Invention of the "REVERSE MOHAWK"

This next story happened on the same Sunday that Jeff snorted cups-full of gangling, thick-green boogers at the altar which activated my Super-Powers in a volcanic eruption of  vomit that ended up all over Ricky and on the feet of the Priest and over the front of Saint Mark's Church - but thankfully missing Jesus who was being help up high over the head of Father Bond in the form of the consecrated Eucharist.

Ulrich had decided that shaming my family in front of the entire Catholic Universe and almost being excommunicated...used as bad example in a sermon homily, having to say a quadrillion "Our Fathers" and put on Altar Boy Suspension - apparently wasn't enough punishment for me. He had other plans in store, but I guess God must have seen things differently.

We had move up from the old handheld can opener to a wall mount, not because we were "keeping up with the Jones" which happened to be the Blasers next door - but because if something wasn't screwed down in our house you just couldn't find it.  Many a Thursday "basketti night" (spaghetti night) ended up as hamburger helper without the hamburger with all kinds of leftovers and some of expired food Frank Nargie brought home from the Safeway Food-Bank (and occasional dumpster) all tossed in and missed into a meatless "Helper Goulash" YUKE (superpowers)!

                       We went from this                         to                  this  (now we were "uptown")

So the good news was that now we had a can opener attached to wall that couldn't be buried under stacks of National Geographic magazines, newspapers and the mountainous pile of debris conjured up daily by the 72 inmates who lived in our house. If you drove a small car into our living room it could get lost by the end of the day.
And now we could actually have tomato sauce in our "basketti" ("spaghetti" for all you people that don't speak "broken-12-year-old").

Android users: The Thing Song

Anyway, it was one of those days that the flip-had-switched in Ulrich's head and he decided he wanted to kill me for throwing up at Mass and bringing shame on our family or because I had grown a little and was just an inch shorter than him. I was short twelve-year-old and already catching Urich in height who was a 10th grader in High School.

Ulrich set a ambush and hid behind the cage of fouled-mouthed Mynah bird in the entry. When I came through the front door smelling like this mornings warm-oatmeal-and-sour/powered-milk-concoction-mixed with-bile the "dirty" bird squawked off a curse word  (not acceptable in a Catholic home by-the-way... purgatory was too good for this bird)... the monkey in the living room jumped and it scared the whits out of me and I flinched (remember my childhood PTSD) at the exact second Ulrich jumped out at me in surprise and caught my freaked out flying hand RIGHT IN THE CHOPS!  Yep, I had just busted Urich in the mouth...now I was really in for it. He had something more than just the usual beating in mind...A hamper (blog 6/5/13), an electrocution (blog 4/26/13), hung out a window, buried in a pit(blog 2/27/14), or perhaps smothered under a mattress, all I knew was that I had better run and run quick!  Ulrich had a broom in his hand and promised I was going to die.  What was Sister Edith's Prayer? Do I dare say it again? Have I over used it? Maybe I deserve this for what I did at Mass (last post)...Running... running... running for my life...oh well, here goes, "Dear Lord I love you, forgive me for my sins" Yep, it tasted like captain crunch tearing up the roof of my mouth.

Wrong turn into the kitchen! Trapped with  nowhere to go - for sure this was going to end in death.  GUESS WHAT I SAW?

You know what? I'll leave you in suspense until next time...and tell you exactly how I invented the "Reverse Mohawk" And I guess I should also tell you that it was a fad that did not catch on.  Oh well, If I have a moral for this part of the story - don't bring home boxes with thumping things inside and for "Pete's Sake" whatever you do - don't throw up at Mass all over the Priest!

Altar Boy Madness and streaming Mucus.

Worst Sunday Ever! I was in an awful quandary over Communion this past Sunday. Mike was on one side of the isle holding the paten for Father Kwansi and Ricky was on my side of the church carrying the paten for Father Bond. Either way I knew I was in trouble. Last week I got a good jab in on Ricky's Adam-apple when it was his turn to take communion and ever since I beat up Mike in the 5th grade for taking a bite of my sourdough toast, he has been looking for payback.




I knew my number was up and that one of these two guys would try to jab my throat with the brass, communion-plate thingy that is nothing more than an implement of torture in the hands of a seventh grade boy.

