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Near Misses

            Now that you all have become acquainted with the details of our frequent misdemeanors, I’d like to share a few other incidents in which we were lucky to escape with our persons, freedom, and pay grades intact. This was not an easy feat by any means and there were enough times I thought we were done for but the day I can’t outfox some of the tools left in charge is a dark day indeed; not just for me but the world at large. Those seeking vicarious thrills of the Jerry Bruckheimer magnitude should be warned, however, that the following consist not so much as heists but capers.

      Our first real caper I consider to be the last day of class at Medina. Each evening we were bussed from the Medina Annex to Lackland proper where the school house was; a converted basic training barracks. Strict controls were put into place to ensure we were accounted for prisoner style, with headcounts being made before and after class and after the bus ride as well in the unlikely event that anyone jumped though a window or made some other ridiculous attempt at escape. Theoretically there was no loop though which one could play hooky, be tardy or sneak away early without grave repercussions, though we often schemed unlikely plans that never manifested. The exception was the last day.

      The instructors at school varied from bona fide military types to civilians in the government service sector. Some tended to be draconian taskmasters of tech school policy reigning thunder down on insolent students who dared use the bathroom too often or played hearts too loudly during breaks. Other tended not to give a rats ass about such matters and viewed the oppressive policies as some inconvenient function of the environment they were forced to tolerate. We had one of the last for the final block of Electronic Principles. By the last block, fabled Block 19, there were but 6 of us left in the class, the others whittled away due to failure or less strenuous requirements of their career field leaving only the F-15 back shop folks to take them all. Unfortunately poor Forrest fell into the former category and after failing the Block 3 test had been recycled into Security Forces; the default dumping ground of the poor test takers.

      Class usually ran from 1500 to 2330, but on our very last day, our instructor saw no good reason to keep us after completing our final test and receiving our certificates of completion. Part of the reason he saw it this way was that we had spend the previous two weeks spewing our best rhetoric on why it would be mutually beneficial to part ways early that day. The other part was simply that he didn’t care and probably liked the idea of going home early rather than baby-sit for 5 hours. He left it to us to arrange with the MTMs a bus to pick us up early and let the red rope in charge of the school know we should be taken off the headcount. We performed the latter but neglected the former with deliberate intent to remain radar invisible. Certificates in hand, we were released with no one in charge the wiser. Bryan Bray, Sara Chism, Andrew Wasson, Jason Bell, Shawn McKinney, and I simply walked out the front door free to do whatever we wanted.

      I’m sure we could have seen a movie or gone bowling, but instead ended up walking to a gas station to purchase 40’s which we consumed in a grassy area near the side of the highway. McKinney and Wasson drifted off, still too fearful of being caught, but with an admonition to lay low until midnight when the buses returned. They agreed and although not quite the hooligans the rest of us were, at least had enough camaraderie built to maintain silence. The rest of the evening was somewhat of a blur as we got the cajones to go back to main base proper and hit up the Class Six for something stronger. I recall much joyous conversation and whatnot and we ended up in the static aircraft display near the parade grounds. There beneath the preserved fighters and bombers of yesteryear we left plenty of cans, bottles and several puddles of urine, specifically against a Blackhawk, the fastest spy plane ever built.

      We ended up walking back to Medina though crouched in the bushes as the busses went by bringing the students back from school for midnight chow. We took temporary refuge in the forbidden area where the night parties used to be held before the busting I recounted in Funky Old Medina. The plan was to merge in with the streams of students coming back from chow to the dorms and walk blithely by the MTMs in hopes they would not get a whiff of our activities. The plan was solid but poorly executed for we tarried too long and the last stragglers had reached the dorms a good 10 minutes before we arrived. Walking though the door we were called out to by an MTM whose name escapes me, but was one of the most suspicious of the lot. He was behind a desk and we prayed he would not rise and come closer.

      “Where are you coming from? Chow hall closed 10 minutes ago and it takes 1 minute to walk here. I’m gonna guess you weren’t even at midnight chow!”

