So, Craig and I finally got our golden ticket to the All-Star Team after being tortured by our parents.  We were two kids being raised by recently unemployed fathers.  His dad worked the airport which was slimming due to lack of traffic into the area, and my dad was laid off thanks to the steel cutbacks.

For two steel town kids, baseball was a ticket out of the suburbs (the suburbs that were slowly becoming the ghetto).

Our mothers were torn on the issue of Craig and I going to the All-Star game.  They were both proud of us and wanted to see us succeed.  They were good moms that wanted the best for their kids.  However, having a reason to practice made Craig and I increase the amount of hours we were dedicating to baseball.

During the season we would usually fill about 18-20 hours a day with baseball.  Now that we were going for the big time, we pushed out another 3 hours a day dedicated to the sport.

I was still competing in the brain games, but luckily for me, that was during school hours.  (And, with the boost of confidence, I stepped up my geek-game a few notches as well.)  But, aside from that, all focus was on the upcoming summer.  At lunch, through peanut buttery stuck tongue, we splittered on about the game.  On the playground at recess we had ball and glove.  On the walk home from school we would toss the ball back and forth.  Dinners were eaten in record time so we could have batting practice.

From a psychological stand point… we were obsessive.  Compulsive.  And… just over doing it a wee bit much.

This was about the time my dad decided to drop a double cluster bomb on my ass.

After "thinking it over" for a week, Mike's dad (*) decided it would be good for Mike to go to the All-Star game, and they decided to postpone their vacation.

Dad sat down with me and told me that I was being knocked off the list.  He tried to explain to a fanatic (me) why he would not be getting the one thing he wanted the most.  I turned on my best friend and asked why Craig should go instead of me.  Then the second cluster came… We were moving.

MOVING?

WHAT?

Dad tried to explain to his 12 year old son how the world worked.  He discussed how life wasn't fair.  He discussed how the economy in the area was crumbling.  He explained that there were jobs outside of our little area.  He tried to prepare me for some major life changes.

My father went to great lengths to let me know that all the things that meant anything to me in life would be gone.  Girlfriend… gone.  Best friend… gone.  School… neighborhood… geek-bowl… baseball… everything… GONE.

He told me that things had just been finalized and we would be moving the week of the All-Star game.  Even though the schedule would allow me to play, I wouldn't be able to go on with the Traveling team, so it was better to let someone else have the slot.

So… with that, I started really pouring myself into the geek-competitions.  In order to make myself feel better, I tried to annihilate and humiliate the other geeks.  It was a temporary my necessary relief.

*As you recall from Chapter 10 the coaches had the players vote on who was going to the All-Star game.  Mike was voted in ahead of us.  We were actually ahead, but we were being punished for being arrogant.  Then Mike's dad said he couldn't go because of family vacation.

SomaCow is an internet radio talk show (formerly known as 'The Syndicate') hosted by Geoff and Mickey… I am Mickey.

While the world around me was crumbling, I distracted myself with baseball and girls and brain games. I learned in sixth grade, that life was absolutely not fair!

My best friend Craig and I suffered from being coached by our dads. In little league in during that time, it was common for "The coach's son" to get preferential treatment. Our dads did not want to fall into that trap, so they spent a lot of time doing the complete opposite.

Not to be boastful, but Craig and I were damn good ball players. We spent most of our waking (non-school) hours throwing, catching, and batting. Aside from our two game suspension, we had at least 2 to 3 hits per game, minimal errors, and were developing our leadership skills.

We tried to keep up with each other. I knew that if he got on base, I had to get on base. If I initiated a double play, he would try to finish up the inning. Our skills were complimentary to each other.

I don't want to discount anyone else on the team, because we had assembled a high end machine that was cutting through competition like a combine.

Most little league teams had one or two good pitchers, and with the rotation rules of only pitching so many innings per week, the back half of the week saw good teams getting clobbered. However, our staff had six people who could pitch well, and 4 others that could get by in a pinch.