Seventh Grade altar boys are like little devils with halos hanging from the pointed horns that stick out of our heads. You can't see horns, but if you were to touch a seventh grader on the head, you sure can feel them just below the surface of the hair.

I didn't know which side of the isle to go down. I figured I'd take my chances with Ricky and stick to my side of the church. Now regretting what I did last Sunday, I was hoping that Ricky would show more respect  for the Altar Boy uniform than I did last time. I grabbed my neighbors, Tommy Blaser and Jeffery Lennon, for moral support and nervously walked down toward the altar. I could have opted out by appealing to the fact that I had not sufficiently fasted before communion. Since Vatican II, a couple years ago, all we had to do now was fast for one hour before Mass, but I didn't even make that. It seemed like Tommy was always chewing bubble gum and he gave me piece on our way to Mass. I could have refused to go up and take communion and find myself waking up in the middle of the night asking, "WHY DIDN'T I OPT OUT?"  

 The reason I was afraid not to go up was because everyone stares at you and makes you feel like you'll spend the rest of your eternity in Purgatory...you know "Under Pain of Mortal Sin" and all that. After this particular incident, I'm pretty certain that I'm probably going to skip Purgatory altogether and go right to the bottom of that other hot place- where the Devil lives.

Anyway, one of my older brothers told me that if the old guys from The Knights of Columbus (like Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Downey), find that you're not taking communion, they'll write down your name, take you out back in a dark alley and beat the snot out of you. I believed my brother and went down to communion even though I had just swallowed my gum.  I didn't look it up in Canon Law or anything, but it might have been a Mortal sin to have Jesus in my stomach along with some bubble gum. The way I got around this was by telling myself that Jesus was going to be in my stomach with some old oatmeal (see post XXX) and sour milk (see Post 7/13/13)anyway.  I thought He might like the gum!  Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa!

Hands folded in proper form and head bowed low - not to provoke or catch the eye of Ricky, the priest put the Eucharist on Tommy's tongue. I was next, followed by Jeffery.

"The......Body....of...Christ" said Father Bond in the slow, boring monotone, required of being a Catholic Priest.  Just as I was sticking my tongue out..WHAM...went the blunt metal thing Ricky was holding - like a sharp Karate chop to the neck.


(Okay, I need to put this on pause for just a second... because I had been smothered and electrocuted and buried and placed under mattresses and tied to trees and tied up and thrown over cliffs - and proven to be pretty indestructible. To be honest it actually made me feel good to be the center of attention - like I mattered or that I was somehow connected to my tribe...SO I WAS MENTALLY ILL, what of it? Anyway, there was no way one-of-me could fight off something like ten of the marijuana-smoking, hippie Wolf-Pack.

So I had developed a "Superpower."  I don't know what planet it came from...don't ask me...but it did work! Vomit! That was my power! I could take out 5, 6, 7, or 8 of them at a time (post 7/8 and 7/11/13).

Don't fart.. don't make me scoop the dog poop and whatever you do DON'T touch my neck - seriously!

BACK TO THE STORY: Ricky, paying me back for last week (for doing the same thing to him), had absolutely no idea what he was about to trigger. As the Eucharist was about to reach my mouth - tongue hanging out in anticipation-  before I could even say, "Amen" I gagged and began heaving. I threw up twice in my mouth and managed to swallow it back down...hallelujah...I was winning!  The Priest stood there angrily and held Jesus up so he would not get contaminated as I went through my violent convulsions at the altar rail. Jeffery thought it was funny and tried not to laugh and did everything he could kept his lips tightly sealed shut... only problem was, Jeffery probably never missed communion and the old guys must have never beat the snot of him...his entire sinus cavity was so full when he snorted through his nose, out came a billion gallons of boogers.  HELLO!

That's all it took...a steady stream of green mucus to trigger my "SuperPowers" Yep! This morning's 98.6 degree oatmeal and sour milk went everywhere. All over Ricky, yay me! All over the black, government issue, jack-boots of Father Bond, all over the altar, and all over Jeffery.  Sorry Jeffery!

Next week, the Priest used me as an object lesson for an illustration of what it means to be a bad catholic in his Homily, but poor Jeffery got the worst part because everyone thought it was his fault and he had to say like a bazillion Hail Marys and  five hundred million Our Fathers.

