Pompadour and Circumstance.

I always liked the TV commercials for K-Tel’s Slim Whitman albums. So much so that I paid homage on Halloween of 1982 by dressing up as him.

I wore a red satin shirt emblazoned with a glittery guitar and musical notes on the back along with white polyester slacks and cowboy boots. My hair was swooped into a pompadour and sprayed black—jet black with the added flourish of a pencil thin mustache. The resemblance was as uncanny—especially since I’m an Irishman. My yodeling skills put the whole thing right over the top.

That night, John, Russ and I went to a party up by the university. I didn’t know a soul there except for the two friends who dragged me there. Being an introvert, I headed straight for the drink table. Well, it wasn’t so much a drink table as it was a metal trash can full of “jungle juice.” I ladled some into a cup and downed it. It wasn’t bad so I had another. Before long I was pretty buzzed and struck up a conversation with a girl dressed as The Sphinx. I casually asked her to show me her boobs and she did. I went back for more punch.

Midnight was approaching and John and Russ wanted to see “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” at The Blue Mouse. We left the party and piled into John’s Toyota pickup truck. Once at the theatre, I decided that I was too wasted to watch the movie and that I just wanted to sleep. They bought their tickets and I climbed into the bed of the truck. The Toyota was lined with a carpet of astroturf which worked well as a blanket since a light dusting of snow had begun to fall.

I vaguely remember the laughter and chatter of Halloween revelers walking up the sidewalk. One voice said “Hey! That guy looks like Slim Whitman!” He began to yodel. Good Night, Ireeeeene..... Then everything went black—jet black.

Deeburger

My brother Dee died on October 26, 2002 — 12 years ago today.

Being a “weekend and holiday brother,” my memories of him are a bit more sparse than the rest of my siblings, but here are some little nuggets I’ll always remember.

My  first memory of Dee, was at Raelene’s house before she married my dad. I think she lived somewhere by the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon with Grandma Chase. 

Dad had brought Mark, David and me up to to her house to meet our new family. April and Dee were both so small, one with dark hair and dark eyes, the other, a tow-head with blue eyes. April was quiet and puttering the way a toddler will do. Dee was screaming his head off. I was pretty small, too, but I just remember how much Dee screamed. Red faced, clenched fists, screaming.

After Dad and Raelene married, they moved to 900 East in a small house by the Iceberg Drive Inn, where I remember Dee screaming on his rocking horse. The family shortly after to a house a few doors down. When Mark, David and I came over on weekends I remember reading stories to April and Dee.

When the family moved to Tonya Drive I remember they way Dee would speak. His “Gs” were “Ds” and his “Cs” were “Ts.” When Grandma Chase would stop by, Dee would bound down the steps to greet her, yelling “Drandma Trace! Did you breen me some tandy? Tan I have some dum?!” I’d tease him about it, but stopped one day when he hauled off and slugged me in the gut. I think that’s also when stopped calling him “Deeburger.”

I’ll always associate Dee with “The Gully.” Summers were spent wandering from one end of it to the other. We never discovered anything very interesting, but always hoped to. We’d walk to the west end water grate—it seemed to take all day—and peer inside. I’d scare him by saying there was probably a body hidden there. 

One Fourth of July, I remember Dee and I were throwing fireworks around and caught a big bush in the gully on fire. The firemen showed up and we blamed it on little Jason next door, knowing that he was too young to get in trouble.

The tubing memories are the best. We had the longest hill right off the back door. Right across was the hill with the big jump and further west was the curvy snowmobile run. Again, I’ll always remember Dee screaming. But this time with laughter. Whether it was the exhilaration of flying through the air, or getting the wind knocked out of him on a bad landing, Dee loved to tube. We’d do it for hours at a time, it seemed.

When Dee was older, I’d take him to the Golden Eagles hockey games. This time we were both screaming. At the refs bad calls, when the Eagles scored, or when the other team did something wrong, we’d both scream our heads off. Looking back maybe it was a good way to get things out of our systems rather than excitement about sports. We’d both be hoarse by the end of the game. Driving back to Sandy, we’d crank the stereo and scream some more to the music of Queen.