      He was right of course but even admitting to that little gem would mean big trouble, much less having him find out what we were really doing. We stammered out explanations of staying a minute to talk more since it was our last day of class and all. It was clear he didn’t believe a word of it. We let Sara do the talking, having the least slurred speech and most obstinate attitude under pressure. She pulled a surprisingly risky move and requested Wasson be brought down to vouch that we sat with him. As Wasson was known as the Martin Prince of Medina, the MTM readily agreed to accept his word and sent a runner to go fetch him. We sweat bullets as the MTM stared us down and Sara rambled on and on protesting our collective innocence. Wasson appeared looking annoyed and I thought we were done.

      To our amazement and the MTMs silent fury, he testified as though under oath that we had all arrived back on the bus with the rest and went to mandatory midnight chow. He angrily expressed that we were lying and he knew it, but couldn’t prove it and let us go. If he had simply asked someone else other than Wasson or got his lazy ass up and close enough to smell the beer and spirits we reeked of, we would have enjoyed long bouts of CC, reduction to lowest rank or perhaps even being dumped into the civilian world 3 ½ years early. In truth we felt just a little bit untouchable at that point and full well knowing we would phase out of the reach of the incompetent regime at Medina in a few short days.

      At Sheppard controls were even tighter, like going from the crusty old joint in ‘Prison Break’ to Oz. No loopholes existed, all stations were manned, and sign in sheets controlled where one might be. The most interesting near miss here had nothing to do with pulling a Br’er Rabbit on the silly MTMs but instead was a pick up attempt gone bad down at the Lonesome Dove.

      The Dove was a dive bar close to base that we noted often on the road to town to visit the much more prestigious club, Graham’s Central Station, or in our frequent illicit car wash nights. One Saturday piqued by curiosity Bray, Hahn and I decided to go down and check it out for something different. For a change we were well within our military rights to do so and it was nice to be doing something without looking over our shoulders constantly. We entered what could only be described as the country fried, Hicksville, good ol’ boy version of Anacone’s you’d ever want to see. On top of it to draw in a Sat afternoon crowd, they were threatening to have the karaoke machine fired up in a short spell. In the mean time we checked the juke box and were unsurprised to see nothing but country and swamp rock. We were deep in Billy-Bob territory and about as out of place as we could be judging by the silent collective stares of the hillbilly trailer trash giving us the hairy eyeball. We decided to stay for a few beers.

      We were not having too bad of a time when the karaoke started up and we were treated to the bumpkins yodeling out their version of Patsy Cline and Billy Ray Cyrus. Hahn being the brave sort went ahead and signed up to do a song of his own and then convinced Bryan and I to go up with him, which we reluctantly agreed to. To mix things up a bit, Hahn had chosen Bon Jovi classic ‘Dead or Alive’ in hopes that it would blend in with the western theme going on. It did not. The song choice alone was enough to irritate the locals but with my atrocious tone deaf singing, done quite loudly, it was enough to cause covered ears and a side discussion or two about stringing us up. Worse, Bray and Hahn who were under the delusion that they were doing a really good job blamed me for killing the piece and increasing the hostility toward us among the great unwashed.

      We lay low for a while after that in a dark part of the bar. Hahn suddenly called to a person behind us who had sit down by herself with her backs toward us. He issued an invitation to come and join us if she was alone. From the back in the dark, we could only tell that it was a woman, very thin, with long blond hair. We found seconds later that she was actually 50ish, all but toothless, tattooed, and about as well a worn ‘My Name is Earl’ style trailer dweller one had ever seen. On top of it she had apparently begun her liquoring up process very early that day as she was loaded to the gills. She joined us very willingly.

      Hahn, responsible for the new company we were enjoying, immediately signed up for 10 more songs that he announced he would be doing solo. Bryan opened a menu and made it a point to never look up once for the next 45 minutes of agony. This left me stuck talking to the creature who grew more frightening by the moment as her story, which she insisted on telling us, unfolded. Through the thick accent and slurred speech we were able to deduce that she and “her ol’ man” had a bit of a violent row that morning and after some possessions had been smashed, she “done left his ass for good”. She got as far as the Dove when the need for a drink hit and began to wonder if he was going to come after her as he was the jealous type. Last she had seen him; he was angrily pulling from a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and pacing about the trailer. These circumstances did not sound at all positive for our well being.

