Might as well jump. Go ahead and jump.

Commands sent to the cranial satelites to dive behind the dark side of this planet. Time to recollect the melding images of the other patriarch. He was the first spank. Unaware as he is that his namesake has been surplanted with an alterpersona title for his coat of arms. Pop was junior, and as you might figure, I am the third. Recently miffed I never gained the nick of Trey, being the princely third in the ace fronted poker straight. Other thirds rewarded with the sly Trey, as an assuagement for the nerdly burden of becoming a third. All I got was spankie ( again real name twisted up but close enough ) and Herkemer. Fucking Herkemer. Never been explained, Herkemer. Herkemer just piles up in the skull like a horrific twenty car pile up on the freeway.

Pop tricked Ma into signing the birth certificate while she was wallowing in postnatal happy drug fog. She wanted me to be a Mike. Not sure of that alternative either. Far too many stinkin Mike's in this world. Pop was pressured by Grandad, or Spank Senior, into the designation dupe. The focus of this session in family memory reflux.

Grandad's folks similarly fresh from immigration. This time a bunch of Cockneys. Spank Senior has collected a genealogy map of our singular weird last name. During the Fifteenth Century, the German forbears of Spank moved their Deutschland iron smithy trade to London. Specialising in metal skirts for wooden caravan wheels. Spread the strange named bliss towards the States some centuries later.

Flew airborne grunts over Europe during the Nazi mess. Probably carpet bombed his family's old shack. Garnered himself a respectable commission in the US Air Force. Captain something or other. Enough juice to grease the wartime destiny of Pop. While plenty of unlucky bastards left their guts behind in Vietnam, Pop scanned the sky for red menace traffic in Greece.

Neither Grandad or Grandpa were at all willing to share tales of their WW2 veteran experience. Grandad did tell me one story. His squad had captured two deserters near the airbase in the woods. He was ordered to escort them back while the rest of the troops searched for more AWOL types. He was told by his commander, loud enough for both prisoners to hear, that if one took off to shoot the other one first before chasing after the rabbit. One of them starts dickin around, making wisecracks, kicking rocks off the path, making fake moves to bolt. He breaks south. Grandad met the other's gaze. Couldn't cap him. Slammed the butt of the rifle into the bridge of his nose, spun around, and, with Wisconsin boyhood hunting skills, nailed the chump in flight.

Personal recollections are difficult. Our relationship is severly strained. I have been disowned, bleached from official death documents. To his consternation, I could care less. As my yambag holds the last remnants of the unique family name baby batter, he is desperate for me not to be so deviant. Fondest wish to describe every anal cavity I've doused with his precious genetic inheritance.

Fond memories are tinted in bile green.

I showed him my class picture from fifth grade at McKnight Elementary. Said, "Woo, sure are a bunch of chocolate drops at your school huh ( chuckles ))". Not funny. He loved that joke about the rabbi and the priest who survived a plane crash moments before undertaking a deity debate, "no, I wasn't signing the cross, I was checking the valuables; testicles, spectacles, vallet and vatch." Har har har.

Lash went after him. Spank Senior decided to pinch his ears and whisper growl at him. My pooch was somewhat twitchy. Lash wanted to eat his face. Grandad steered clear of Lash forever after that.

He questioned my love of the library. He was an avid reader, mostly of nonfiction. He praised Lee Iacoca's autobiography whenever he had the chance. Made a trip to the library once a week, read about two or three books within each spanse. I have always been into owning the books I read. He asked why I even owned a library card. I would live in a library if I could. Don't front old man. You'd think someone would be pleased their grandson was spending their hard earned cash on books and not crack.

This is making me upset, back to his historic lore.

He became the preeminent graphical engineer of dairy plants in the Midwest. Years after he retired, industrial heads begged his counsel. One guy gave him free use of his Ferrari and keys to his yacht to stay on during his entire month long stint overseeing the design of his pasteurising factory.

Moved the family to Chicago halfway through my Pop's highschool career. Pop used to brush off my child complaints of possibly being once again seperated from homies. Used to boast that he was ripped away from his life mid junior year and kids just deal. Course, Grandad moved them a couple years later to Southern Cali.

Labor disputes came up in the dairy world. Spank Senior went fury nose to nose against Hoffa. Got ugly. They were up in each other's grill, calling one another a dago and a kraut. Apparently Hoffa wasn't at all pleased when Grandad put his fingers in his chest and told him to shove his greaseball head up his ass. So, pull up stakes and avoid getting his card punched in the sunny comfort of the left coast. Moved back to Chicago a few months after Hoffa disappeared. Nothing to do with Spank Senior. As far as I know.

Idealogical differences will permenantly spoil our relationship. I see him as one of the great white hunters clipping tanner people from his ivory tower, and he envisions me as a pinko flag burning ingrate bedding down in the mud. A heir to his throne will never spring from my fertility.