I was also working with the starting pitcher for the high school team. I was trying to defy the doctors and wanted to pitch again. Plus, knowing all the secrets of pitching made me a much better catcher.

At the end of the season we strolled into first place like an alpha lion strolls onto the Serengeti.

This was a big huge boost for the kids of the team. For the All-Star Game, each team was allowed to choose three players (except the team in dead last… they only received two slots). The winner of each division was allowed to choose one extra. The league leader was allowed to pick one extra on top of that.

Our team was sending five players to the All-Star Game.

I was a shoe in. Right?

Yeah… most of the other coaches thought so. But dad, dad decided he would have a vote. "Let the players decide!"

This was less about being diplomatic and more about avoiding any decisions. As I said before, we had a team chock full of talent. I just happened to be better.

When the votes came in, Craig's dad and my dad decided to deduct two votes from each of us because of our suspension. For some reason they didn't think that the suspension was enough punishment.

This brought the vote for the 4th and 5th slot to a 3 way tie. Craig, Mike, and me.

2 slots… 3 kids. Hmm?

Tie Breaker!!!

This is where things get really messed up. The "coaches" considered team loyalty to be the highest priority. So, they broke the tie by using "Games Played" as a deciding factor. Mike was a loyal player that showed up to every game. While Craig and I did show up to every game, our little suspension subtracted out two games from our games played column. Mike was awarded the 4th slot.

What kind of injustice is that? Triple Jeopardy? I told my mom later that night that I was learning how ex-cons felt.

The 5th slot came down to Craig or me. I think our dads set this up. It was like a bad movie plot.

The coaches poured over the stat books for the past season and compared Craig against me. They couldn't decide which stat was fair… cause NOW… all of a sudden, they wanted to be fair.

Craig and I really wanted to see the other one go to the All-Star, but not at the cost of giving up the slot. Going to the All-Star game meant playing in front of Scout's for the Traveling Team… and the scout from the high school team.

Getting on the traveling team meant playing baseball all summer… in front of a lot of people. (Sadly… there were even college scouts that watched the little league traveling team). The only downside to the traveling team… the hideous yellow uniforms. It also meant the possibility of getting picked up to go to baseball camp for free.

See, kids, once upon a time, they awarded trophies to players that excelled and not to every player in the league. They awarded achievement, and they honed in on talent so they could refine it and exploit it.

When all hope seemed lost, Mike's dad called and said that they had a family vacation during All-Star weekend, and Mike would have to drop out.

Craig and I were ecstatic.  This was going to be the greatest summer ever!

SomaCow is an internet radio talk show.

SomaCow is live today at 2pm (eastern) you can tune in and listen... and you can catch the podcasts (we're on iTunes, too).

You're only excuse not to listen is that you are deaf.  But even the deaf people can read the blog.

You can't use the "I hate you guys" excuse, because Geoff and I talk about deep personal stuff.  As a person that hates, you can gather up all that information and use it against us somwhere else down the line.

If you DO listen... let me know what you think...

If you don't listen... list your excuse below!

The Syndicate WAS an internet radio talk show.

Because of legal issues, The Syndicate is now Somacow

The world was changing when I was in sixth grade. John Lennon was long dead and buried. Uncle Ron was driving back those Red SonsaBitches, and American Steel was becoming a thing of the past. My home town of Beaver, PA thrived on the steel industry.

Watching a town slowly die is a hard reality for a kid to process. The children of my age group should all be neurotic messes. We were born in a time when "Peace in the Middle East" was the last thing that would ever be accomplished. We were yelled out for not finishing our meals because the African kids on TV with the bloated guts were starving. We were told that the nuke could drop any day. If it didn't, then Cuba was gonna jump up and Red Dawn our asses. And, we were gonna die of a sexually transmitted disease the day we lost our virginity.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose… I guess.