      To make matters worse, she was in an amorous mood after her fight and went on about different sexual practices she had been known to engage in; many of which I had only seen or heard of in Dan’s movie collection. Nauseated already, she then began begging us to dance with her. Hahn made the excuse that he had all these karaoke songs to sing and there just wasn’t time. Bryan, never looking up from the menu, simply said, “Uh, no.” and continued boring a visual hole in the description of the smothered tater tots. She then focused her attention on me, and lacking the Thies ruditude to simply say, “No, go fuck yourself” invented excuse after excuse that should have clued even the dullest rube into the fact that I really didn’t want to.

      I excused myself to go pee and found that Bryan had followed. “I’m going to fucking kill Hahn” he declared; the object of his intention warbling out some Scorpions disaster on stage. We agreed quickly that it was in our best interest to get the hell out of there before her ol’ man Floyd or whatnot finished his bottle of Jack and got to getting his lil’ woman on home. There was an overwhelming consensus that ‘Floyd’ generally went about armed, was insanely jealous, and was enough waste of space and knew it to where he had nothing to lose. We waited at the stage for Hahn to finish before the resentful cow pokes and told him our plan. I think she was getting up to protest when we just whipped on by her, jumped I Hahn’s truck and sped back to base. While there is no way of telling for sure, we did pass a slow moving beat up pickup where the driver seemed to be looking for something or someone. We never returned.

      Another near miss of a different nature occurred on a road trip we took away from post. Stephen Stewart had lent his girlfriend his car while he was in basic and tech school and she took the car with her to college in Manhattan, Kansas. As what happened with many a poor soldier boy called away from his honey for an extended period of time, she dumped him remotely and mailed him directions to the parking lot where she left his car. A quest then was born to go and retrieve the vehicle one fine weekend and he, Bray and I rented a car and hit the road to go get it.

      We set out on Friday night and only made it as far as Oklahoma City before calling it a day and spend the evening dining and wining in some Australian eatery in Brick Town. I have since been back to OKC a few times for work and have concluded that we somehow hit on the one and only place of interest in that tornado addled town. When the best hotel advertises the top two attractions as being the Slaughterhouse Museum and the Softball hall of fame, it’s best not to set high expectations. This place as well has karaoke and I was strongly admonished by my peers not to participate. Ignoring them, I did a solo performance of “A Little Help From My Friends”, to which the other two responded with a threat to leave me stranded should I dare venture up again. The tone of the threat was serious enough to achieve compliance. Ironic given my song choice.

      The following day we rose late and took the road very leisurely assuming there would be nothing to do in northern Kansas anyway. On the way there we saw a real whole lot of absolutely nothing. No trees, no corn, no people, and certainly no tornado addled brats with scruffy dogs and pretentious shoes. We also saw no gas stations as the miles wore on and the sun set behind the featureless landscape. The gas gauge rode down to ‘E’, then past it, and the ‘oh boy are you screwed’ light came on just as we coasted into the little one horse town of Burns, Kansas. It was our speculation that it was actually owned by Mr. Monty Burns, but never received official confirmation. We parked in order to strategize.

      We broke up and checked a few block radius on foot but saw nothing that indicated these backward Midwestern folk had need of magic combustible water. By chance one of us spotted a parked vehicle that was occupied by two people making out. If they had gas, they must have got it somewhere. We started the car and pulled up behind him and got out. A scared looking fellow in a red beret rolled down his window, staring at us like we stepped off the moon just to say howdy. He had probably never seen coastal folk before and worried we might eat him or demand his woman, who didn’t look worried at all. We asked where he got gas and he stammered “L-l-l-lord’s down the street.”, pointing half-assed down one of the side streets while rolling up the window at the same time.

      The car somehow made it, gasping in there on the last few fumes. By a minor miracle, we had gotten there about 15 minutes before they closed until Monday; eschewing the ungodly pursuit of gas sales on the Lord’s Day. We verified with the chatty attendant that they indeed were the only station in town, and it would have been another 50 or so miles in the direction we were heading before we hit something. Again, this would have meant us being AWOL come Monday and the standard shock and awe punishment that would accompany it.

      We made it to the car without incident and retrieved it and enjoyed a decent evening in what turned out to be a pretty cool college town. Stewart, not having given the matter enough thought, had rented a vehicle that had to be returned to the same rental location, meaning the ride back was less boisterous and with him and Bray fighting over me riding with them at every stop. On Sunday we coasted in right before curfew as we tended to do.


31 Responses

  1. “continued boring a visual hole in the description of the smothered tater tots” LOL!

