William Martin: Author - Actor - Voiceover Artist - William Martin Blog

Never Stop Growing

7/27/2023

Just a quick update.

I've been keeping pretty busy of late. Besides taking on my yearly outdoor project (this year tearing out some sod and putting in pavers), I'm taking another acting class with Jo Dodge through Pentacle Theater, working on voiceover auditions and training, and taking my first "Acting on Film" class with Shelly Lipkin.

Many of you already know of Jo Dodge. She's an amazing director, teacher, and actor who has been closely associated with Pentacle Theater for decades. When I first moved to Salem I decided to try her acting class and it was as if I'd found a kindred soul and a new home. When I think back on it, I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that I kind of came alive the day I walked into her class. She's a great woman and I strongly recommend her class to anyone interested in acting at any level or who might just want to break out of their comfort zone and learn some great things that also apply to life.

If you're in the Portland area, I also highly recommend Shelly Lipkin's class. I've taken enough acting classes to know that he knows what he's doing and he has already confirmed a lot of what I've learned in theater classes. He's very experienced and adept at taking what knowledge, training, and experience you have and translating that into acting on film. He's also a very passionate, kind man - the kind we could use a lot more of in this often cynical, weary world. I'm excited to learn more from him as we go.

You can learn more about Jo Dodge and her acting class here at Pentacle Theater.

You can learn more about Shelly Lipkin's "Acting on Film" class at ShellyLipkin.com and you can learn more about Shelly's film credits at IMDb.

And, of course, if you have any questions for me you can always contact me through my website here or through my Facebook page. Check them out. You'll thank me for it!

Laughter: The Best Medicine?

7/1/2023

I figured out some time ago that my sense of humor doesn’t always go over with some people. Those people are usually way too normal, so their under-appreciation doesn’t prompt me to construct a noose or stuff my head in an oven. If they’re bold enough to comment on my immaturity I usually respond with “I know you are, but what am I?”

It’s always hard to refute solid persuasive techniques.

But then there are doctors.

After my recent few go ‘rounds with the doctor I’ve become convinced that few –if any—have a sense of humor.

I first noticed this lack of humor over twenty years ago when my oldest daughter was born. My wife was on the bed, knees up, screaming through contractions. I alternated between watching a basketball game on the television mounted on the wall of the hospital room and attempting to sooth her, which only brought on greater screams. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was my watching the game or my soothing bedside manner that caused the screaming to amp up.

The doctor was down where she was supposed to be, doing her thing. Finally, the baby came out. The doctor held up the baby for me to see.

“Well, dad, what do you think?” she asked.

I pointed to the umbilical cord. “Now that’s my boy! Look at how well hung that kid is!”

The doctor glared at me. “That’s the umbilical cord, not a penis. It’s a little girl.”

Me: “I knew that. It was just a joke. You know? A joke?”

Doc (Glaring):

Me: “Heh, heh…?”

That didn’t work out too well, so I tried a joke when our second daughter was born. Just after my wife gave birth the doctor looked at my wife and said, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Me: “Not too bad. I’m feeling pretty good actually. Could go for a sandwich though.”

Doc (Glaring):

My latest failed attempt at humor with a doctor was during my recent medical exam.

Doc: “That mole on your side by your waist looks kind of odd.”

Me: “You mean the one on my love handle? ‘Love handle.’ That’s a technical medical term.”

Doc: “Yeah, whatever. I think we should have it removed.”

Me: “Oh. Okay.”

Doc: “Now drop your pants and bend over the table.”

Me (dropping my pants): “Boy, if I only had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that.”

Doc:

Me (bending over the table): “Be gentle with me doc and just leave the $20 over by my coat.”

Doc:

Doc (After her brief anal invasion): “Everything feels alright there.”

Me: “I certainly thought so. Was it good for you too?”

Doc (glaring): “We’ll send you home with a kit so you can take some stool samples for us.”

Me: “I hope it’s a big kit, ‘cause I had one helluva breakfast.”

Doc (glaring):

Me: “Okay, how do I go about working this kit?”

Doc: “The directions are on the box. Just follow those.”

Me: “Okey-dokey.” Usually a chirpy okey-dokey brings a smile to any one, but this doc’s facial expression appeared to be carved out of granite and only had one mode: glaring.

Doc: “Come back next week and we’ll remove the mole.”

Me: “Okey-dokey.” I figured since she was still glaring I’d give her a double dose of the okey-dokey thing.

I went back the following week. In some ways it was a repeat of the previous visit.

Me: “Hey doc, is there any way we could remove the mole with liposuction and then maybe catch the other love handle too?”

Doc: “No. We’ll be cutting it out.”

Me: “Aww. Cut that out.”

Doc:

Me: “Okay, so where do you want me?”

Doc: “Up on the table, pants down, laying face down.”

I jumped up on the table and decided I’d lay off the jokes for a bit. I watched as she prepared the needle and then walked toward me.

Doc: “Okay, first you’re going to feel a little prick.”