That year confirmed that anyone under the age of 27 should not watch the news. They tried to balance out the stories of hostages, war, famine, rioting, tornadoes, and the downfall of the mafia with fluff pieces like… New Coke(mov file) and Wrestlemania.

One of my main distractions was baseball. I loved the sport. I loved the artistic nature of it. I loved the scientific aspects of every moved. I loved the thrill of victory. Hell, I even loved the agony that came when we were beat by a team that played better than us that day.

I lived and breathed baseball that spring. I watched every game that was on the television, or listened to it in the car. My friends and I would take trips to the drug store to clean them out of cards when a new shipment came in. Watching the games on TV, I could tell exactly where the ball would be hit by the placement of the batter's toe. Watching the games with me was an excruciatingly annoying endeavor.

My dad was the coach of my team again. He had been my coach for every season except my rookie year. Because of the dying town, a few of the teams were dismantled and folded over into the others. So, my friend Craig and his dad joined the team.

After my surgery, I was told I would never play baseball again. Then as I recovered they told me that I could play, I just couldn't pitch anymore. This was devastating, because all the cool kids were pitching.

But, I did the next best thing. I played catcher. In baseball, the catcher is the field marshal. From his perch, he can see the whole field. He can see where the batter is lining up. He knows what the pitcher is doing. The catcher can be the difference between a winning team and a losing team.

At this time, I was also a speedy little guy. I stole bases at will. I wasn't a power hitter, but I was pretty damn good at getting on base. For a kid with an ego, the best spot in the line up was batting 4th, 5th, or 6th. And I was number 5. The theory was: the first guy would strike out. The next guy was a 50/50 shot at getting on base. The third guy would more than likely walk. My friend Craig batted fourth. He would normally hammer it down the first base line. He combined speed and power (and the weakness of the right field player) into a double or triple.

I would often get a base hit. Dropping the ball somewhere in the middle of the outfield. With Craig running the bases, I was often afforded the luxury of strolling into 2nd. The great joy of Little League was the overeagerness of the catcher trying to peg a runner. So, the pattern began. Craig would knock in a run, and be on 2nd. I'd end up getting the RBI and land on 2nd as well. Then I would steal 3rd, and the catcher would overthrow, giving me the chance to steal home.

Our stats grew. However, our egos grew faster. We went from confident to cocky in three games. We stopped listening to our dads (coaches) and ran amok. We started playing ME baseball instead of TEAM baseball.

We started trying to steal home anytime the catcher bobbled the ball… and we succeeded time and time again. That only made our attitudes worse. Our teammates and fathers were all secretly hoping for us to fail.

One instance that makes me cringe to remember now started off innocently enough. We were already beating the pants off of the other team. The score was 15 to 0. The other team started rotating in the new players because the game would be over soon.

Craig was first to bat the next inning. He walked on four pitches. The pitcher was so fidgety, that he didn't even bother to keep Craig on the bag. By the time the pitcher went into his wind-up, Craig was already half way to second. By the time the ball reached the plate, he was turning toward third.

The inexperienced catcher bobbled the ball and still tried to make the play at 2nd. Meanwhile, Craig broke into full stride and was rounding third. The base coach desperately tried to hold him at 3rd. I was standing at the plate waving Craig in so he buried his head in his chest and tore down the line towards home.

He scored, and with ease. The coach was so frustrated that he walked off the field. So, Craig decided he would go and coach 3rd. I walked and was about to follow suit. The throw into second was way over the head of the shortstop, so I had my sets fixed on home. The throw came in just in time, so I slide. I jack-knifed my knee out and rammed it into the catchers shin pad.

When I hit him, I took his legs out. He dropped the ball and I scored. He was in so much pain that he started screaming. Craig and I kind of laughed to ourselves. We were sick little bastards that were basking in the complete destruction of our opponents. We found out… this is not what baseball… or life… was all about.