Jeffery only snotted like that one other time, that's when he and Tommy and I were at Mr. D's restaurant in the Marina. Yep.. you guessed it, we were just monkeying around and Jeffery tried to hold back a laugh when 500 gallons of green snot drained out of his sinus cavity and filled his salad plate. HELLO SUPERPOWERS! I threw up all over the restaurant and the three of us were thrown out and never allowed in there again.  Guess what? Didn't have to pay - but as good Catholics, we did say some Our Fathers on the way home.

Why...Chewbacca...Why?

I really don't understand a lot of stuff... i.e. here we are in the middle of a terrible fire that is consuming a grand old home with the daring rescue effort by my hippie brothers and a neighbor in underwear and two of the most bizarre things happen.  Let me set the stage:  Not only were there firemen and policemen that you would normally expect to find at a typical 3 alarm fire, but this particular event also drew the special interest of these mystery Men In Black - members of the President's Secret Service detail who had been staying in the Lennon house for their protection. These Men in Black began sniffing around like bloodhounds for information and asking questions about Chet Young and were concerned that this Molotov Cocktail bombing might have had something to do with Charles Manson.  The crazy-man, Chet Young, had made assassination threats against the President and Charles Manson was plastered on the front page of every newspaper in America for the gruesome Tate and La Bianca murders.


With the ensuing chaos of fire and smoke and firemen, and police, and paramedics, and anxious Secret Service, and my hippie brothers, and my dad and my near-naked neighbor rescuing half-clad college drop-outs - who were now homeless and walking around like dazed Zombies - it was totally crazy right! Picture - cars blowing up - people screaming, smoke hovering and flaming ashes falling... imagine if you will -  Night of the Living Dead, conspiracy - threats and big things to worry about - which in light of that brings me to the two things that I don't get:

Number 1) At a time like this, in the middle of all of this chaos with everything that is at stake - why would my second oldest brother, affectionately known as, Chewbacca, feel compelled, at this moment to make some type of emotional connection to a dead feral-cat that nobody in the neighborhood cared for anyway.                  

                           WHY?                   Weird?  Right!

He had lots of hair and the charred cat had lots of hair at one time I suppose - was that it?  Was it some strange hippie thing that I didn't know about? Did it have to do with some form of Arrested Development? Did it have something to do with those funny cigarettes and those hidden "Mexican Tomato Plants" the older boys were meticulously taking care of in our backyard.







I understand that I'm only 12 and in seventh grade, so I guess I have a lot to  figure out...but I just didn't get it.


Okay, now with all that said, why this next part?  Take your stupid dead cat that the cosmos has directed you to fall in love with and leave me out of this.    This leads me to number 2).

Number 2). Why on earth did Chewbacca feel he had to bring that char-broiled cat which had stunk like burnt hair and that had looked like some 4000-year-old thing buried in a pyramid in Egypt alongside of Tutankhamen...AND SHOVE IT IN MY FACE?  

Why Chewbacca?   Why?   What did I ever do to you? What did I do to deserve the 732 titty-twisters, a year of being squeezed to unconsciousness(blog post 6/26/13), 532 wedges, 321 monkey bumps to the leg...and now a dead, stinky, burnt corpse of a despised cat shoved in my face?  

CAN ANYONE TELL ME?   He could have taken that cat to the backyard and happily had some kind of hippie ritual for all I care, but why did he feel it was necessary to torment me on the way?  I was watching the show minding my own business and out of nowhere he shoved that disgusting thing in my face and you know what happened!   That's right - my superpowers kicked in - I bent over gagging and heaving and threw up 13 times on the Blaser's front lawn... and before everyone could clear the blast zone - Tommy, Ricky and even one of the escaping Lennon brothers had puke all over them.

There I stood despised by everyone - making matters worst, I was in my hand me down shirt, my holey jeans, my miss-matched socks - looking like a complete moron...besides all that, I knew that Mr. Blaser was sure to be mad at me in the morning - as if this was all my fault.

Later the next day, Mr. Blaser made me wash the puke off of his lawn and it was there that I determined to find out who started this whole thing. That's why I felt like I had to take investigative matters into my own hands and find out who started this thing in the first place - and why I figured that the Secret Service and the Fire Marshal needed my help is solving this terrible arson case.  