Me: “Really? Are you just gonna softball ‘em in like that?”

Doc: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Nothing. Never mind. I’m okay.”

Doc: “Okay. First the little prick.”

Me: “That’s what she said.”

The little prick ended up being a huge sting. I’m not entirely certain it needed to hurt quite that much. Maybe she was tired of my humor.

Doc: “And now you’ll feel a little burn.”

Me: “Penicillin will take care of that though, right?”

Doc:

When she was done cutting, she sewed it up and slapped a Band-Aid on it.

Doc: “That should take care of it. If you’re comfortable removing the stitches you can do it yourself in a week to ten days or you can make an appointment to come in and have them removed. Just keep them clean and don’t scratch at them.”

Me: “You mean the stitch could itch like a bitch? Heh, heh. Just thought I’d throw some alliteration in there for ya.”

Doc: “Okay, whatever. We’ll have the test results from the mole and the sample you brought in within a couple of days and give you a call.”

Me (feigning hurt): “That’s what they all say. ‘I’ll call you,’ but then they never do.”

Doc:

That’s when I was certain that doctors either had no sense of humor or they simply hated my sense of humor.

That is, until I got the call a couple of days later.

Me: “Hello?”

Doc: “We got the tests back. There are traces of blood in your stool, your blood counts are off a bit and the mole could be pre-cancerous: a melano (-something-or-other-I can never remember words with more than eighteen syllables) so we’ll need to take out a bigger piece.”

Me (still trying to remember what ‘stool’ was): “Uh. Um. Blood in the stool? The mole is a mela –whatsits and you need to cut out a bigger chunk?”

Doc: “Yep. So we’ll schedule that and see if we can set up a colonoscopy, but we’re booked out for the next four months.”

Me:

Doc: “Okey-dokey?”

Truth be told, she’s probably still laughing.

"Back in the day..." Auto Version

6/1/2023

Obvious observation time: there is a lot of irony in life. Just the other day I was thinking, “Back in the day…” again. My father used to do that and I swore I would never do that when I got older. When Dad and I had a “Back in the day…” discussion, it went something like this:

Dad: “Back in the day, you used to be able to buy a candy bar for a dime and a soda for a quarter.”

Me: “Yeah, but dad, that was in the 1930’s. Did you even have a dime or a quarter? I mean, if you don’t have a dime it doesn’t matter if the candy bar costs a dime or a thousand bucks, does it?”

Dad: “Shut up, smartass.”

Me: “Yessir.”

But now, as I grow older, I’m slipping into the “Back in the day…” mode. What prompted this installment of “Back in the day…” was a recent car advertisement I watched. I forget what brand it was, but the car had a back up warning alarm, a camera for backing up (so you didn't have to twist your head or use a review mirror, I guess), front passenger airbags, side air bags, seat edge airbags androof airbags. It had so many airbags that if you ever bumped into anything you’d probably feel like you were suddenly thrust into the middle of a marshmallow.

*Minor digression: How come you see chase scenes in the movies where they intentionally run into another car and no one’s airbags go off? The movies really ought to start investing in safer cars for their people.*

Anyway, after watching the car ad (by the way, you could simply push a button and the thing would parallel park by itself – hands free) I was struck by how far automobile safety measures have come. Back in the day, the best safety measure was to get as much metal around you as possible. That’s why so many of the cars from the 1930’s through the early ‘70’s were HUGE. You wanted more car around you than the other guy, so if you did have an accident, he’d at least come out on the losing end of the deal.

Cars were a lot boxier back then too. Seatbelts were either non-existent or, if they were in the car, you pushed them down between the cushions so they didn’t end up giving you a wedgie or wrinkling your clothes. The only airbags any one knew anything about was the term’s slang use for breasts. (Hey, I was a kid and there were about two dozen different terms we used for ‘breasts’ and we used all of them constantly. We were, after all, boys.)

Because the cars were so boxy, there was plenty of room on the top ledge behind the backseat where a kid could almost lay full-length to sleep on long rides. Of course, this totally obstructed the driver’s rearview mirror, but dad was usually intent on getting to where he was going, eyes front, never looking back. With four kids in the backseat, a fifth laying behind and above the backseat smashed against the rear window, and dad a mom up front, we still had room to get into fights with a pretty good arm swing range. Like I said, the cars were HUGE.

With so many kids in the car and I the youngest, I usually got stuck in the middle where the transmission hump kept my feet wedged together and my knees uncomfortably under my chin. If my feet slipped off the hump, it was taken as a deliberate assault on a sibling’s “car floor territory” and another fight was on.

You know, looking back, in a way I guess I was surrounded by human airbags, so I was probably the safest one in the car.

There was one pseudo-safety feature that our car had, but it was only when my mom was driving.

I figured out as I got older that mom was a terrible driver. I don’t mean it as an insult to her. She was a great mom, but as a driver she was like a cat on a skateboard going down a rock slide.