Winning is one thing. Humiliation of a fallen foe is a sign of a weak, pathetic, and undisciplined "warrior".

Our dads (coaches) felt very strongly about it. We spent the next two games on the bench. As we sat there, we discovered, our team was a damn good team, and they easily won without us.

Harsh lesson, but it took our egos down a few notches.

Note: The Syndicate WAS an intenet radio talk show.

Note: Originally posted at The crowd

The back end of sixth grade was an amazing time for me. It was setting me up to be a successful, healthy, and creative genius. I was back in the swing of baseball. I had finished up several amazing seasons of indoor and outdoor soccer. I was acing all of my classes. I was dating the hottest 12 year old (yeah… she was "an older woman") in school.

The downside of everything… Dad was unemployed. It was weird, because mom did a pretty good job of hiding… ok… maybe not hiding… more like shielding us from the cold hard reality that, regardless of how great things are, life can truly suck.

My Grandfather (Dad's dad) died before he graduated high school. (Look… that's the way I understand the story, and I'll stick with it.)

What you are about to read, may come off as really cold… but understand that I never met my grandfather…

His death was a good thing/bad thing. I can understand the pain and loss that my father felt. Being the oldest son, this put a huge burden on his shoulders. But in retrospect, it probably saved his life… and mine… if you want to get into the whole time-space continuum argument.

See, at the time, there was a war going on in Viet Nam. My father was relieved of having to go, so that he could work and support his family. He headed down to the biggest employer in the area… J&L Steel. He worked all kinds of shifts, and was always covered in black soot. But it paid pretty well. The steel industry was the driving factor behind, not only my home town of Beaver… but about 8 towns in the surrounding area.

But, (not to put any blame on anyone) thanks to Jimmy Carter and some very rough times, that all changed. With gas shortages, and the price of fuel skyrocketing, people wanted lighter cars. Some would say it was bad business leaders, or overbearing demands from workers' unions, and some would point fingers to foreign steel being better and cheaper.

It was an amazingly hectic time for most of the kids my age. We were just becoming aware of things outside of our little universe, and we were hearing the nightly news spout off unemployment numbers and interest rates like they were a baseball score.

We started buying bulk food stuff. And we started bending at the waist in order to grab the black and white "generic" food stuffs.

I was a Pop Tart kid, dammit! What the hell is this Toasted Pastry crap??? The generic brand was all chalky and bland. The discussion over whether to get Peter Pan or JIF was replaced with "Just grab that bigger can… it's cheaper!"

Picture a paint can with no label and a lid that was welded on by a blind blacksmith. Now picture using a broken can opener to shred the lid open. And then you finally open this monstrosity only to find oily residue covering waxy chunks of peanut corpses. The trick, I was taught, is that you have to stir the two components together.

Dad never complained. At least he never complained in front of us. He never let on that it was time to start worrying. They were told that the "layoffs" were a temporary thing, so the company could right itself. As time dragged on, it was becoming more and more apparent that, the turn around was never going to come.

You could see the growing despair on the faces of at the grocery store as they bent at the waist to grab their welfarian peanut batter butter. You could see it riding down the street watching business after business lock up shop for the last time. I remember, you could even see it in the faces of the news anchors as they spewed forth with the latest numbers that were getting worse instead of getting better.

Despite all the agony around me, my mom kept pushing me. She made sure I was keeping my grades at their peak, she ensured that I was ready for each Geek-Bowl game, and she made sure I was ready for the next Little League game.

I'm not sure if my mother saw it as "Mickey's way out" or if she was just hoping that it would distract me from the world that was crumbling outside on our doorstep.

Either way, I'm glad she pushed me.

Note: The Syn***ate is an Internet Radio Talk Show.

I went through a rough time. I ripped my shoulder out of the socket. That in turn caused me to have surgery. Because of the surgery, I was in a half body cast for a very long time. I learned to write left handed and began hacking into electronic devices. Shortly after I was fully recovered, mom took me to get contacts and my first big boy haircut.