It turns out that it was neither Charles or Chet, which meant that my list of suspects was dwindling.

To my shame, I am not happy to report the next incident, which turned out to be an unbelievable miracle of epic proportions and the beginning of a new saga at the Harding House!

Big Mistake Hutch! Come on Baby Light my Fire!

First, let me apologize for all the "throw-up" talk. It might be grossing some of you out, but you have to understand - that is where I lived. I practically threw-up every single day. A lot of it came by way of Wolf-Pack terrorism and some just because...

Just because... someone "cut the cheese" or spit a gross loogie - BAM there it was...heaving - gagging and vomit! (You think I liked that, NO! It will eventually add to my Arrested Development - Hey, that might make a good name for some demented TV show- ah...who knows). 

It wasn't like I planned it...I'd be the first to admit it wasn't pretty, but it just happened. So I apologize if you feel there has been too much description and detail, but I am trying to be accurate in my reporting to you THE HISTORY OF THE 60'S ACCORDING to Markie D.


I can't make this stuff up! This was true... plus or minus ten percent.


Anyway... Gherhing and Great and I had sprayed each other off with a hose and were back at my house ready to "rock and roll" with the rest of the crew.  Gherhing always wanted to be right in the middle of things - NOT ME!

Yeah us... that we didn't smell like pee or vomit! Could you just image how much fun the Wolf Pack would have had with that? We would have been unmercifully bullied by the older boys, stripped or used in some devious prank. 

Everyone was laughing when we walked in, as Gustav was recounting how he outran and outfoxed the Venice Police Department.

Remember no adults were home.

 Mom and Jerry "TT" had taken poor Chewy to the hospital. I could still hear his string of pain-filled "Ave...Maria" ringing in my head as they lifted him into the Dodge station wagon and drove off down the street! 

The jumper cables had been taken off the "fire-pole" to eliminate the evidence that his fall from the pole (at the second floor level) was precipitated by the surge of electricity, switched on by my conniving, ingenious, and scheming older brothers (not-so-affectionately know as the Wolf-Pack).

The little old lady next door had a brother named Hutch, who came to her house every Saturday night drinking from a bottle concealed in a brown paper bag. Hutch was as mean and cantankerous as she was and the boys figured, they had time left before it got completely dark to pull off one prank that would be a grand "twofer."  Never mind messing with her precious car, this time...they figured they could make this  one up-close and personal.

Dooh-Dooh Pants had scooped up a big, warm pile of dog-dooie and put it in a brown-paper lunch-bag.  I knew what was up and was smart enough to know that if I were within 20 feet - it would be a "three-fer." I had nothing left in my stomach to give to this newest enterprise and scrammed. I climbed out the second story window and scaled the valley of the steep roof and watched all the excitement from the top of the roof. I figured that from that distance, I was safe from the awful smell.

Just as Hutch was rounding the corner by the Lennon Sister's house (where they were gathered in their living-room practicing for Mass on Sunday), Ulrich and the band of angry little men placed the paper bag and it's contents on poor Edna's front porch and lit the paper sack on fire.

It was a pretty substantial blaze by the time Hutch reached his sister's front Porch. She came out screaming and hollering and threatening the call Police... and Hutch figured he'd be the hero and stomp out the fire!

Big Mistake Hutch...as he stomped on the flaming bag, poochie's pooh-pooh went spraying in a million different directions. He stomped that dookie all over the place and even got some on 'O Edna herself. She grabbed her garden hose and began spraying him off (I could identify). He was yelling and screaming... she was yelling and screaming as she sprayed off her porch and then just stood blaring out threats as though she were the siren on top of a police car and sprayed her hose into the air in the hope of dousing at least one member of the ornery Wolf Pack! 

                                                            She was fit to be tied!  

If my mom was home...we'd probably, all be under the "Pain of Mortal Sin!" 

FIRE!      

That was it... Gustav had a brilliant idea. 

In this case, however, he had no contingency plan - should things go terribly wrong! 

What could possibly go wrong...go wrong...go wrong...go wrong...go wrong... the record player below began to skip... come on baby light my fire...fire...fire...fire...fire..fire...

I think it was an omen.

 Tune in next time to catch the incredible end to a very long day.