    You see, rudeness is a necessary survival skill, and while I went overboard, it sharpened my rude skills so I would have never been stuck with what sounds like the muse for the crusty landlady in Kingpin. I hope you had a better ending than Woody Harrelson.

    “magic combustible water” Another good one!

    If all military are like you, then I fear if we are ever invaded.

    Another good story. Keep them up. I am working on anther myself.

  2. The landlady in Kingpin was a delicate flower in comparison to the Lonesome Dove harridan. We did have a better ending in the form of peeling out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires and sweaty panic.

    As for the rest of the military, we were the best that’s ever been. Well, for electonics backshop folks that is. Not sure of those who do the actual work and fighting and whatnot.

  3. You punks are a far cry from the A-Team.

  4. I once received a standing ovation at the Newark Gateway Center for doing Bette Midler’s “The Rose” solo at a restaurant’s Thursday night karaoke. No kiddin’. BTW Hey, I think you guys are superb for turning down the horny one!!! My impression was, if a chick “offers” it – no matter how ugly or repulsive or morally questionable, a guy will take her up on it, especially if he’s already kinder smashed or at a bar or whatever. But you turned her down, good job. (Sorry if this sounds insulting, but this is how we women are “taught” about the ways of dangerous men out there in the big bad world…) Thies I applaud you!! “Go f—k yourself” indeed — would you have really said that to her?

  5. Thanks! Where there are plenty of guys who may have went there, we were not they.

    Good job on the Rose. From what I understand from my wife (who had many years of chorus and has the talent to go professional), it’s a pretty difficult song.

    I can say with great certainty that he would indeed have said that and worse. Upon first meeting our friend Chris’s sister, he asked her if she took it up the ass. Forgive my crudeness, but reporting this verbatim.

  6. That was not Chris’s sister, but his new maybe-girlfriend whom he had gone out with once before. There are more details on this incident in “Happy New Year” (https://comstock.wordpress.com/2007/07/06/happy-new-year/).

    Oh wait, I forgot, I did ask his sister that. I don’t remember the reason, but it was her birthday.

  7. Umm….”The Rose” is actually pretty easy to sing. It’s only got a couple of notes if you play it on the piano. Not a wide range, melodically or rhythmically for that matter. Now, the Star Spangled Banner….that’s another story altogether. But I bet your wife could sing that great as well, if she’s good enough to go professional. Another thing we got in common Wolf – my hubby Tom has a degree in classical guitar and is also an amazing tenor.

    Thies, you sophomoric bottom feeder!! Did you really say that to that girl?!!! Up the ass?? I think I may revise my initial opinion of you….just kidding. I actually don’t believe that story. So there.

  8. Wow! Does he work in the music industry? I am very impressed with such things having no musical talent myself. I don’t even play the radio terribly well.

    As for Thies, I remember her complaining of it one of the first times I met her. I think it was originally Chris’s intention of hooking the two of them up, which as you can imagine, never happened.

  9. The “up the ass” story is almost certainly true as we all heard about it contemporaneously. Who is to say what might be said in a bar, by someone practicing their extreme rudeness for effect. Plus, you have to consider that he was polling everyone he met in his own informal Kinsey study.

    It is not unlike the time I took my date (now wife) out with Larry, Nick, and Aaron (and others) and we were treated to a tirade regarding the relative merits of modern vs. 70’s porn. I think she checked out mentally around the time when (paraphrasing) someone proclaimed a preference for large amounts of body hair.

  10. We were not at a bar. I proposed my query at Chris’s apartment, where we all met before we went to the bar.

    I do not remember the discussion on modern vs. 70’s porn, but I believe it not only happened, but I was a part of it.

  11. you guys are an absolute riot. when i have a bad day, i check out this blog just to crack myself up and it always works. pathetic but true. see? no matter how rotten life gets, just know you have a fellow UB’er who is laughing at your previous antics. and i think it’s extra funny for me because i don’t always get the inside jokes – if that makes any sense. moreover the linguistic complexity and imaginative use of derogatory adjectives as well as the large scope of your verbal maliciousness is what really cracks me up. next time i’m up in buffalo i gotta meet you all, especially thies. I don’t know, I’m picturing somebody like “House” (the doc on TV). Am I off the mark, here? btw is anybody as sad as me about the death of GEORGE CARLIN? what a brilliant madman.