She tended to drive with one foot on the gas and one on the brake. She drove hesitantly, unsure of herself and paranoid that every other person on the road was a worse driver than she was. If a driver pulled up to a stop sign facing the road we were on, she would slam on the brakes –and that’s when the automatic safety feature kicked in. If you were a kid riding up front alongside her, she would hit the brake and at the same time slam her right arm against your chest.

I don’t know why she didn’t just dig out the seatbelts, but she seemed to think that the right arm of a 115 pound mom would stop a 130 pound kid from flying forward (her knowledge of physics was as limited as her driving skills). We were usually prepared for the sudden slamming of the brakes, so all the right-arm-guardrail-thing did was knock the wind out of you or crack against your sternum.

It was painful, but it was an act of a mother’s love. I sometimes think of it and wax nostalgic. In fact the other day I was telling my daughter:

Me: “You know, back in the day, we didn’t have all these safety features on cars and we seemed to do okay. In fact, the simplicity of the car was kinda nice.”

My daughter: “Yeah, but dad, don’t you think that if your folks had had all of the current safety features available to them they would have used them? I mean, if it wasn’t available at the time, how could you really do a comparison?”

Me: “Shut up, smart-aleck.”

My daughter: “Yessir.”

Ah, the irony of the circle of life.

Mom's Helping Hand

5/1/2023

Once upon a time, it was okay to smack your kid. In fact it was encouraged. If you didn’t have a kid to smack, you could borrow a relative’s kid to keep up. Sometimes a complete stranger would lend you their kid. People were nicer and more giving in those days.

I’m not saying it’s a good thing or a bad thing and I’m really not into making some kind of social commentary here. That’s not my place and, frankly, I’m not smart enough to take that on.

But it gives one pause to think: Maybe it just depends on the type of smack. It could be anywhere from a mild swat on the rear, to an open handed slap, to a closed fisted-our-relationship-is-about-done hit. There are varying degrees of smacking, varying degrees of reasons, and varying degrees of if it’s working for you or not.

My mom was big on spanking. She’d use anything from an open hand to a belt. But she was at a huge disadvantage – she had four boys and she only weighed about 110 lbs soaking wet.

She had more credibility when we younger. Swats actually hurt and you didn’t want to push her into the belt range or –the most terrifying of all—the dreaded “wait until your dad gets home” range. But as we grew bigger, her spankings became kind of a running joke among the siblings. She would spank while we were standing up and wear herself to a frazzle and we hardly noticed she was there.

It would often get to the point where we’d ask her to please stop because we feared she’d hurt herself. She was a belt-wielding tempest in a thimble.

Until she discovered “Mom’s Helping Hand.”

We were on a driving vacation (huge mistake on my parent’s part). It’s never a vacation if you’re driving all day with three boys between ten and sixteen in the back seat.

My brothers and I fought incessantly. We were civil during a roadside break or if we stopped to eat, but that just gave us a chance to rest up for the next round of fighting. We’d start off in the car again and start in on each other again. When you’re younger you always want to start fights with your siblings verbally, but know that it’s going to get physical, well, just because it will.

We’d start with the “He’s touching me!” thing and it quickly degenerated from there. Dad remained stoic in his driving, as though we didn’t even exist in his universe. Mom would try to turn in the passenger seat to smack us, but her position was awkward and her blows easy to deflect.

Finally, we stopped in a tiny town and went into a small store with all the usual small store accoutrements. As we spun the bumper sticker rack round and round, mom made a new discovery: a thin, plywood paddle in the shape of a hand. Written boldly across the paddle were the words: “Mom’s Helping Hand.”

Yes, back in the day they actually sold weapons (under the guise of 'souvenirs') for parents to use to smack their kids.

Our eyes bugged out just a bit as she held it and smiled. I don’t remember if the thing cost a dollar or twenty dollars –whatever the price, I’m sure she would have paid it.

She bought it and soon we were on our way again. And soon my brothers and I were at it again in the back seat. Mom gave us the required warning then reached back to smack us with the paddle.

Nothing.

The thing hardly hurt at all. In fact, my oldest brother laughed at her attempt. She tried smacking harder, but that only amused us all the more.

Then mom discovered the laws of physics or the laws of impact or just the simple fact that she could make a slight change that would have a profound impact (literally).

She lightly knocked my brother on the side of his head using the edge of the paddle.

His hands went up, one to defend himself from another paddle-edged blow, the other to rub the recent smack. Tears welled up in his eyes. My other brother and I watched in wonder.

What mom just did was effective.

Of course, we were just kids and too stupid to learn by the example just provided. We had to try it out for ourselves. And our theory was right: the edge of that damned paddle HURT.

We settled in quietly for the remainder of the vacation. Mom sat up front smiling. Dad was even smiling as he drove. If we even batted an eyelash in what could be construed as a confrontational manner, she’d lift the paddle and we’d shrink back into the seat.

I don’t know what ever became of that paddle, but however strange it may seem, I get nostalgic when I think of it.

I think I actually miss it.