I took Dee to Bear Lake one time with some friends of mine from work. We basically paddled around in rafts the whole weekend, but when the time came to sunbathe we all slept in chaise lounges. When we awoke, Dee proudly displayed the Playboy Bunny that had been burned onto his chest from his artistic placement of suntan lotion.

These are the good memories of Dee. I’m sure there were more from reunions, Mountain Man Rendezvous’ and birthday parties, but I really lost track of him after he turned fourteen or so.

The last time I saw him was a few months before he died. I got a phone call from him. He said that he had come back to visit some old friends. I agreed to meet him at The Pub in Trolley Square. When I got there I didn’t even recognize him. The years had not been kind (to either of us, apparently, because he didn’t recognize me, either). We ordered a pitcher of beer and talked. He spoke of his disappointment that none of his friends from ten years ago were still around and laughed that he probably should have called them first. He asked about the family and spoke of how he missed Grandma Perry. I asked where he was staying. He told me he had slept on the steps of the City & County Building the previous two nights. For a variety of what now look like selfish, regrettable reasons, I didn’t offer to put him up for the night. He was heading back to Eugene in the morning. We hugged goodbye. 

That was the last I saw or heard of him, but not what I will remember. What I’ll remember is a tow-headed kid screaming his lungs out. Just wanting to say “Hey! I’m here!” It’s easy to get lost in a family as big and spread out as ours. My hope is that if Dee taught us anything—it’s that we should be ourselves, love the lives we have, and never lose touch. 

Deeburger, we hear you loud and clear.

Snoring: The Not-So-Silent Killer

Here’s today’s Public Service Announcement. If you are a snorer or know someone who is—read this:

I’ve been a snorer since I was a teenager. I remember evenings with my family gathered around the television. Every night, with a couple of snorts and head jerks I’d awaken to the snickers of Mom and Frank, the studio audience of “Good Times”  even chiming in. I’d sheepishly shuffle to my room, mumbling good night to them all. Later, on campouts and vacations, friends would titter over morning coffee about the live animal they heard in the woods or the parade of dumptrucks outside our hotel window. Occasionally, they held their breath in worry as I stopped breathing altogether, but laughed in relief as my snarks and gasps returned.

One night at the Broadway Theatre, about a dozen people were scattered in the seats to watch a movie. I sat alone on the aisle with my Birkenstocks propped on the seat in front of me. In one hand, I held a $50 Diet Coke, and in the other, nachos with petroleum cheese. Life was good. The lights dimmed. The previews started. Then everything went dark.

The next thing I remember was a young woman tapping my shoe. “Sir ... sir …,” she whispered. I flailed in my trademark routine of snorts and head jerks. “Your snoring is awfully loud.” I quickly wiped the drool from my chin, my embarrassment compounded by the fact that she from the front of the theater to tell me this news. I sat stunned, for about three minutes—holding my eyes open as wide as an Edvard Munch—then skulked out of the theater to my car.

I checked into a sleep clinic. Long story short, they speculated that I had sleep apnea, a lack of oxygen due to the collapsing of the air passage during sleep. It is best described as trying to suck a thick milkshake though a small straw. Eventually, the straw just collapses, and no matter how hard you try, nothing gets through. This is what happens with your air passage (for sometimes as long as a minute). After a while, your brain takes over and wakes you up in order to reopen your airway. Once awake, your body panics, trying to regain oxygen. You gasp and heave as though you have nearly drowned. As your lungs expand and contract, your heart and stomach do the same. This is when strokes and heart attacks happen—a lot. Yikes!

The night of my sleep test, the techs rigged me up with wires, tape, monitors and who knows what else. Somehow, I still managed to fall asleep.

When I awoke, it seemed very quiet all of a sudden—like when the hum of the refrigerator stops. I didn’t know what time it was, and lay there for awhile until a tech came in to unhook me. I asked her if I broke any equipment with my snoring. She peered over her glasses with a grin and said I was “pretty loud.”

