NO MORE EXCUSES

I don’t want to be the Marlboro man or anything but I have often wondered what it would be like to have a tattoo or tattoos.  Not all tatted up but just something rather demure and tasteful.  I have never taken the plunge but one night at the Orange County fair I did get one of those temporary tattoos on my forearm.  I felt so ashamed of myself I wore a long sleeve shirt for a several days in stifling heat until it washed off.  I even toyed with the idea of coming out with a line of sheer tops and shirts that had tattoo art work on them so one could go clubbing for the evening with the appearance of having tattoos.  You know, when you feel daring but not that daring. 

So this morning I’m reading the business section of the LA Times when a headline catches my eye.  It says “Pardon me, is that your tattoo ringing?”  It seems Nokia Corp. has filed for a patent for a tattoo that would send a perceivable impulse to your skin whenever someone calls your cell phone.  The phone would emit magnetic waves and the tattoo would act as a receiver.  It would even be possible to customize the response according to who is calling.

VOILA!!  No more excuses.  Being hard of hearing and frequently missing phone calls, this may be the answer!  At least now I could say “I didn’t really want to get one but I couldn’t hear my phone ring”.

So now the question becomes what tattoo to get.  Do I go the tribal route and trace my family all the way back to Ireland?  I really don’t care for gothic, that stuff is creepy.  If I had been a Marine I would go with Semper Fi, but I didn’t have that honor.  I was never in a gang so that’s out and I’m not really the serpent or devil type. 

When I do settle on a design then there is the question of customizing the response.  I definitely have certain reactions to incoming phone numbers.  Maybe an itchy feeling for bill collectors, a feeling of salt spray for a call from a fishing buddy or a warm sensation for calls from my wife and kids.  I could even program it so I would get a choking feeling if it’s the IRS.  The possibilities are endless. 

One of the reasons I always resisted was that a tattoo might give me that living-on-the-edge, bad boy look at the time, but not so much so as the years went by.  While some men face the ordeal later in life of getting a girl’s name removed because it was 2 wives ago, I would never have that problem.  I was then, am now and always will be a one woman man. 

So there are no more excuses for not getting a tattoo.  The fact that I will never miss another call on my cell phone is the clincher.  After much thought, I have decided to go with a family tattoo.  

The location will be on the right shoulder, so it’s not too “out front”.  It was recently surgically rebuilt so it should be good to go.  At the top of the family tree will be my wife Terry.  Below that, across the shoulder will be our 4 kids, Erin, Forest, Romy and Molly.  Below them, and I am going to keep pumping iron with my right arm to assure an adequate width for all the names, will be the spouses, grandchildren and significant others.  Each will be magnetized with their own incoming responses.  There will, of course, be room below for additions as the family grows. 

Now if I can just work up the nerve.               

    

I DID IT

When I was a little boy I lived and breathed football.  Touch football, flag football or tackle football, it didn’t matter.  It was the kids on my block against all challengers.  When we were in school it was football from 3 pm until our mothers screamed for us to get in the house for dinner.  In the summer it was from after breakfast until our mothers screamed for us to get in the house for dinner. 

Fortunately, my Dad loved the game too.  In his quest to build a restaurant empire he was working virtually 24/7.  But no matter where he was during his day that would begin at 7 in the morning and end after his night club closed at 2 am, he would manage to get home by 4 in the afternoon to have a knockdown, drag out football game in the street with us kids before heading back to work.  I would stare down the block waiting for his car to round the corner, and then greet him at his car with a football in my hands.  We would divide up teams and the games were on. 

Thanksgiving Day dinner could not begin until we had returned from the annual Los Angeles Rams game at the Coliseum.  There were not near as many games on TV then as there are now so when they were on, it was a special treat for me.  Bowl games and playoffs were can’t miss TV.  I could tell you the starting roster of every team in the NFL without even blinking.  And being a quarterback myself I idolized the QB’s.  There was zero doubt in my mind that one day I would be one of them. 

Throughout high school nothing changed.  I loved playing the game, my best friends were on the team and football players were my kind of guys.  I still followed all levels of football and my goal was still the same. 

After high school I went out for football at Orange Coast College and tore ligaments in my ankle during two a day practices and was out for the year.  The following year I transferred to USC for the spring semester.  That meant I was there in time for spring training.  It was time to put up or shut up. 

I was what you would call “under the radar”, meaning I did not have a scholarship to play.  I would be considered a walk on, in other words, the bottom of the totem pole.  I did not care.  I had been dreaming of this my entire life.

