bit about how I wasn’t in line when the “Fix it” gene was passed out. Well, I must have missed signing up for a few other lines that day because I didn’t get the “Build it” gene, either. Oh, I can break things pretty well. I have quite a talent for that. Just ask any of my unlucky friends with model airplanes.
I can’t hit a nail with a hammer to save my life—unless my thumb is on top of it. Then my aim is unerring. And if by some miracle I do manage to miss my thumb or any other dangling body part, I can’t hammer the nail in straight. It bends the first time or punches through in the wrong place.
When I was kid I was the only boy in my neighborhood to ruin an Erector Set. Erector Set…heh, I said Erector Set. That term has a whole new meaning to me as an adult because the only Set I can think of that goes with the word Erector…er, nevermind. Suffice it to say the packaging usually comes with a 36D tag…
I wasn’t much good with Tinker Toys, either. Just what was I s’posed to do with them, anyway? Tinker? I broke a number of the sticks off in the cog holes. I remember that. I never built anything remotely recognizable out of the fluggers. And at age five or six when you are pretty much just discovering you were supplied with a Willie there are more fun things to tinker with.
I was ok with Legos. Pretty colors. Fun, fun, fun…at least until you swallow a couple of the small ones and your mom wants to know why you have multi-colored confetti poop the next day…
I can’t hit a nail with a hammer to save my life—unless my thumb is on top of it. Then my aim is unerring. And if by some miracle I do manage to miss my thumb or any other dangling body part, I can’t hammer the nail in straight. It bends the first time or punches through in the wrong place.
When I was kid I was the only boy in my neighborhood to ruin an Erector Set. Erector Set…heh, I said Erector Set. That term has a whole new meaning to me as an adult because the only Set I can think of that goes with the word Erector…er, nevermind. Suffice it to say the packaging usually comes with a 36D tag…
I wasn’t much good with Tinker Toys, either. Just what was I s’posed to do with them, anyway? Tinker? I broke a number of the sticks off in the cog holes. I remember that. I never built anything remotely recognizable out of the fluggers. And at age five or six when you are pretty much just discovering you were supplied with a Willie there are more fun things to tinker with.
I was ok with Legos. Pretty colors. Fun, fun, fun…at least until you swallow a couple of the small ones and your mom wants to know why you have multi-colored confetti poop the next day…
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Chloe Files #1 Now in Storess
THE CHLOE FILES #1: Ashes to Ashes
Chloe's inaugural adventure kicking Evil's butt is now available at Barnes & Noble, Borders and other fine online stores.
A silver locket said to have belonged to Joan of Arc and a children's nursery rhyme...
A 600-year-old monkey with an attitude and a mysterious supernatural symbol on a Caller ID box...
A deadly plague reemerging in the seaside town of New Salem, Maine, and the manifestation of a little girl's ghost...
How do these tie in with the sudden disappearance of Chloe's fiancé, Detective Sergeant Arlo Grimm, while on a routine search for a lead to her twin sister, who vanished thirty years earlier?
When the answer points to an Evil she'd thought vanquished Chloe knows she's in over her pretty blonde head and this time she'll have nothing to rely on except her own wits and courage. But will that be enough to save her and the life of the man she loves?
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
Chloe's inaugural adventure kicking Evil's butt is now available at Barnes & Noble, Borders and other fine online stores.
A silver locket said to have belonged to Joan of Arc and a children's nursery rhyme...
A 600-year-old monkey with an attitude and a mysterious supernatural symbol on a Caller ID box...
A deadly plague reemerging in the seaside town of New Salem, Maine, and the manifestation of a little girl's ghost...
How do these tie in with the sudden disappearance of Chloe's fiancé, Detective Sergeant Arlo Grimm, while on a routine search for a lead to her twin sister, who vanished thirty years earlier?
When the answer points to an Evil she'd thought vanquished Chloe knows she's in over her pretty blonde head and this time she'll have nothing to rely on except her own wits and courage. But will that be enough to save her and the life of the man she loves?
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
Monday, June 16, 2008
Fix This...
