Treat Her Like...A Lady?

I met one of my neighbors recently. He was taking his kids to the pool, I was exiting my van; we introduced ourselves as we crossed paths in the parking lot.  That was the extent of our initial meeting, until the other day that is. 

I was sitting on my stoop reading a book and this neighbor came by while walking his dog.  Our conversation began with him telling me about how he came into possession of the dog, a rescued pit bull.  The dog had been abused and my neighbor saved it from the pound.  I was informed that he doesn't put his hands near the dog's face because the dog will cower from past abuse and in addition he's concerned the dog might try to strike him.  Of course he said this after I reached out to pet the dog's muzzle.  He explained that he wasn't planning on using the dog for fighting - even though that's what pit bulls are bred for, he said -  just going to let the dog "chill."  I thought that was nice.  Then the dog pissed on the bush nearest where I was sitting.  It was then our conversation took an interesting turn.

I'm not sure how it happened, I must have missed the segue, but he began to tell me how he had gotten out of a bad relationship with his ex.  Their relationship was apparently quite turbulent.  "She tried to cut me a couple times, here and here," he said pointing to his abdomen and then turning his shoulder to reveal a twelve-inch scar running down the back of his upper arm.  "But she got lucky, because I don't hit a woman.  Never raise my hand to a women." 

Right. 

And then he said, without skipping a beat, calmly, casually, and I shit you not, "But I did try to kill her."

You don't say?

It remains unclear to me why it happened, but he explained, "I was in my truck and she was in the back and she attacked me from behind, trying to choke me and shit, trying to rip my shirt.  So I tore off at like 80 miles per hour, trying to throw the bitch out the back."

Wow. 

Well, um, nice talking to you.  Hmm?  What's that?  Yeah, I think have something...else to do.  This was, ah what's the word? Fascinating?

This is not Nam, Dude, There are rules.

The following is part of the conversation I had today with the random stranger I asked to help me pump gas. Actually, I didn't ask him to help me pump gas, I asked him to ask the clerk inside the gas station to come out and help me, but this guy volunteered instead.

Picture: middle-aged guy; beer gut; dirty jeans and sweatshirt; sunglasses; scraggily blonde hair jutting out underneath a shitty Oakland Raiders ball cap; two days of white beard stubble.

My side of the conversation consisted mostly of "Yeah?" "Really?" "Wow." "Crazy." etc.

Him: Yeah man, my buddy came back from 'Nam. Couldn't walk. Had this Charger. He and another guy - had a Torino I think - He got into all sorts of shit with that thing. Tearing all over the place...and this was back in like '74,'75 when cars really kicked ass. Cops chasing after him.

Me: It had hand controls?

Him: Yeah man, not like this (referring to my van). It was silver, I think. The other guy had a Torino. But my buddy, he got Agent Orange and died a couple years later.

Him: I can't believe I'm 50, man. I can still ride a bike 10 miles without stopping. But I hurt all over, man. I never thought I lived to be 50. We used to do all kinds of drugs and shit...acid, orange acid, pot, mescaline...I still smoke pot. Yeah man, I've been smoking weed everyday since I was 13. Yeah, the only time I stopped smoking pot was when I was in jail. Yeah man, I got arrested and was in jail for four months. Couldn't get any pot.

Me: Imagine that.

5

Sunday, January 18th 2004 was a sunny day. Kind of like today.

It’s not the years. It’s the mileage.

Please Don't Feed The Wolverines

ANN ARBOR - Say, have you seen the game of Basket Ball? Designed to be a great way to keep the young men fit and active during inclement winter months, especially when added to any existing vigorous calisthenics routine, Basket Ball is fast gaining popularity among spectators in towns big and small (provided they have gymnasiums and field houses featuring ceilings of sufficient height). At the collegiate level, well regimented five-man teams can be a joy to behold with their precision bouncing and passing of the ball and intricate offensive and defensive strategies; giving the enthralled partisans another outlet by which to express their loyalties for each's own alma mater.

It is under this pretext that nationally recognized Duke University sent their budding, Methodist tobacco barons on the train from North Carolina to frigid Ann Arbor town to take on the new, relatively unknown Varsity of the University of Michigan. The ironically nicknamed Blue Devils were expected to mop the hardwood floor with the Wolverines after handing Michigan a sixteen-point defeat when these same two teams met less than two weeks ago during tournament play in New York City. It should be noted however, that this Michigan "hoops squad" already surprised a then-No. 4 ranked UCLA team in that same tournament prior to falling to Duke.

Much to the delight of the rowdy undergraduates and co-educationals in attendance, Michigan turned the tables on Duke this time around and earned an exciting 81-73 victory, sending the Devils home with their tails tucked between their blue-clad short pants.

The legendary Duke tactician, coach Mike Krzyzewski, was gracious in defeat acknowledging the raucous crowd as well as Michigan's shooting prowess saying, "Their boys rained the three-point shot on us like so many Jerry bombs over Warsaw during the Blitz." But his embarrassment in losing to an upstart bunch was evident during the waning moments of the game by the look of incredulous disbelief on the Pole's reddened immigrant face.

At the final buzzer hundreds of students descended in jubilation to the playing court, chanting in unison, "It's great to be a Michigan Wolverine!"

Indeed.

Michigan sophomore Harris completes a dunk shot