  12. Glad we could crack you up!

    Alas, only I am left in Buffalo; the rest scampered away to other parts of the country. Louis and Dan return occasionally and I usually end up missing them, but Aaron is steadfast in maintaining his distance.

    I would put Thies as more of a Shaggy with an Oscar the Grouch brain transplant. I somehow don’t see surgery coming from him. Trash collection sure, but other than that… This of course goes way back to when Thies and Knaus were predicting they would become brilliant engineers while I would wind up as a lowely butler due to my English degree.

    The death of George was a true blow indeed. I was one of the few who watched his briefly lived show on Fox religiously and saw him live in concert a few times as well. ‘A Place for My Stuff’ was the first comedy tape I ever bought!

  13. I watched George’s Fox show with Mike. I always remember his “10 Commandments” bit and his bit about not being a smart ass, maybe a wise guy.

    The rest of us stay connected to Buffalo, but Mike was all but dead during his military service, despite many attempts. It was a welcome return when his service ended. A new batch of stories, including when he caught a desert spider.

    Changing circuit boards does not make one an engineer, where I am an engineer, even in my official title, though not the same kind of engineer.

  14. Sanitation engineer? Or the kind that drive trains?

  15. Neither you dolt! You are trapped int he past. I am talking about Front-End Engineer, as in the visible level of web applications.

    I believe sanitation engineer was one of the profession choices Paul and myself came up with for you.

  16. I return to town and enjoyed the Taste of Buffalo – but Aaron, due to a Schultz-like intense desire for change, has moved out of easy travel radius from Buffalo. Also, I don’t think you can expect to determine pictures of us based on the blog, given the time elapsed since these stories occurred.
    I will relate this mini-story (hopefully I did not already describe it). One day back in the 80’s Aaron arrives at my house, sporting a mullet-like ‘do worthy of Don Johnson. It really was pentagonal overall and quite long. My dad came in and asked:
    “Aaron, how much did you pay for that haircut?”
    Aaron: “I don’t remember, ten bucks or so”
    Dad: “You got SCREWED!”

  17. Sure you don’t mean rear-end engineer? That I can see. Or are front end web appications like those penis enlargement mailings I keep getting? I wish you would cut that out because between them and all these damn contests I keep winning, I’m going broke.

    Taste was good this year, although I’m still unsure of how I like the Delware location. I like it in the circle, but the Delaware portion is a bitch to navigate. I still don’t understand why they let Appleby’s participate; it’s not ‘Taste of Generic America’. I suppose, however, that you had a hard time breaking away from Anderson’s or Village deserts where you undoubtedly set up shop for the day.

    I think he still had the mullet when I first met him, though it being the ’80’s was less of a travesty. In college he sported that feathered out halo of hair that he eventually grew just long enough to create the worlds shortest pony tail. Ah, if only we had a picture of that! Not that I was a fashion plate myself with my Dillon McKay sideburns and brief unsuccessful attempt to mimic Wolverine’s haircut.

  18. Just wait until I am not so busy and I sign you up for all kinds of things. The stuff Dan sent you is nothing! Nothing I tell you!!

    Taste has been moved to Delaware? Good, then I would have a reason to go again. As it was, just like Allentown Art Festival, I could only take it every couple years. When Taste was on Main Street you would be packed shoulder to shoulder the entire time. You could not get to a vendor if you wanted without being carried past it in the crowd wave like some naked fool caught on Goat Island. I concur Applebee’s has no place there.

    My hair was stylish for the first week I had it, and then I was too lazy to cut it. I find haircuts ot be a bothersome necessity of life. To this day I still put off haircuts as much as I can. I go ever 4-6 months. I can’t imagine the fools that waste their time going monthly, but I know there are a lot.

    The Dylan sideburns were far better than the Wolverine hairdo. You should have tried these on the physical therapy nurse.

