YEAR SEVEN: On my Seventh birthday Pop's mother gave me a t-shirt she made herself. It had complete stripes of embroidery wrapping around it, and floating in the white fields was the repeated stitched word "stinker". Dozens of stinkers rolling around my shirt like a Times Square news ticker. Almost as funny as the lumps of coal in my stocking.

Also, that same summer I had my tonsils surgically removed. I woke from my anesthetised fueled daze that amplified my natural tendencies towards REM terrors. My arms felt dead and impossible to move, barely could adjust my neck to purvey my surroundings. When the dancing images solidfied as one, I saw that I was locked in a cage with white uniformed and masked people walking to and fro.

For children under a certain age, the hospital put them in sealed cribs after undergoing serious medical proceedures for "their own safety". I regained consciousness with my overactive imagination stirred in with equal parts sedation and psychedelia. I just knew I was being held captive by twisted circus scientists in my holding caravan pen on the road to the next weird big top arena. So I screamed terrified.

If ya hadn't heard, hysterically screaming with stitches holding your throat together is a bad mojo situation. Puke green frowny face sticker affixed to the idea please. So, I spent an extra week in the hospital after freaking and blowing out my sutures. Ate enormous quantities of sherbet, Jello, and unsalted, unbuttered, mashed taters. Bleh.

Someone gave me a get well Stretch Armstrong. The super elastic man toy that you were supposed to be able to abuse to inhuman lengths without rupturing his space age skin. Hmmph. The insides of a Stretch Armstrong consist of an amber tinged, burning tire smelling goo. Chemical compounds they probably experimented on Vietnam war vets that couldn't aim right.

I saw my first close up picture of a pussy spread apart by fingers with bright nail polish. Back of a latch key, both parents working, ghetto ass driving around service bus for wayward youth. A senior citizen couple bought a cargo van with windows, and would drive kids around in it till they could drop them off at home when the parents got back from work. The lady half of that duo was one mean baseball mitt face bulldog. One kid stole three Hustler's from his dad's titty mag stash. Five of us crowded around the magazines that confused and fascinated us more than made our dicks drippy. I mean a few of those pics were full page, filled top to bottom, with a single enlarged photo of an agape vagina. Looked like a vibrant pulsing pink bottomless pit creature that swallowed up armoured knights unfortunate to fall through a castle's trap door. Not far from the truth that.

YEAR EIGHT: Invented bike bombardment. A dodgeball variant game where most of the contestants ride bikes. All bicycle riders must continuosly peddle back and forth from the predetermined boundaries of a street block, never stopping while game is on. The "it" person has a rubber ball, and can only become not "it" by cleanly nailing a rider anywhere on the body with the ball, who then becomes "it". Two catches. First, the possessor of the ball has to throw it from the spot they picked it up from, no exceptions. Second, they have to make an honest throw effort at a rider, can't just throw it near the curb of the street to get an easy shot at the riders. Also, riders are not allowed to impede or accelerate the progress of a thrown ball. Play until all parties are pooped, bored, or called in for dinner. Became a hood favorite.

I still find it funny to hear the term "interference!" shouted. Wiffle ball banging around in the branches, "interference!". UPS van charging down the street, "interference!". Sun glares in your eye, "interference!". Interference is a much debated rule in the world of street athletics.

A conspiracy robbed me of the Cub Scout Troop 2313 propeller derby racing crown. Kits of balsa wood, elongated rubberbands, and thin plastic propellers were handed out. All soldiers commandeered to create their own miniature aircraft to race from a suspended wire in the school gymnasium. Mine was painted candy apple red with gold flames and a white circle with a bold blocky font "20", in honor of Lou Brock. The rubberbands were used as tension wind up engines inside the wood tubes. Rotated at a hundred revolutions each and held in place with all that potential energy till the cap gun blast.

Fucker holding mine let go of my propeller and let half of the thrust go out before recapturing the blade. I had made it through eight races, down to the final two, me and freckled, gap toothed, Howdy Doody looking mutherfucker. Since I seem to have a simpleton saddling curse, they decided that the only fair thing to do was to release my jet half cocked, while the other one was released without a handicap. I even said, "hey, why don't you just let my plane unwind all the way and rewind it again?". D'uhoi, cause we want de ugly nose picker to win, he don't use big words like you, d'uhoiiiiiiie.

I wuz robbed! Sour mood afterwards not improved by everyone demanding I be a good sport and accept my second place ribbon. I told them all to do a few activities not listed in the Boy Scout Handbook and let em inspect the backside of my uniform as I slammed open the auditorium doors.

My third grade teacher took an interest in me. She had shocking ginger hair. It looked like it generated many BTU's of heat. Mrs. Rosen. In retrospect, I think I recognise a familiar background smirk she always carried. I've seen it in the mirror more than once. She was so sarcastic it made her sexy. And, she was paler than me, I automatically took a shining to her.

Still, I was a turbo powered class clowninator series 9000. Hyperactive crazy handful for the strongest individuals. I suppose she saw something that others had dismissed as pre-criminal rabble rousing to be ignored. She just wouldn't take any of my shit. I pitched plenty of shit her way.

She wound up planting my ass at a table with three girls living on the other three corners. Thought maybe forcing me to rub elbows with cootie carriers would calm me down. Did the trick for a brief while. Then I was onto recruiting these three chicks into my own buffoonery. You would not believe how easy it is to gross out or daze seven and eight year old girls.

I must say, she made me a better person. First adult to talk to me with respect. She never coddled her language around me. She refused to allow me to be stupid. Well, silly maybe, but not stupid. She told me enough naturally stupid people exist in the world, no reason for someone who was actually smart to join their party in order to make life less complicated. She wouldn't hear "I can't". She was cool.

Also that year, for Halloween, Pop made me a Gonzo mask out of mesh and paper mache. It looked perfect! He had the skills that pay the spooky candy grubbing bills yo. He won a best costume award at a societal ball that year when he and Ma dressed up as Kermit and Miss Piggy from masks he made from scratch. Still have the newspaper clipping from it. We, as a family, were obviously and justifiably seriously into the Muppet Show. The year before, he made me a paper mache parrot for my pirate costume. Velcroed it right to my shoulder. Awesome. Pop's Halloween wonderment extended to the following years as well.

You'll just have to wait for the next installment to learn exactly what type wonderment. Hee hee, I am a bastard. Don't tell Mrs. Rosen.