And I know I miss my mom.

Of Spiders and Snakes...

4/1/2023

I don’t really hate much. Hate is a pretty strong emotion, so I’d just as soon save it for that one really big thing –or person—and then just hammer ‘em with hate.

I do hate wasps. I’m not a science guy, so it’s probably no surprise that I cannot think of a single thing in nature that a wasp is good for. Unless they sting someone you hate, then you’ve got the hate voodoo working for you pretty good. Other than that a wasp is worth nothing, zip, nada.

I have a healthy respect for spiders and snakes. I don’t hate them, but I do know they have nature’s aura of “don’t touch” and although I don’t hate them, they can be annoying as hell sometimes. I know, they’re all part of the “circle of life” thing, but sometimes I think they try to annoy me on purpose.

They annoy me by being sneaky.

I have a spider on my back deck that has become my nemesis. He is an industrious little bastard and he works all through the night to build his web exactly over the area I have to walk through every day to clean the dog run. I get a face full of web and wonder if there’s a spider attached to it somewhere. After slapping myself silly and screaming like a ten-year-old girl, I calm down and make a vow that it will not happen the next day.

The next day: déjà vu.

Snakes do the same thing, but they’re not as predictable (even though being predictable is fairly lost on me). I have snakes all through my yard. They’re just little garden snakes. Or is it garter snakes? I’ve heard it pronounced both ways and have never been sure. Except that 'garden' makes more sense, because what woman in her right mind would wear one for a garter? Anyway, I digress…

I first started noticing the snakes while I was mowing the yard. They like to wait until that last possible moment when you’re about to step on them, then they wriggle out of the way. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and jump up on the lawnmower screaming like a ten-year-old girl again. Once I’ve recognized what it is, I’m okay. It’s just that initial movement where you don’t expect movement to be.

I’ll be honest. I used to get a flash of anger when this happened and would reflexively bark over the snake with the mower. I’m kinder and gentler now. I now stand panting and work on getting my heart rate down as they slither away.

But once in awhile these aspects of nature work as great teaching tools –even for me who knows nothing about nature.

When we were cleaning out our backyard (previous house that sat on a rock pile) I heard a buzzing by me. I stopped clearing rock to listen, but it would stop. This happened a few times until I located the source. I picked up a rock from a pile and there was a wasp, caught in a Black Widow’s web (notice the capitalization there which is a sign of respect…or fear). The spider would move in for the kill and the wasp would buzz, turning it’s stinger towards the spider until it backed away again. The weird dance kept repeating.

I called my kids over to show them nature up close. Survival of the fittest. Darwin in action. I should have made a Nat-Geo film of it. The girls were about five and seven at the time and they watched on in wonder at the struggle. Finally, my oldest looked up at me.

“Who do you think will win, daddy?” she asked.

I picked up a rock and smashed the spider and the wasp with one blow.

“Man, honey,” I said. “Man always wins.”

We’re sneaky that way.

Swattin' the Cool

3/1/2023

A few posts back I made mention of how, back in the day, it was okay to smack your kid. In fact it was encouraged. In the post I wrote mainly about how my mom found “Mom’s Helping Hand,” which gave her the edge (pun intended –you’ll have to read back if you missed it) over three unruly brothers in the backseat on a traveling vacation.

What I didn’t get into is that smacking a kid was also okay at school. Again, it was encouraged. Some teachers still refer to that time as “the good old days.”

Let me preface this next part by admitting that when I was 15 I was an ass. I’m not saying that justifies hitting a 15-year-old, only that in a lot of cases where I was smacked I kinda had it coming. However, a couple of times I was at least a bit undeserving of what I got.

One time was in shop class. I forget the teacher’s name, but he gave us the mind-numbing task of taking a piece of sheet metal and a small ball-peen hammer and tapping on the sheet metal until we shaped it into a bowl. This took hours, days. I think it may have taken some kids a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, the teacher sat back and watched us or sat in his office and watched television. All the students were small ball-peen hammers, a small anvil, some safety glasses and the ear-ringing sound of 30 kids tapping for an hour every day.

Finally, after hours, days of tapping I had a somewhat bowl shaped piece of metal. I thought perhaps this would be enough to satisfy him so he would at least give me some other mind-numbing task to do.

I set my hammer and safety glasses down on the anvil and called him over. Please, please, please let this piece of crap look enough like a bowl that he’ll let me move on. He came over and I showed it to him. As I was showing it to him and desperately pointing out all of its bowl-like features, he reached over, picked up the small ball-peen hammer and hit me above my eye. You know the spot: that ridge of bone that’s covered by your eyebrow.

Funny thing –an eyebrow doesn’t afford much cushion when you get hit with a ball-peen hammer. Granted the hammer was small, maybe 10 or 12 ounces, but it was a friggin’ hammer.

I jumped back in case he tried to hit me again and put my hand to my eye. I looked up at him and he said, “See? If you would have had your safety glasses on, that would have hardly hurt at all. Now what did you learn today?”