  19. I loved the Allentown Art Festival and went every year, even bought what I now realize was sentimental claptrap – a watercolor with the quote, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart, and try to love the questions themselves.” What naive cheap sentiment b.s.! I used to be into that stuff, you know. Like, “Life is a journey, not a destination” on a poster, with some picture of a ship sailing into a sunset. Good grief, I get ill now just thinking about it. I even had a teddy bear on my bed in college. Yes, feel free to hurl….Anyway, like I said, loved the Allentown Arts Festival except for one year when I had to really pee, and none of the stupid stores where the festival was taking place, would let me used their stupid bathroom. And there were no Johnny-on-the-Spots. What did they expect people to do — pee in a cup?? Finally in true desperation, I went to some hole in the wall bar, and said, “I’ll buy everybody here a beer if you will let me use your bathroom, PLEASE.” Luckily there were only 3 people in attendance, all of them over the age of 70. It was what you’d call an old man bar. The proprietor — thick Irish accent — felt sorry for me and let me use his water closet without requiring me to buy beer. Thies – you have long hair? How long?

  20. Allentown is one of my key summer events as well and something that Knaus used to strong arm us into going to until we learned to enjoy it on it’s own merits. I think we usually just peed on the back of buildings or entered a place and bolted for the bathroom before anyone could say anything. What are they going to do, make you put it back in? 🙂 Easier to be a guy in those cases anyway.

    Speaking of Knaus, you would have found a lot in common with him back then as he had both a poster of a kitten dangling from a limb with the words ‘just hang in there’ as well as some poem about not leading or following but walking with me. No teddy bear though that I recall; just a live rat named Spike.

    My taste was more stereotypical back then with the gamut of girlie posters and ‘the Richmeister’. Aaron was more spartan or dare I say fascist?

    His hair is not so long but shaggy. He once grew it back just long enough to gather a wee bit together into a pony tail about an inch and a half long that jutted out from the back of his head like a big hairy mole.

  21. The Richmeister poster! I had long hair all through high school – later I found out I inadvertently fooled people into thinking I was a headbanger, and finally had a buzz cut freshman year. It seems so out of place, but for those that know him well, so appropriate that Paul had a “hang in there” post. Mike has the typical guy girl posters, and assorted goofy shit – like the Bob Saggat coming to UB page ripped from the Generation.

  22. Bob Saget went to UB? God, I used to look up to that man with his “Full House” father figure thing and his American’s funniest home videos down-home old-fashioned Brady Bunch-ish feel-goodism. Then I saw him in a movie where different comedians tell the world’s oldest joke in their own way, and I discovered Bob’s really a creepy little cretin with sleeze oozing out of his pores. Who knew? What on earth did he go to UB for, and what did he talk about??

    Wolf, you might be interested to know that I met Joyce Carol Oates at an after-speech gathering, when she spoke at UB in 1988 or was it 1989? I had a “UB Press” pass. She’s originally from Tonawanda or is it Lackawanna? (my nickname for the latter is “lack of want” haHA.) Joyce disappointed me and my roommate Heather. Joyce was decidedly FROSTY and oh-so-snooty. Well, what can one expect – any woman with three names is going to have a few things stuck up her behind, no? 🙂

    Thies, keep the ponytail. A buzz cut? I think not – doesn’t seem to suit your personality (or what I can glean of it based on Wolf’s crazy stories). I think long hair on guys looks cool, except for that certain type of long haired person who is a member of Hell’s Angels, is covered in tattoos, is wanted in 5 separate states and the Alaskan territories for child support in arrears from 6 different mothers, and wears a leather jacket with a motto on the back stating, “I’d rather see a sister in a whorehouse than a brother on a Harley.” In such a case………mmmm…..mayhap the long hair is not such a hot idea.

  23. I don’t Bob Saget went to UB (thank god) but he did visit, spawning the greatest wave of protests after Khalid Mohammed. Unfortunately, I think he came anyway although no one I knew went.

    I forgot JCO was from here! She always struck me as the snooty type. Too bad they couldn’t have featured her along with Danielle Steele just to tick her off. Anyway, I’ll have to remember to tout her local origins to my wife as a demonstration that people of culture do come from here. Before I only had super freak Rick James and the Lackawana 6 to brag about.

    I think you pegged Thies pretty accurately. Most of his tats though are characters from ‘Bambi’ and his jacket motto is “Born to run (if you can read this I need to flee faster)” I have to admit though, he does look pretty bad ass cruising around on his Schwinn.

  24. My long hair lasted only through high school, as did my Schwin. A fine steed it was. My leather jacketS (yeah beoth, I had two, and not the pleather kind – though my initial jacket was pleather so I could test it out) had not such Bambi or Unicorns like Paul. I had dirty, grease, trucks, and other manner of man symbols.