I was born without the “Fix it” gene. Seriously. Most guys I know can fix things when they break, but me, I am mechanically retarded. Oh, I can change a tire, assuming some idjit didn’t pneumatically tighten the lug nuts to the point where it would take a jackhammer to get them off. I tried changing a car battery once…it was the 80s, so it was a good ten years too late for me to jump on the Afro craze. And the term “dead battery”? That’s a misnomer. They might not start a Pinto but they can still pack quite a jolt. Pfft, who knew grounding oneself and standing in a puddle was a bad idea when working on a car? Not me. Who knew a mild shock could actually replace a couple of Viagra tablets, too? Not that it makes any difference when you’re a pasty white guy with an Afro…
Somebody hired me to fix photocopiers once. That went well. You’d be amazed the mess you can make with the ink they used in those early models (or the powder for that matter). The black liquid was called toner. Nasty stuff. Especially if you didn’t get the tank in there quite right…the tank with a revving little fan inside it. It takes stuff like paint thinner to get the toner off your skin and it doesn’t come out of your clothes. The good news was the Afro finally looked natural...
And then there are all those plastic gears and nuts and screws and thingies. Being the consummate daydreamer I never did quite get down the knack of paying attention to the way things came off. So putting them back on was problematic. I had a whole box of extra parts. And the machines I fixed always made weird noises after. I’m kinda of surprised I made it out of that job with all my fingers.
Shop class? Did you know it costs a lot of money to put out even a small fire in a school? They tried to have me wire a lamp one day. FYI: don’t touch the copper part or curl both sides around the same screw…things only light up for a minute and by the time they’re done sparking you’ve pretty much lost all interest in whether the lamp works.
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
Somebody hired me to fix photocopiers once. That went well. You’d be amazed the mess you can make with the ink they used in those early models (or the powder for that matter). The black liquid was called toner. Nasty stuff. Especially if you didn’t get the tank in there quite right…the tank with a revving little fan inside it. It takes stuff like paint thinner to get the toner off your skin and it doesn’t come out of your clothes. The good news was the Afro finally looked natural...
And then there are all those plastic gears and nuts and screws and thingies. Being the consummate daydreamer I never did quite get down the knack of paying attention to the way things came off. So putting them back on was problematic. I had a whole box of extra parts. And the machines I fixed always made weird noises after. I’m kinda of surprised I made it out of that job with all my fingers.
Shop class? Did you know it costs a lot of money to put out even a small fire in a school? They tried to have me wire a lamp one day. FYI: don’t touch the copper part or curl both sides around the same screw…things only light up for a minute and by the time they’re done sparking you’ve pretty much lost all interest in whether the lamp works.
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Down in the Mouth
Anybody who knows me knows how much I love going to the dentist. It’s right up there with getting my fingers caught in a car door or sitting naked on one of those spiked pads cops lay down to stop high-speed chase cars.
The hygienist always says the same dumb thing too: do you know your blood pressure is 180 over 105? Well, no, pumpkin, I didn’t know the exact number but I could tell from the nice tomato color of my face and weird throbbing pulse in my temple something was up. It’s a way different feeling than going to the strip club. Duh.
The fear starts a good week before I know I have to go. And it doesn’t matter what I am going for, cleaning, filling or root canal. I wake up mornings with mild heart palpitations and the distant echo of a drill in my sleep-fogged brain. The day before, I am starting to sweat. The morning of…I am wondering if getting circumcised wouldn’t be more fun.
By the time I am sitting in the waiting room…I’m thinking horse tranq. Big frickin’ horse tranq.
Maybe it’s the lovely scent of Latex. Maybe it’s the grinding whir of the drill. Maybe it’s that weird suction noise. Sucking tubes are almost never good. Well…er, never mind.
Or maybe it’s because I know somewhere deep in the bowels of the place there’s a vat of extracted spit bigger than some small lakes we have around these parts. And God knows just what the spit ends up getting used for. But I’m staying away from the fast food place across the street…
Who knows? But given the choice between going to the dentist or getting a colonoscopy…ok, maybe I’ll pick the dentist there, but I’d really have to think about it.
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
The hygienist always says the same dumb thing too: do you know your blood pressure is 180 over 105? Well, no, pumpkin, I didn’t know the exact number but I could tell from the nice tomato color of my face and weird throbbing pulse in my temple something was up. It’s a way different feeling than going to the strip club. Duh.