I had actually learned a lot in that few seconds. I learned that getting hit above the eye with a ball-peen hammer really hurts. I learned that the shop teacher was an asshole. I learned how to dwell on revenge almost immediately. But I think I found the answer he was after.

“That I should always wear my safety glasses.”

He said I was right and signed me off on my bowl.

I didn’t tell my parents about it, because any kind of trouble I might have gotten into at school would have only been magnified and repeated at home. That was also a social norm at the time.

The next time I was hit by a teacher it was a vice-principal. (I still have trouble with the spelling of ‘principal.’ I deliberately want to spell it ‘principle,’ because friends, they are not your pal.)

I forget exactly what I did that landed me in his office. Maybe I threw a desk out a third story window or something equally smart. In any case, I sat across from him, slouched in the chair, maintaining my ‘cool.’ That’s what’s important when you’re 15 and crap hits the fan. You must do your best to remain looking cool.

He leaned back in his chair looking at me. I slouched in mine looking at him. Finally he sat up and leaned his forearms on his desk. It was obvious he had decided what to do with this miscreant before him.

But actually, he let me make the decision.

“Here’s the deal,” he said. “You can either take a week’s worth of lunch detention along with a phone call home or you can take a swat.”

Reminder: trouble at school meant trouble at home, only magnified. I didn’t care about detention; I was scared of the phone call home.

“Detention and phone call home or a swat?”

“Yep, those are your choices.”

“A swat? A single swat? That’s it?”

“Yep.”

I almost laughed. This was way too easy.

“Bring on the swat,” I said. Maintaining my coolness was fairly easy at this point.

He reached down to the lower right-hand drawer of his desk and brought forth the paddle. I think he did this rather slowly on purpose, you know, for dramatic effect.

The dramatic effect worked. As the paddle was revealed I could see it was made of three quarter-inch plywood, about ten inches wide by twelve inches long. The handle was long enough to grasp with both hands. He had even taken the time to drill a number of one-inch holes through the paddle to compensate for wind resistance.

He smiled and I realized my eyes were probably as large as pie plates. Then he said what no 15-year-old boy wants to hear from a grown man.

“Stand up, bend over and grab your ankles.”

I did as I was told, while still trying to maintain the cool (which was becoming increasingly harder to do). As I bent over I could see him through the space between my side and my arm. He gripped the handle of the paddle with both hands and had it raised like Babe Ruth wanting to tear the cover off one before it rocketed out of the ballpark. I held my breath as he stepped into his swing.

I can honestly say that I have never been hit harder by anything before or since. He hit me so hard with the paddle that it propelled me three steps forward and into the wall. I clung to the wall dry heaving. I could feel nothing on my backside. I actually felt the impact up into my insides. If the wall had not been there I would have went down.

I looked back at him while I continued to dry heave and catch my breath at the same time. He stood smiling, twirling the paddle in his hand.

Once I could breathe a bit, I tried to grasp at the cool, but it was pretty much gone.

“That it?” I croaked.

“Yep. You can go on back to class now.”

I really knew the cool was gone then, because I started feeling the pain in my backside. I could barely walk, but I managed. I shuffled slowly, like an old man who’s dropped a load in his pants. Definitely not cool. All the cool had been swatted out of me.

I think back on it now and I realize that I should have told my parents. I look back and realize there was something sick about that man. No grownup should derive that much pleasure from hitting a kid that hard.

But we can all learn from negative examples and a lot of those negative examples don’t involve a swat. So learn from it, apply what you’ve learned and move on.

Just don’t let anyone swat the cool out of you. That’s just wrong.

Hai Karate! (Or How My Fights Differed From the Movies)

2/1/2023

I was watching a movie the other day (have you ever noticed how many of my posts start that way?), just relaxing on the couch when the big fight scene came on.

It was a John Wayne western. I don’t remember the title. I think it may have been “McClinchismcahill Cogburn” or something of the like.

Short interlude: I am a big John Wayne fan, but have you ever noticed that the Duke wore his gun waaaaay back? I mean, practically in his butt-crack back?

In my best John Wayne voice: Just a minute there, pilgrim. Let me dig this gun out of my ass and we’ll just see who’s in charge here.

Anyway, the big fight scene came on; you know the one… everyone throws their punches by telegraphing them from about a mile away –always a ginormous roundhouse, while the person about to be hit conveniently holds his head still and, in fact, often pushes it out there a bit more to make the hitting easier (we don’t want to inconvenience a man who is going to all the trouble of swinging his fist from somewhere south of Australia). The receiver of the punch then flies backwards, usually landing on a balsawood poker table that demolishes in a spray of splinters.

Of course, one of the characters was at the top of the stairs when he was hit and, surprisingly, he barely leaned back against the handrail which completely collapsed in about three sections.

I am amazed that civilization has made it this far with the inferior wood and crappy craftsmanship of the 1800’s. No wonder they had outhouses. If they’d had indoor ceramic toilets the things probably would have exploded in a cloud of dust with the first strong bowel movement.