A few days later I met with the clinic for the big news. The sleep doc scrolled through my polygraph, and explained all the blips, peaks, and valleys. My snoring eruptions were pretty clear—a steady parade of big, black blotches. Increasingly, as the test night went on, there were long straight lines showing where I wasn’t breathing at all (one span lasted 69 seconds). These lapses were followed by erratic, violent scribbles that showed when my body was flailing and gasping for breath. It looked like San Francisco, 1906. When all was said and done, they told me that I spent about three total hours that night with my oxygen level below normal. Hmm.

The number that scared me most was my number of times I wasn’t breathing at all. Five to 15 is considered a warning sign. 30 is considered severe and should be treated immediately. Me? 96. Ninety Six! I was one of the worst he’d seen—a walking (or sleeping) time bomb.

They got me a CPAP. It’s a machine that forces a steady flow of oxygen through your nose during sleep, keeping your airway open—Marcus Welby meets Darth Vader. I’ve used it for 11 years now and love it. 

You often hear people say they just want to die in their sleep. Apparently, I came close several times. It wasn’t pretty.

The Ghost and Mr. T

Halloween of 1983 found me dressed as Mr. T. complete with mohawk, beard, vest, gold chains and yes—blackface. Hopefully, you’ll forgive me. I was young, stupid and not the least bit socially conscious. Anyway, here goes...

I went to a party with my friend Hepseba that night. She was my long-time unrequited love since our days in high school. It didn’t matter anymore because I was on the verge of throwing open the closet door and she had a boyfriend.

For the party, Hepseba was dressed as a wispy, spooky ghost in a long flowing gown—and whiteface.

We both managed to get a bit tipsy that night—as one does at Halloween parties, and found ourselves in the backseat of the car as some unknown driver careened from Park City down Parley’s Canyon.

What started out as two high school chums playing dress up ended up as a spontaneous kiss-a-thon. Maybe it was too many screwdrivers. Maybe it was that guy dressed as a mummy showing off just enough belly button. Whatever it was, we were both feeling a bit lusty and got a bit carried away. Later on, as we discussed it, it was the booze. She was also just curious as to what kind of kisser I was (pretty good, she admitted). As for me, I was trying one last ditch effort to preserve my heterosexuality. She was a good, kisser, too—but not good enough to save me. That, as they say, was that.

Anyway, we got to her house and I walked her to her door. Her boyfriend answered the door hopefully oblivious to the fact that my black face and her white face were smeared together in a mooshy grey. “You got chocolate in my peanut butter.” “You got peanut butter in my chocolate”. A little Noxema and no one was the wiser.

I went to another Halloween party the next night where Mr. T was introduced to a pregnant nun with a beard and mustache. Mea culpa for the happenings of that night, too.

The Telltale Cookie

Poplar Grove Number 17 was our bus to go home. It stopped in front of The Magazine Shop on Main Street between 200 and 300 South. While waiting for the bus, my friends and I would loiter in the shop looking at MAD Magazines and raunchy paperbacks. The best thing that the store had to offer though, were the cello-wrapped marshmallow oatmeal cookies. They were heavenly. They were fifty cents. 

One afternoon as I stood in line to purchase my cookie, my friend Ernie shouted “The bus is here!” I freaked and ran out the door and boarded the bus in the nick of time. I took my seat and glanced down to see a stolen cookie in my hot little hand. I was mortified. I didn’t dare eat it thinking I would return it the next day or at least on my next trip uptown. It sat on my nightstand for a week as I pondered my choices. Then I ate it.

Not an uptown jaunt went by that I didn’t think of paying for that cookie but didn’t dare set foot in the store for fear I would be recognized as “That Kid.” That cookie was a heavy, nagging burden for a long time, for a little kid.

Years later, there was a job listing for a cashier at The Magazine Shop. I was desperate for work and decided to gird up my loins and go into the store to apply. One of the questions asked was if I had a criminal record. What—was this some sort of trick to goad me into admitting my guilt? I checked the “no” box knowing, in truth, I had barely dodged a bullet one afternoon years ago. Karma wasn’t on my side. I didn’t get the job.