I was like Steve Austin. Better, stronger, faster. I was dating chicks... as much as someone that age can date. For me, it was an amazing time.

Despite changing my outward appearance, I still had geek/nerd deep rooted into my very soul. I still loved math and science. I loved history, I just hated the way it was taught in school. The truth of the matter is, I never learned to read. I'm literate and all that, (mostly) don't get me wrong. I just never learned to read with any kind of speed.

The teacher would assign 4 chapters to read, plus all the other homework, and I would get so frustrated. If I pushed my self to the limit, I could finish one chapter. Once I got the material into the brain, it was there. I understood complex concepts. But, I always ran out of time to digest the material. So, I did what any red-blooded American kid would do... I hid the fact that I was flawed, and found short-cuts.

I would plunge into the index or rifle through the End Of Chapter questions. I would obtain the needed knowledge to pass the test. I always figured on going back and filling in the gaps when I had time. I never really got the time.

I also abhorred rote memorization.

"Here class, here is a list of dates. I won't be giving them any kind of meaningful frame of reference so you can understand what the significance is, but you are required to match them up with the list of events... again... you will not be getting any explanation as to why these events should be memorized. See you on Monday!"

I never understood that concept. I can understand that Truman ordered the bomb on Nagasaki at the end of World War II in order to deliver a decisive blow, despite the fact that Japan's leadership was split and on the verge of surrender... but, just drawing a line from Nagasaki Bombing to August 9, 1945 never clicked in my head.

There was a subject that I absolutely loved though. Presidents. When I returned from my recovery, I was several weeks ahead of the other kids. Boredom and immobility helped drive me to pass the time by reading ahead. The teacher wasn't sure what to do with me, so they signed me up for Geek-Bowl Games.

I was naturally adept for the math game. I was pretty secure in the grammar/English game. But the one that drove me to hit the books was called "Mr. President". It was basically Jeopardy... without the Canadian host, the cash prizes, and the studio audience. OK... it was nothing like Jeopardy. It was just a bunch of trivia questions about the Presidents.

I traveled all over the Tri-State area (Pennsylvania, Ohio, West Virginia... except West Virginia, cause they didn't have any kids in the Brain Games). I even started reading.

Not really. But I was skimming over a lot more books than before. I even "read" Richard Nixon's Memoirs.

..

It was an amazing time for me. I was playing soccer for 24 weeks out of the year, baseball was coming up, and I was crushing opponents in the geek bowls.

And then... three big bombs dropped down upon me.

 Somacow - Episode Two: Earth Friendly; Commie Thin! [52:23m]:Download

Hello again, friends! I have missed you bunches, and I trust that you have weathered our absence with a minimum of itching. In this delicious and brimming hour of SomaCow, we got some legs and went hunting for topics galore. Earthday was the main theme, which I think we can all agree is a giant pantload of commercialism and communism and capitali… Wait. That isn't right.

We mock the "What to Do for Earthday (which I will from here on out be referring to as GAD, or Glorified Arbor Day)" Websites, and their endless litanies of exciting and utterly worthless ways you too can celebrate Earth Day. Look, people. I contribute to the environment plenty. I wear my jeans twice before I wash 'em, minimum, and I shave twice annually. There is nothing more I can give. Well… Maybe I do not need to take 4 showers a day. But I always smell like ass for some reason…

They were giving away the gift of life at Home Depot, apparently… I guess people just lined up and got fertilized at the do… Oh Sorry. LIGHTS… they were giving away lights at Home Depot. I really should listen more attentively to our show!

Okay, so, we chewed on Mother Gaia for a while, found her to be fine, and moved on to Hitler's Birthday and the incredible fact that most commies are svelte. I still say that it's the breadlines what really pops those cheekbones out.

Also, Mickey and I broke into song. I feel a Karaoklypse coming on again soon. If only I could get him to do the choruses to "Sixteen Tons".