Once again, as so often happens, my mind wandered a bit. I thought of how when I was a kid, these movie fight scenes were always great fun. And we had the first surge of martial arts films as well. Those were really cool, because besides the telegraphed punches, you also got to enjoy over the top punch sound effects and dialog that was always a half-second out of sync with the actor’s lips.

As I got older, I learned that real fights don’t happen that way. And me being me, I had to make this discovery through experience. I couldn’t just take someone’s word for it.

One of the first fights I got into was with a semi-psychopath. We played football in P.E. and I had accidentally (and unknowingly) blocked a kid who went backward and hit his head against psycho-kid’s nose.

The next day, psycho-kid was in the locker room putting on cleats. Cleats. We never wore cleats in P.E. With my highly tuned deductive reasoning I said, “Huh.”

He came at me on the field. I didn’t know why, but his charge had serious intent and his eyes had a curious vacuum. I managed to step back and hit him about three times, but then I found out another interesting fact about psycho-kid: he was a wrestler.

So that’s what he did. He wrestled. He took be down and must have been having one helluva fine time twisting me into a pretzel. He finally stopped moving and I realized that he had me pinned, but was covering my face with his torso. I couldn’t move my arms. I couldn’t move my legs. But the worse part?

I couldn’t breathe.

My thought process went something like this: Damn, he’s got me pinned. Shit, I can’t breathe. Damn, he’s not moving off me. Shit, I REALLY can’t breathe. You know, Joe, if this continues, you will black out and probably die. That would really make mom sad.

My thoughts finally reached a point of panic. I was trying to move in some way….in any way. All I could do was turn my wrist a little.

But that little was enough. The powers that be thought it right and just to send me my deliverance.

I turned my wrist and his testicles plopped into my palm.

I squeezed. I squeezed hard. I squeezed like a man with scurvy trying to get the very last drop of juice from an orange.

I think I remember hearing his scream, but I’m not sure.

The next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, getting up.

Then the next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, getting up. Déjà vu, which is always a weird feeling. What I didn’t know was that as I was getting up the first time, psycho-kid kicked me in the head. A ‘friend’ told me afterward it looked like psycho-kid was trying to kick a field goal from the 40 yard line.

When I got up, psycho-kid was running away and everyone else started in with the “I was just about to jump in…” and “In another few seconds I would have…” crap. Total crap.

Later that day, I was called into the principal’s office for fighting. He was a very serious man and even moved a chair directly in front of me so he could get the whole story. His brow was furrowed and he nodded now and then as I told him everything…except for the part where I wrung out the kids nut-sack like a wet dish towel.

He looked at me very seriously and said, “Joe, did you squeeze his testicles?”

The poor man looked so intent when he asked the question I couldn’t help but laugh.

“I may have just a bit,” I said.

“That’s what he said,” and then the principal laughed. “He said, and I quote, ‘it felt like a volcano went off in my balls.”

Cool principal. He said that since psycho-kid started it, he would be suspended. I was to go free.

You wouldn’t see that happen today.

The other lesson I received in the reality of fighting versus fictional movie fighting was fairly brief. It happened after a barrage of martial arts films were engulfing theaters throughout the U.S.

To be brief (and because I honestly don’t remember how it began), another guy and I were facing off to do what some macho types call “the man dance.” I was ready. I’d been in enough fights…I had a little bit of a size/weight advantage. This would be easy.

Then the guy pulled a knife.

That put a whole new spin on things. This could get serious. Suddenly my advantage didn’t seem to comfort me near as much. But I had seen a few martial arts films.

I dropped into what I thought was a reasonable imitation of a martial arts crouch. I put my hands out as if I knew how to karate chop.

My memory is not positive, but I may have yelled, “Kai!!”

He came at me. I pivoted and aimed an arcing kick at his wrist to disarm him.

I disarmed him and watched as he turned and ran away (by the way, the running away thing happens quite often in real fights).

I was pretty proud of my martial arts prowess and being able to disarm a knife-wielding opponent. Then I looked down and saw the knife sticking out from the side of my foot.

I think my thought process was something like, Damn, these are fairly new Nikes. And now there’s a cut in the side. The cut in my foot wasn’t much and I settled for gaining a knife for myself in exchange to some damage to my tennis shoe.

I’ve not been in too many fights since then. I think I may have slowly discovered that the running away thing is actually a strategically smart move.

Maybe if people actually fought like they did in those old movies I would fight more.

Just so long as the other guy sticks his head out there for me to hit and there’s plenty of that cushy, easy-break furniture around.

Be well (and no fighting),

-- William

Tuffee in the Moment

1/1/2023

My daughter moved back home from college last weekend. It’s not really a boomerang thing, because she finished the academic portion of her medical imaging major and is now moving into her externship at our local hospital.

Of course, I’m very proud of my daughter and I’m happy to have her back home.

She’s good company.