Some time ago, just before the building was to be demolished, I mailed an unmarked dollar bill to Bob’s Magazine Shop. No name, no note—just a clear conscience. My cookie-eating can now be done guilt-free.

Murder Most Fowl.

When Mark and I were little, we would play “goose hunter.” I would run around the yard honking and flapping my arms while he would shoot at me with a baseball bat. I’d fall to the ground with my tongue hanging from the side of my mouth making the “ehhhh” death sound. Then I’d get up and we’d do it again.

As we got older, my dad would take us out hunting with him. He mostly bagged mallards and pintails and an occasional goose. He shot a swan once and we ate it. Never in my life have I heard of someone eating swan—unless it was King Ludwig.

When I reached the age of twelve, it was customary for any male in my family to enroll in a Hunter’s Safety Course. I did so, not knowing or caring why. My graduation present from the course was a .410 gauge shotgun. It was the baby of the shotgun family and the best-suited for my wimpy frame. I did not look forward to using it.

That winter, my Grandpa took me out to the marshes where we sat freezing in a duck blind. He was picking off ducks right and left while I couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn. After a while, an avocet landed in the water in font of us. He told me to shoot it and I did. I killed it. Grandpa hooted with glee and told me to go pick it up so I trudged through the muddy water to retrieve my kill and never hunted again.

Mark continued to hunt for a few years, but his interests shifted to painting ducks and geese instead. He did, however, keep their body parts scattered around his room for reference.

To this day, I like the taste of duck if someone prepares it for me—lacquered in a plum glaze or served with a cherry compote. Mom is even a master of the floured and pan-fried breast. But if I ever have to look into a garbage can full of beaks, feet and feathers again, it won’t be a day too soon.

Drama Queen.

I’ve always been a drama queen. At West High School I performed in seven of their productions under the oh-so-patient direction of Ms. Jill German. Some shows were better than others. None went without some sort of fiasco.

In “Fiddler on the Roof,” I played Mendel, a 5‘2” man with a full-black beard whose voice hadn’t changed yet. There is a scene in the show where Tevye and some men from the town gather around his dairy cart, discussing the days events over a cheese snack. We never had a budget for actual cheese until the actual show. When the guys began to nosh, they realized they had never actually rehearsed with a mouth full of jarlsberg. The dialog went something like this:

Tevye: Werts du ners frerm Kliev?

Avram: Zehrz gerng tur ber a porgrurm irn Urnertevker.

The scene went on forever until the cast could unstick their tongues, jaws and teeth. Poor Ms. German’s eyes practically rolled out of her head.

In “The Wizard of Oz,” I played the Cowardly Lion. Whenever the Wicked Witch would appear, it would be done in a big puff of smoke created with the use of some flash powder and an electrical charge. A human-sized smoke blast required about a tablespoon of powder. On closing night, the stage crew was setting up the various blast points and came to the conclusion that since they wouldn’t be needing the flash powder anymore that year—that they might as well use it up. It was about a half a can.

Act One: Dorothy and her cohorts were skipping through the forest when the witch appeared—in a blast that rivaled Hiroshima. The auditorium filled with smoke. Dorothy’s eyelashes had been singed together causing her to walk dangerously close to the orchestra pit. “Scott!” I heard from somewhere off stage, “Hey! The tree is on fire!” I ran over and patted it out with my brown velour mittens leaving them charred and melty. The audience hacked and coughed as they fanned themselves with their programs.

I hadn’t seen Ms. German that mad since Bryan and I made a dummy out of some stage crew coveralls and flung it down to the stage below. I guess that wasn’t mad; that was mortified.

In “Arsenic and Old Lace” I played Teddy Brewster, a man who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt. All through high school I had been afflicted with ingrown toenails. The morning of opening night I had surgery to fix one of them. The doctor loaded my foot with novocaine to make sure I’d be okay for the day, but apparently not enough to take care of the evening hours. During the show, as I charged up the staircase (aka San Juan Hill), I stubbed my now freshly un-numbed toe. My “Charge!” ended up coming out as a painful “Aaaargh!” Teddy Roosevelt ended up limping like Franklin Roosevelt for the remainder of the show.

