I wrote this when I was 15.  There was a kid in class we’d nicknamed “Sumo” because of his girth.  One day he got a “Dutchboy” haircut, then he was “Sumo Dutchman.”   So I made up a song about him.

THE BALLAD OF SUMO DUTCHMAN

Sit back, relax, my maties, while I tell my little tale

About a Sumo Dutchman who’s a cousin of the whales

He’s got the brains of twenty and the strength of ninety-five

Oh, there is no doubt about it, he’s the toughest man alive

When Sumo was a baby, he was dumped by mom and dad

It seems they couldn’t take it, he was naughty, mean, and bad

But then a whale took him in down by the sea one day

And Sumo like it so much he decided he would stay

CHORUS

Cuz he’s Sumo Dutchman, he’s as deadly as formaldehyde

If you see Sumo comin’, best get on your horse and ride

He’s meaner than a polecat, and he’s gonna mangle you

Oh, when you meet Sumo Dutchman, you have net your Waterloo

When he was only twelve years old, he weighed four hundred pounds

He lived on rhinos, badgers, beavers, and a few bloodhounds

The day that he turned eighteen he was standin’ twelve foot three

And he became a sailor cuz he’d always loved the sea

He bought a sailin’ ship, her name was “Old Potato Sacks”

And when the crew took sight of him, they fainted in their tracks

He set a course for Spain, because he’d heard there’s treasures there

And when the crew got out of hand, he pulled out all their hair

CHORUS

Once a hearty sailor tried to do ol’ Sumo in

He sneaked up behind the Dutchman and he bashed him in the chin

The sailor started laughing and he thought himself quite brave

But the Dutchman gave a sumo kick and sent him to his grave

The crew became unsettled and they staged a mutiny

They planned to tie the Dutchman up and throw him in the sea

But when they charged his cabin, they found nothing there to tie

Cuz Sumo’d found a female whale and ran off to Shanghai

CHORUS

I turned 48 today.  Yay me!  I’ve outlived John Belushi, Chris Farley, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Jesus Christ.  I’ve been in the bonus round for years.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I don’t feel old, but I do feel like I’ve been around a while.  When I was born, the #1 song in the U.S. was The Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”  I’m glad it wasn’t something lame and forgettable.

I wouldn’t say I’m a success, at least with any kind of career path.  I’ve had several full-time professional positions since I entered the workforce, most of those terminated by layoffs.  In fact, I’m unemployed now, but I’m hoping to change that as soon as possible.  I’m not a real ambitious guy, I guess because money and material things never meant that much to me.  It doesn’t help that I find corporate-culture politics and bullshit annoying.

So what have I done in 48 years?  Funny you should ask.

I’m a published author, in both newspapers and magazines.

I’ve written numerous songs (the debut CD is still in the works).

I’m a college graduate.  Which is mainly impressive because of the sheer amount of chemicals I ingested at the time.

I’ve taught high school, albeit poorly.

I’ve performed stand-up comedy professionally.

I’ve been on TV (performing on local cable, but still).

I won quite a few trophies and medals in high school.

I’ve visited Europe, Mexico and Jamaica.

I was married for 11 years.  You can interpret that any way you want.

I’ve played guitar for 36 years and have been in several bands, the first at age 15.  Performing paid my room and board in college.  I still love playing and play every day.

Not terribly remarkable for 48 years, I know, but I prefer it over “I dropped out of high school, I got a crappy job, I’ve been doing the same thing for 32 years, I’ve never had a girlfriend, I hate everyone, the guys at the bar make fun of me, I have no hobbies, and every morning I fight the overwhelming urge to put a slug in my skull.”

Plus: I like to think that, along the way, I taught a few kids a few useful things, I had something to say in print, and I cheered up hundreds of sullen comedy-show attendees.

But I hope my greatest accomplishments are being a good son, a good brother, a good uncle, and a good friend.  Because without those, all that other stuff don’t mean jack.

And to any other geezers reading this: Cheers! *clink glasses* Remember to take your pills!  Don’t break a hip!

Also, happy birthday to my cat, Frank Zappa!  Love ya, ya bitey carpet-poopin’ spazmo!

My mother passed away a year ago today.  It was really for the best; she’d been suffering in the hospital for many weeks with internal bleeding, and every time she’d improve a bit, she was met with two setbacks.  I’m just glad I got to see her several times in those weeks.

I really couldn’t have asked for a better mom.  She was loving to everyone, but especially to her family.  She was a great cook, she had a wonderful sense of humor, she attended all of my many school events, she’d help anyone in any way she could, she single-handedly got me grants for college tuition, and all my friends really liked her.  And she could play guitar and piano.

But, best of all, she always encouraged me in whatever I wanted to do.  She was my biggest fan.

I was pretty precocious as a youngster. I was avidly reading and writing before Kindergarten, and I would ask her how to spell or pronounce words about a dozen times a day.  It must’ve driven her nuts, but she always took a break from whatever household chore she was involved with to answer me.

I wrote a lot of (very short) illustrated books.  I always showed them to her before anybody else.  She would inevitably laugh, or at least get a big smile, and say, “that’s very good.  I like that.”  Later, when I learned guitar and started writing songs, she’d give me the same reaction.

But I really want to relate the story I remember most from my very early childhood.  It was the first time I remember mom getting angry with me.

My sister was just an infant, so I was probably a few months into my fourth year.  We lived in a small house in the tiny town of Hudson, IL.

Mom had a little sewing space in the corner of the basement.  She spent quite a bit of time sewing – in fact, she made a lot of the family’s clothes.  She was busy sewing one day.  Dad was at work.

Up above, on the first floor, I was in my bedroom writing or drawing or something.  My baby sister, in her crib a bedroom away, started crying loudly.