    Mike is just being modest. He was such a Bob Saget fan. He volunteered to escort Bobby around during his time in Buffalo. It was a rare day indeed when I would enter Mike’s dorm room and did not find some new Bob Saget paraphernalia. Mike’s fascination with Bob ended when after being so happy with Mike’s help he invited him to his room at the Marriott. Mike was hesitant,b ut had to jump at the chance. I will not embarrass him by giving away all the details, but Mike called me to pick him up from the plaza across Millersport Hwy. I pulled into an empty lot and seconds later a near naked Mike, clinging to a small towel (like his freshman story), rushed out form the side of the buildings. He swore me to secrecy, but I figure enough time has elapsed and this is an intimate setting.

  25. Fool! You had no car back then! It was Knaus who picked me up, so ha!

    Besides, that wasn’t Bob either but Wendy James from Transvision Vamp. She was looking right at me all though the concert and dug my smooth eyebrow beckoning. I paid dearly, but nevertheless.

    I remember the orignal pink pleather jacket and always wondered why you went back to it after wearing the greasy ones with the little truck pictures on them.

    The true long hair may have left, yet the pony tail somehow still lived on.

    I remember Pat Kavanaugh’s reaction to me knowing you. “You live with Thies? Ha! I know Thies” He refused to elaborate if that was ‘know’ in the bibilcal sense or something less gross, so I drew my own conclusions.

  26. It was actually me in a Knaus mask! That was the only way he would let me use his car. He thought he gave the keys to himself.

    Just like you “didn’t fall down the stairs drunk” it was only your imagination that Bob Saget looked like Wendy James. Speaking of which your old buddy Bob is being roasted on Comedy Central this week. I know you are the “special” guest.

    It was “hot” pink with blood red splash patterns and random bits of fake hair.

    I cut the pony tail off when it reach 1 foot to donate to a cancer/hair charity.

  27. Now I see we have fled reality into a bullshitting contest. Don’t you want to tell the story of the time that Bob Saget gave Dan a foot massage?

  28. How dare you speak of that! Dan is way to ashamed to speak of that incident. That is why he is missing one of his webbed toes.

  29. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Screaming here! Yech, Bob Saget getting it on with Wolf. It’s a bs story but very funny. As for Joyce Carol Oates being a person of culture, I think not. Good culture includes manners and graciousness – two qualities of which she was sadly lacking that day. You could say she hated schmoozing with academia, but hey, she was certainly getting paid enough of MY tuition money and everybody else’s to talk her talk so she should have walked the walk. AND Wolf (this will annoy your wife as it did me), Joyce Carol in her speech was trying to be amusing, so she said, “In my mind’s eye, I can picture Tonawanda……of course you could say, why would you want to?” Now is that snooty or what? So I said rather loudly, “Oh shut up Olive Oil. Go back home to Popeye.” But she didn’t hear, of course. JCO I mean. Olive Oil wasn’t there. (Doesn’t JCO look like Olive Oil?) Thies come on you really did NOT cut your hair for charity. I didn’t fall off a turnip truck, you know. ((t was a coconut truck.)

  30. Since I can tell you based on my recent encounter that he no longer has long hair, the explanation that he cut it off for charity is only slightly less likely than the alternative explanation, which is that it accidentallygot caught in a chipper/shredder and he barely escaped with his life and scalp. Too bad about his right ear and all.

  31. I have to say JCO does bear some resemblance to Olive Oyl – though lacking the dashing charm of the cartoon version as well as the smokin’ good looks of the Shelly Duvall one. Word on the street is that she left Popeye after he got booted out of the Navy for being 70 years past retirement age and shooting down all those Japanese planes using his pipe as a propellor and spitting bullets made from his tin of spinach. What was cool in WWII just doesn’t fly in 1998 no matter what your intentions.

    I recall he did try to donate the hair, I think to Andrew after he lost all his back fuzz during a medical experiment, but was rejected for being “too muskratty”. In the end he mailed it anonymously to some girl in his quilting class along with some boogers and a vaguely threatening note.

    Are Dan’s toes still webbed? I remember Knaus making some threats about a razor blade and always assumed he made good on it.

    Louis’s crypic reference to the right ear has to do with his earing, mistakenly (?) inserted on the ‘gay’ side back in the day when that still had some meaning.

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