The fear starts a good week before I know I have to go. And it doesn’t matter what I am going for, cleaning, filling or root canal. I wake up mornings with mild heart palpitations and the distant echo of a drill in my sleep-fogged brain. The day before, I am starting to sweat. The morning of…I am wondering if getting circumcised wouldn’t be more fun.
By the time I am sitting in the waiting room…I’m thinking horse tranq. Big frickin’ horse tranq.
Maybe it’s the lovely scent of Latex. Maybe it’s the grinding whir of the drill. Maybe it’s that weird suction noise. Sucking tubes are almost never good. Well…er, never mind.
Or maybe it’s because I know somewhere deep in the bowels of the place there’s a vat of extracted spit bigger than some small lakes we have around these parts. And God knows just what the spit ends up getting used for. But I’m staying away from the fast food place across the street…
Who knows? But given the choice between going to the dentist or getting a colonoscopy…ok, maybe I’ll pick the dentist there, but I’d really have to think about it.
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Here's the Story...of a Boy Named Brady...
For those of us who grew up as fans of ‘60s and early ‘70s TV there are just some things that should have been kept secret. It’s probably lucky we find out about these things as adults because by then it’s a bit too late to taint our nostalgia, but just the same…
Take for instance Greg Brady. Super groovy cool big bro of the Brady brood. Now did we really need the revelation the eldest Brady boy was learning the facts of life from Mama Brady? Um, no. While at the same time imparting those very same facts to Marsha Brady? Um, eew. And let’s not even get started on Papa Brady and what he was, er, up to. And just what were Alice and Sam doing sneaking around late at night anyway?
Meanwhile over at the Partridge house…oh, yeah, Keith and Lori. Hey, hey with the Monkee love. And little Danny? Somebody probably should have neutered that pesky little reprobate.
Oh, and on the set of Bewitched? Who knew Darren number 2 was really much friendlier with Uncle Arthur than Samantha? Not me as a tike, and I am really glad I didn’t, lemme tell you.
Well, what about our heroes, Batman and Robin? Apparently they spent all their spare time from chasing bad guys chasing skirts. Burt Ward wasn’t called the Boy Wonder for nuthin’. Holy Hooters, Batman.
And last but not least, poor innocent Mary Ann…recently nabbed for possession. Ok, that one might explain a lot about what was going on on Gilligan’s Island and just what she was putting into those coconut cream pies. The skipper wasn’t belly laughing randomly for no reason and Ole Gilligan wasn’t running into trees and tripping over everything in sight because he needed glases. Which makes me even more worried about that “Little Buddy” thing they had going on…
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press: http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
Take for instance Greg Brady. Super groovy cool big bro of the Brady brood. Now did we really need the revelation the eldest Brady boy was learning the facts of life from Mama Brady? Um, no. While at the same time imparting those very same facts to Marsha Brady? Um, eew. And let’s not even get started on Papa Brady and what he was, er, up to. And just what were Alice and Sam doing sneaking around late at night anyway?
Meanwhile over at the Partridge house…oh, yeah, Keith and Lori. Hey, hey with the Monkee love. And little Danny? Somebody probably should have neutered that pesky little reprobate.
Oh, and on the set of Bewitched? Who knew Darren number 2 was really much friendlier with Uncle Arthur than Samantha? Not me as a tike, and I am really glad I didn’t, lemme tell you.
Well, what about our heroes, Batman and Robin? Apparently they spent all their spare time from chasing bad guys chasing skirts. Burt Ward wasn’t called the Boy Wonder for nuthin’. Holy Hooters, Batman.
And last but not least, poor innocent Mary Ann…recently nabbed for possession. Ok, that one might explain a lot about what was going on on Gilligan’s Island and just what she was putting into those coconut cream pies. The skipper wasn’t belly laughing randomly for no reason and Ole Gilligan wasn’t running into trees and tripping over everything in sight because he needed glases. Which makes me even more worried about that “Little Buddy” thing they had going on…
Chloe's a gal usually in trouble--the supernatural kind...
A cursed locket, a child's rhyme and monkey with an attitude lead to terror...
In trade paperback: The Chloe Files #1: Ashes to Ashes
From Golden Perils Press: http://www.lulu.com/goldenperils
Author homepage: http://www.howardhopkins.com
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