She also brought her dog with her. Since we have two dogs already, my initial reaction was, “Hmmmmm.” (I found out years ago that “Hmmm” sounds much more intelligent than “Uhhhh” even if I have no actual thoughts running through my head).

Her dog is a Shih Tzu and his name is “Tuffee.” I spent the day with Tuffee and I thought of how his name actually fits. He’s a pretty tough dog. At least emotionally.

Tuffee started out as my father’s dog. When my father passed away, he became my brother’s dog. My brother ran into some difficulties and couldn’t keep the dog, so Tuffee became my sister’s dog. She and her husband moved about a year ago and weren’t able to keep Tuffee, so my daughter came to his rescue and took him in.

That’s four different owners between two states and over a span of (I think) six years and Tuffee has stayed tough. He and my daughter are now inseparable.

She left yesterday to go pick up some more of her things and was gone overnight. She left the dog. At first Tuffee seemed a bit out of sorts. He wouldn’t eat. He moped about the house a bit. But within a few hours he was up on the sofa, kicked back and relaxed.

He slept in her room alone last night and spent the day with me today.

I took him to the groomer’s. He was okay with that. No problem, just jumped up into the cab of my truck and looked at me as if to say, “Let’s roll.”

When I picked him up he seemed happy. I couldn’t tell whether that was from my coming back for him, his getting away from the groomer’s place, or because he was cleaned up and trimmed. In any case, he jumped up in the truck, tail wagging, and panting in a way that made him look like he was smiling. He kept that smile all the way home.

When we got home he jumped out of the truck, ran up to the house, and went in and ate his dinner. He pranced around the house a bit (Shih Tzu’s tend to prance when they walk) then jumped up on the sofa, stretched out and fell asleep.

It was then that I realized that Tuffee has that Zen thing going on. No matter what happens, he’s pretty much unflappable. No matter who he’s with, he seems to enjoy their company. If there’s nothing to do, he just kicks back and enjoys the sunshine or takes a nap.

He lives in the moment.

We joke around a bit and alternately call him “Tuffee,” “Tuffee McTufferson,” “The Tuffster,” “Tuffarino,” and any other variations that come to mind.

I think I can learn a lot from Tuffee. He doesn’t stress about anything. He doesn’t worry about the future. He doesn’t live in the past. Nothing seems to get to him.

I think he’ll be good company too.

Media Mayhem

12/1/2022

I don’t have the best track record of dealing with broadcast media. I can be fairly confident, hell, even sometimes cocky, but it seems that when I know more than a few people are listening and/or watching, I sometimes choke.

The first time I ran into this was way back in the day when I was listening to the local radio station while at work. They had some kind of trivia contest going on and if you were the fourth caller and could answer the trivia question you won a baked ham or some other equally great prize.

The trivia question was, “What actor played the original Godfather’s son who then went on to play the Godfather in ‘Godfather Part 2’?”

Obvious: Al Pacino.

I grabbed the phone and called the station. They played a song while waiting for callers. As luck would have it, I was the fourth caller. The D.J. asked me if I knew the answer and I went into cocky mode. Um, duh. No shit Sherlock. I gave him my name and he said he’d introduce me right after the song and then ask me the question and I could give my answer.

I waited patiently for the song to end. The ham was practically in the bag.

The song ended and that’s when things went to hell.

D.J.: “On the phone we have William Martin, who has an answer to our trivia question. How are you doing today William?”

I could hear the D.J. on the phone and through the radio simultaneously. For some reason, that just really threw me off. What threw me off even more was when I heard my own voice coming through the radio (maybe because I was cocky, the D.J. didn’t warn me that it could be an issue).

Me: “Doing good, thanks.”

Radio: “DOING GOOD, THANKS.”

My eyes darted back and forth between the radio and the phone.

D.J. (ass): “So William, what’s the answer to our trivia question for today?”

Me (beginning to sweat): “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.”

Radio: “UHHHH. UMMMM. UHHHH.”

D.J. (after a few seconds): “William, are you there?”

Radio: “WILLIAM, ARE YOU THERE?”

Me: “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.”

Radio: “UHHHH. UMMMM. UHHHH.”

D.J.: “Do you have an answer for us William?”

Me: “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.”

Radio: “UHHHH. UMMMM. UHHHH.”

D.J.: “Well, it seems William doesn’t have an answer for us after all. Be sure to check with us in the next hour for another chance to win a baked ham.”

And then he hung up.

I consoled myself by thinking, “Hey, it’s just a small local radio show. Who’s going to be listening to that?”

It seems everybody listened to it. And I heard about my performance for a full two weeks afterward.

The next time I ran into a media problem was when I was leaving work. There was a television crew outside work and the reporter asked me if he could ask me a question.

Me: “Like what?”

Reporter: “Who do you think will win the World Series.”

I’ll be honest right now, even at the risk of losing man-points. I am not a sports guy. I told the reporter that and that I didn’t even know who was playing.

I started to leave. He grabbed my arm.