I tried to ignore it.  But it continued.  I tried even harder to ignore it.  She bellowed on.  I was trying to create art, dammit, and a whiny baby was distracting me.

I yelled, “Mom!  Mommm!  Baby’s crying!”  But I guess she couldn’t hear me, one floor above, over the loud chugging of the sewing machine.

So I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to my sister’s bedroom, climbed up to the railings of the crib, and, with no small effort, picked her up.  The little turd didn’t stop crying.

I rocked her in my arms a bit, and even sang a little.  Still with the crying.

I concluded that the best solution was to take her downstairs to mom.  Surely mom could make her shut up.

So I walked, a four-year-old, with a wailing infant in his arms, to the basement steps.  I confidently started to descend.

Just as I came below the floor section of the first floor, about 8 steps down, the sewing machine stopped as the loud crying continued.

Mom looked toward the stairs.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen, or ever will see, such an expression of sheer shock, panic, and disbelief.

She gasped, “What are you doing?!”

I said, “She’s crying. I can’t get her to be quiet.”

She dashed from her chair, ran up the stairs, and snatched my sister from my grasp.  She snapped, “Don’t ever do that again!”

I was hurt.  I was just trying to get the baby to be quiet.

She recognized this, softened, and said, “It’s okay.  You were just concerned about your sister.  Just tell me first next time she cries, okay?”

And then we were cool.  I didn’t pick sis up again until she was about two.

In conclusion, ma, you were great.  I owe all my creativity and musical ability – and self-confidence in both — to you.  And those are really the only things on which I can always rely to make me happy.

P.S. I’d like to mention my mother’s middle name, but I can’t.  When I found out what it was as a kid, I poked a little fun at her about it.  She sternly told me to never say that name to her or anyone else ever again.

When I was about 7 years old, around 1971, I lived in Hudson, IL, population about 1,000.  My family went to church with an elderly widow from the neighborhood.  Often, during summers, I’d walk to her house to visit.  She loved to play the board game “Cootie” and made great cookies.

The main thing I noticed about her house was that she had an amazing amount of artwork on her walls.  I guess, being an artistic type myself, I appreciated her adoration for art.  There were a few paintings that were pretty standard (or at least what my kid brain thought were standard), but many were quite bizarre.

The one that struck me the most was a painting right over her fireplace.  At the time, the Vietnam War (Conflict, whatever) was going on.  I kind of knew what war was; people were fighting and dying, and folks were upset about it.

The painting was horizontal, with a black background.  Across it, waving from left to right, was an American flag. The end of the flag, on the right, dripped down and became a long drop of blood.  Gripping the end of the drop, with one hand, was a dead American soldier in camos.

I never asked her specifically about the painting, but I’d often stare at it when she was off in the kitchen getting refreshments.  It was one of those “it’s scary, but it strikes my artistic soul in a profound way” sort of things.

Anybody I’ve ever told this to has no idea what I’m talking about.  I’ve imaged-searched the Internet with every keyword I can think of: nothing.

So, for now, the coolest painting I ever saw is only a 40-year-old memory.

Jotted down this idea some time ago, just wrote recently.  Probably still need some work. 

A Cub Scout meeting.  A small group of scouts, in uniform, is sitting around an adult male, also in scout garb.

MR. DAVIS:  Good evening, Cub scouts.  My name’s Mr. Davis, and I’m the counselor for the First Aid merit badge for the Boy Scouts.  I want us to take a little time tonight to talk about first aid.  Does anyone know what “first aid” means?

SCOUT #1:  Is it an aide to the president?  Like, a guy that helps him out?  His first aide?

MR. DAVIS:  No.  Think…injuries.

SCOUT #2:  Is it like when you first get AIDS?

MR. DAVIS:  No.  And that’s not technically an injury, it’s an illness.

SCOUT #3:  Is it the first-response treatment you give to someone who’s just suffered an injury?

MR. DAVIS:  Yes.  That’s exactly it.  Now, let’s say you’re walking home from school with your friend.  He slips on the ice and falls on his arm.  His arm is bent and he’s yelling in pain.  What’s the first thing you should do?

SCOUT #4: Laugh.  (The group titters)

SCOUT #5: Take a video on your phone and put it on YouTube. (The group titters even more)

MR. DAVIS: No.  If you have a phone, you should call 911 immediately and request that an ambulance be sent to your location.  Now think about how you can help him right there.

SCOUT #1: I’d sing him a song to calm him down.

SCOUT #2:  I’d tell him to stop yelling before I hit him and hurt him more.

SCOUT #5:  I’d run away real fast.  Yelling people scare me. (The group chuckles again.)

MR. DAVIS:  No, no.  He broke his arm.  He’s your friend.  You want to help him.

SCOUT #3:  I’d make him as comfortable as possible, then find the nearest house and borrow some strong tape, and a thick newspaper or wooden plank of some kind.  Then I’d carefully tape the newspaper or plank around the area of the break.

MR. DAVIS:  Excellent!  That’s exactly what you do.  Also, you should elevate the arm above the heart…(he pauses, his cell phone vibrating in his pocket.  He pulls it out and checks it.)  Sorry, scouts, I have to take this.   It’ll only be a second. (On phone) What do you want?  I’m teaching a scout meeting.  What?  When?  I’ll be right there. (Hangs up phone) Scouts, I’m sorry, but I have a family emergency and have to leave.  We can finish this another night. (He gets up and heads to the door, but slips, and falls on his arm.) Oww!  Oww!  My arm!

SCOUT #3: Chill out, guys (stands up and pulls a roll of duct tape, a thick newspaper, and a ruler from his back pants pockets).  I got this.

THE END