We went on to expose ourselves to law enforcement in general, with a cavalcade of ticket stories. We fought the law, and the law totally got a 3-2 split decision on us, which we contested, and is now under review by the gaming commissioner's office in Vegas. Here's hoping!

Speaking of exposing a lie, Kentuckians Cain't! Yee HAW! A magical tale of human bondage and the key to release; We bring you this nugget especially for the incarcerated (Hi Uncle Thomas!)… You gotta hear this story to believe it.

Credit Card scammery, late night television is teh poopdeck, and other assorted fly by night discussion. Mickey had a coworker that made 4 billion dollars and now owns the Sun. Find out how someone amassed such a fortune with an RV and a dream. And an asston of capital.

Speaking of capital, got any?!?

/blatant panhandle.

Music featured this hour of SomaCow went down like this:

The A.K.A.s - Gotta Get Outta Here
Spitalfield - Won't Back Down
Notorious MSG (NEW ALBUM!!!) - Muther Bitch
The Dark Romantics - A Million Bucks

You are all welcome to come back for seconds. We aims to please.

 

The Synd*cate WAS an internet radio talk show hosted by Geoff and Mickey

The Syndicate is becoming SomaCow (feel free to add them as a friend on MySpace)

After the cast came off, the rest of the school was uneventful.  So was the summer and fall of sixth grade.

Mom went through a major guilt trip about handing me subpar genes.  See, up to this point, I had a bad Beatles Haircut.  I also had the Hubble Telescope attached to the end of my nose.

To put it bluntly… I was FUGLY.

Over Christmas break, mom shuffled me back to Sears to see the eye doctor.  She felt that, since I had been wearing glasses for 6 years, it might be time to look into contacts.  Glasses were becoming expensive.  I played baseball and soccer.  And, I was a rough kid.  I took care of my glasses, but they were naturally beat up.  Dad tried to solder the metal back together… time and time again.  It took me from FUGLY to utterly hideous.

But… Finally… contacts!  This was a huge huge step.

For the longest time, my mother saved money by giving me a haircut.  She had read a Women's Circle or some housewifian magazine that showed how to cut hair to save money.  The best she could do was the horrible Beatle-bop hairdo that plagued my young life.

So, a few days after i acclimated to my new vision, mom  hauled me down to the local barber shop to get my first real big boy haircut.  I was actually going to be A Real Boy!

I'm not going to say that I instantly went from Fugly little bastard to Hot piece of ass… but… I pretty much went from a fugly little bastard to a hot piece of ass.  Seriously.  On the first day back to school, this chick that sat next to me asked if we could "go steady".  She was an older chick (she failed a grade or two) and she was pretty damn cute.

That relationship lasted a week… maybe a week and a half.  She had an ex (who failed about three grades and was still one grade ahead of us) that threatened to kick my ass if I didn't break up with her.

Then I "dated" a chick from the other class.  Her brother was a musician.  It was weird.  She baked me a ton of cookies for Valentine's Day.  I… well… I got her a card.  Actually, my mother bought her a card and made me sign it.  We ultimately failed as a couple.  Long distance relationships rarely work out, and she was all the way across the hall.

I finally settled on the chick that sat right next to me in class.  We had been in the same class for most of our lives.  Alphabetically, we were stuck next to each other, or at least in the same row, the entire time we were growing up.

21 years later, I still haven't broken up with her.  I just moved 500 miles away and stopped talking to her.

Cleanest break up, ever!

Note: The Syndicate is an Internet Radio Talk Show hosted by Geoff and Mickey

Note:  Originally posted at The crowd

Fifth grade is an important part of growing and developing social skills. I'd say that the most important developmental years of school are kindergarten, fifth grade, Freshman year, and your Senior year. All the others are just place holders.