Reporter: “Look, it doesn’t really matter. We just need a sound bite to round out our sporting report. Just say one team or the other.”

Me: “Well…who’s playing?” (I don’t even remember now, but for sake of story, let’s say it was New York and…Texas.)

Me: “Okay, I guess I can do that.”

He asked, and I told him my name.

Reporter: “Great. Thanks. Okay, roll the camera.”

The cameraman pointed the camera at me and the reporter set up his sound bite.

Reporter: “We’re here with William Martin on the evening of the start of the World Series. So, William, who do you think will take the series this year?” He pushed his microphone towards my face.

Me: “Oh, New York, definitely.”

Reporter: “Okay, so why do you say that?”

Me: “Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh. Because that’s what you told me to say?”

Reporter: “Cut! Thanks again William.”

By the time I wrapped my head around what had happened they were gone.

And later that night, in all my glory, stood I, looking like someone had just shoved a broom handle up my ass saying…

“Uhhhh. Ummmm. Uhhhh.” They had conveniently cut out the part where I said because he had told me to.

I thought, “Hell, it’s just an 11 o’clock newscast. Who the hell stays up and watches that?”

Again, apparently, everyone. And I heard about my performance from every one I encountered for weeks.

I’ve had an opportunity to be on media since then, but even I can learn after a time or two, so I flatly refused.

But if someone from the American Idol or Survivor reality shows calls, I may have to reconsider.

Ah, What the Hell

11/1/2022

I was able to sleep in for a bit this morning, which everyone knows is why God, evolution, or whatever deity you follow, made Saturdays to begin with.

When I got up and looked outside I saw that it was one helluva glorious day today. Sunshine, temperatures in the mid ‘70s, hardly any wind. Definitely not a day to stay indoors.

I should point out that I’m not a morning person at all. I found out a long time ago that, left to my own devices, I would stay up until 1:00 a.m. or 1:30 and sleep in until 9:00 or 10:00. In a way this makes it difficult to get up on weekdays at 6:00 a.m., but on the plus side, I’m not really awake until about mid-morning. So, half my workday is practically done –although I may not have a real clear recollection of just what it was I did.

You take the good with the bad.

But I had to have my coffee first. Yep. I’m one of those.

I have to have two or three cups of coffee just to get my heart beating and my lungs functioning properly.

So I sat and drank my coffee and looked out on this really gorgeous day, deciding what I would do.

I noticed the lawn had grown about five feet since my last fall mowing. I should probably take care of that. It had dried enough. I could do that. My 30-year-old Sears lawnmower would be up for it. I’m pretty positive that I will die long before that thing does.

The weeds around the edge of the yard were higher than the grass, so I thought about breaking out the old weed-whacker and taking care of those.

Some of the lawn edging (okay, quite a bit of the edging) had started rotting away, so I needed to replace those. I used those red, timber things because they were cheap, but I did get a lot of mileage out of them.

My German Shepherd, Maggie, was alternately looking at me and the glass door to outside, not so subtly letting me know that she’d be more than happy to run after a stick for a few hours, if I’d be willing to throw it.

My truck hasn’t had a bath in months and it could really use a good wax as well. The interior also needs to be vacuumed and cleaned.

There was a lot of stuff that needed done inside the house too: laundry, the floors, dusting…

So I sipped my coffee and planned my day.

Then I sipped my coffee and checked my email, social stuff, news, and worked on a poem a bit –while I was waking up, of course.

When next I looked, it was 11:00 a.m. I shut down the computer and gazed again at the lawn, the weeds, the borders, my dog (who still continued to stare at me with the intensity that only dogs can do), and my dirty pickup. I also looked again at the floors, the laundry, and the dusting that needed to be done.

So I made myself some breakfast.

You can’t take on those kinds of chores on an empty stomach.

After making and eating my eggs, bacon (the fairy dust of foods), and toast (and drinking a couple of more cups of coffee), I was ready to hit it.

But by then it was almost 12:30.

Suddenly, the lawn, weeds, edging, dog, the dirty pickup, the floors, the laundry, the dusting…it all seemed so overwhelming. And in the back of my mind I knew the grass would grow again, the weeds would spring forth again, other parts of the edging would rot, the clothes would get dirty again, as would the floors and the furniture…

I wasn’t sure where to start first.

So I debated on it and tried to plan a strategy of attack.

Next thing I knew it was past 1:00 p.m.

So I had a beer and checked my email again and my social media stuff again.

Then I took a nap, because I was still a little tired.

Now it’s late afternoon and time for another beer.

Why did I get a house with a yard anyway?

Why did I insist on getting a dog?

Why couldn’t I just hire someone to clean my truck?

Why couldn’t I just wear my clothes another day or two? I mean really, who would notice?

That’s when I reached the point of “Ah, what the hell.”

And started writing my blog and having another beer.

There will be plenty of time to get to all that other stuff tomorrow.

Right?

The only thing is…I never did make it outside, but it looked great through the window.

Be well. --William