I found out when we were supposed to report for the first day of practice and I was there.  I walked into the locker room filled with the best of the best.  Every player there had been the best player on his team, in his league or in his state.  In some cases the best in the country.  Their uniforms were laid out for them and their locker reserved with their name on it.  I, along with a few others, had to scrounge for everything. 

I walked up to the trainer and requested a uniform.  He asked who I was, looked through several pages on his clip board and said “I don’t see your name”.   After some smooth talking he issued me a uniform.  I got the leftovers which means I got a jersey and pants for a 275 pound lineman even though I went about 180 wearing wet clothes.  I wasn’t discouraged.  I proudly put on the cardinal and gold and headed for the field. 

My name was not on any coaches clip board for any of the drills so I had to work my way in to try and get noticed.  I got in line with the QB’s, 2 of which, in future years, would lead the Trojans to a National Championship.  When it was my turn to throws passes to receivers the coaches looked at each other with a Who-the-hell-is-this-guy? look on their faces.  I zipped a few passes right on the money and felt pretty good. 

Unfortunately for me the NCAA, in a cost saving move, legislated that players must play offense and defense.  This rule only lasted a couple of years but this was one of them.  We moved to defense.  I stood off to the side watching when suddenly, a coach grabbed my jersey and shoved me into position as a strong side linebacker.  The first play called was a sweep to my side.  I charged up to take on the lead blockers and was instantly buried.  As I lay there gasping for air I looked up and saw the face of the coach who had grabbed me.  He said “Get the hell off the field.”

As the days went by I made a decision.  Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a professional football player.  I had dreamt about it since I was knee high but reality was setting in.  The hardest part was telling my Dad.  I called him one night and told him of my decision.  He said he was proud of me.  As only a Mom or Dad can do he said all the right things for that place and that time.  I meekly said maybe sports aren’t everything and I should concentrate on my studies. 

I never did get to run out on the floor of the Coliseum but I did get to put on the uniform of the University of Southern California.   

                 

FANTASIES

I have often had fantasies about what it would be like to be someone else for one day.  By that I mean that I would still be myself but for that one day I could do what that person could do.  In the past I have stood on a stage with massive crowds swaying to every song like Bono, stared down an evil empire like Winston Churchill, written novels like Hemingway and stood over a putt to win the Masters like Jack.  Then of course there is the World Series game winning home run like Kirk Gibson and the you-pick-it Championship basket by Michael.  I have done them all.

Right up there at the top of my favorites would be to become Michael Jackson for a day.  Actually, for one night would be perfect.  My fascination with Michael stems from my admiration of those with soul, probably because I have none.  I know being a white guy doesn’t help but you would think God would have doled out a smidgen to me. 

There is the soul that comes from a person’s voice, such as Adele, Aretha Franklin, Smokey Robinson and many others.  Then there is the soul that comes from inside like James Brown and Michael Jackson.  I believe they are born with it.  You see little kids bobbing their heads and shrugging their shoulders to the music and it’s just there.  You watch the band and cheerleaders at a high school football game in the hood it’s still there.  You know it when you see it.

To me Michael Jackson was the King of Soul.  There may have been others who could sing with him but as far as moving with him, forgetaboutit.  Every pore of his body oozed God given soul, not the kind you get from dance lessons.  I never tired of watching him move around a stage. 

With that back ground, this is my fantasy.  When I was going to college in LA my good friend Richard and I would go for late night sessions at the California Club near campus.  We were almost always the only white guys in the place.  Sitting in a corner we would watch as a packed dance floor moved to the rhythm of the saxophone heavy sounds of soul music. 

The California Club is no longer there but if it were I would return with Terry and my inner Michael Jackson.  We would take a table off to the side of the dance floor, nurse a diet Coke and glass of Chardonnay and observe.  Things would heat up on the floor as the late crowd arrived.  The best movers in the hood would be strutting their stuff. 

Back in the day Terry won the Watusi dance championship at the Black Derby in Santa Ana where the Righteous Brothers were the club band so I knew she would be up to the challenge.   At the right moment we would move on to the floor.  Terry doing her thing and me trying to stay on the down-low.  Then I would break into my moon walk across the floor.  The crowd would part and begin to surround us as we took center stage. 

For the next 10 minutes I would move around the floor as only Michael could.  The other couples, waitresses and bartenders would all drop everything to watch.  The crowd would go bananas.  When the music stopped we would calmly return to our table.  Despite urging from everyone for one more dance we would pay our tab, thank everyone and leave.  As we passed the doorman I would say “See ya bro”.