The year after I had graduated, West High did a production of “12 Angry Men.” My friend John, had the lead but was called away to shoot a major movie a week before, Ms. German called me to see if I could fill in (even though I no longer attended the school). I was after all, her prize drama student and a superhero.

I tried my best to memorize all the lines but to no avail. I had to resort to cheat sheets around the stage. I placed them carefully and methodically in strategic locations then went to change into my costume. While I was putting on my makeup, some good-natured stagehand decided to clean the stage—of all of my notes. The curtain went up. I was screwed. This time the mortification belonged to me.

Cremains of the Day.

We had Frank cremated. 

Three times that morning Mom asked me to call the mortuary to see when we could pick him up. She needed closure. Three times they said it would be about an hour. Finally, they said “come by at 2:30.”

Mom and I arrived at the mortuary at 2:30 sharp and were greeted by a sweet girl who told us it would just be a few minutes if we’d like to take a seat. We found two chairs in the waiting room and sat down without a word. Harp music played serenely overhead. I stared and the pink and mint green striped wallpaper and the Lladro knockoffs. Mom fiddled with the strap of her purse. We raised an eye at the lacy white kleenex box cozy.

The girl came out again and said it would just be a few more minutes. More wallpaper, more purse fiddling. The grandfather clock struck Three.

The girl returned, this time with two bottles of water for us and said it would just be a few more minutes. Mom and I both drew deep sighs and looked at each other. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Finally, the girl came back. She was gingerly holding a small grey box. Nothing ornate—just a melamine cube. It was Frank. 

“Now I don’t mean to weird you out,” she said, “but the box is still kind of hot.”

“Well don’t you have complimentary oven mitts?” Mom said, without missing a beat.

The poor girl didn’t know what to say. We both snickered. I took the box and we giggled our way out to the door. “You wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t hot,” I said. We got into the car and laughed ourselves silly.

I’m sure that somewhere in the bounding waves of the Pacific, Frank is laughing his ass off, too.

Pen Pals.

Christina, a coworker, handed me a book one day. She said she thought I might like it. It was titled “Getting Over Homer” by Mark O’ Donnell. I read it and loved it. It was a gay dramedy full of laughs and swoons—my favorite type of fiction.

Christina and I discussed it every morning before work. We talked about the book as well as our crushes on the author—though my crush was more plausible. He was a sort of ruddy Irishman with happy smiling eyes. He lived in Manhattan. 

One morning she told me that she was inviting Mr. O’Donnell to read at an event she was coordinating. I told her to put a P.S. at the bottom that I wanted to take him to dinner if he made it into town. Ha. Ha.

A couple of weeks later I was paged for a phone call. “Scott, Mark O’Donnell on line one.”

WTF?

I picked up the phone and the voice on the other end said “Hi Scott. This is Mark O’Donnell.” Gulp. No one but Christina had known about my invitation and this voice was much too low for her to impersonate.

“Hi Mark,” I stammered. He went on to tell me that he regretted that he couldn’t make it to Christina’s reading nor to dinner but he appreciated the invitation. We talked for a bit more, mostly small talk. He asked if he could call me again and we exchanged numbers. Then I peed my pants.

Mark and I talked on the phone a from time to time and exchanged a few letters. He was also a cartoonist for The New Yorker and would send me some of his works. I would send my feeble attempts, too. I was overjoyed when he won a Tony Award for his writing the book for “Hairspray” and saw him live on TV—as live as that could be.

Mark was also pretty depressed and so was I and our correspondence grew darker with time. When Christina was found dead on Christmas Eve, I wrote to tell him the news. He told me how saddened he was. I never heard from him again.

Mark collapsed and died at home in 2012. He was 58. One of the cartoons he sent me was of the Grim Reaper surrounding a cute, happy family. The caption read: “How dirt is made.”