I spent over half of my firth grade year out of any social circles. I had nothing to keep me company except for my tv and my school books. I guess this would have been a good time to develop a love for reading, but that never happened. I still hate reading. It is a slow arduous process for me to suffer though anyone else's fiction, and tech manuals always tend to babble on before getting to the point.

This period of time was great for my mental development. I was in a half-body cast that made going to school impossible. So I stayed home. I was often visited by the teacher so he could keep me up to speed. Out of boredom I ended up well ahead of the class.

The body cast also had my right hand mounted to it. I was right handed, so, I was pretty much rendered a useless lump for a period of time. I had to train myself to write left handed, eat left handed… everything else… left handed. I also had to retrain my body to deal with an extra 50% of my body weight. And train myself to work through problems, like… fitting through tight walkways.

The cast wasn't permanent, and I had plenty of people helping me, but the change was sudden and fairly substantial. That is far from a "woe is me" line of thinking. It's a statement. Many kids go through major changes early in life. Divorce, relocation, injury, and many other things are brought down on unsuspecting children every day.

The lucky ones, are able to have traumatic experiences and sudden changes have a long profound impact on their lives. At first, I was upset and frustrated that I could not use my right hand. I wanted to do nothing, because I new that eventually, I would have my arm back. My mother refused to let me ride out the wave and wait it out.

After a few bouts of irritations and a handful of failures, my left handed writing started to become legible. Once I started seeing progress, I began to really put in the effort to improve. It was slightly advantageous that my right handed writing was several degrees below sub-par, so my left handed writing looked almost good in comparison.

I started getting out of bed and challenging my self to lumber around. I began tossing a tennis ball around the house with my left hand. This wasn't a matter of overcoming great physical challenges or having the odds stacked against me. My cast, my hindrance, was temporary, and I was fully ware of that fact. This was a matter of training myself, of learning new things.

During this period, I discovered that I could learn things, anything, given some time and the enthusiasm to do so. I also discovered that boredom was an incredible motivator. The school supplied me with a Speak n Spell. In less than a week I had been through the entire collection of words and games that the little creepy box provided. I started experimenting.

I discovered that you could make the the Speak n Spell do a whole lot more than it was designed to do. That began my life long fascination with electronic gadgets and computers. It also set me on a path of training myself to do what interested me.

NOTE: The Syndicate is an Internet Radio Talk Show

NOTE: This was originally posted at The crowd

Note:  Go add SomaCow to your friends.

So, what the hell does a shoulder getting out of the socket have anything to do with anything?

Well, the story of The Syndicate is pretty much the story of me. It is also the story of my business partner Geoff. But, for me to try to tell his story would be a great injustice. And, that second that my shoulder dislodged itself, was a defining moment in my life.

Yanking the shoulder out of place like I did caused major damage. It was something that was not going to heal all by itself. A bigger problem, was genetics.

My mother and sister were diagnosed with a disease called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.

When the mother of my child was pregnant, we were referred to a geneticist to determine if the unborn glob would be at risk of having EDS. The geneticists assistant called it a "Neat disease!" In all fairness, it is kind of neat.. at least the mild cases are.

EDS is a disease that (as it was explained to me) causes the connective tissue to be weak. It can also cause the skin to be stretchy and overly plian. One of the first tests they perform (based on visits to the doctor in the early '90s) was to pinch you skin. If it snapped back into place, you were free and clear. If the skin stayed there… like playdough… that meant you had a high chance of having EDS.

The severity of the injury to my shoulder, and the high likelihood that I suffered from EDS, raised concern with the doctors. They felt that they had to reconstruct my shoulder with an experimental surgery.

The surgery (as best as I understand) consisted of yanking muscles and reattaching them to places where they ought not be connected. They pulled the triceps over my shoulder and connected them to the middle of the shoulder blade. They pulled the quadriceps and connected them to one of the top ribs. And they pulled some neck muscles down over the shoulder and tacked them to the upper bone in my arm.

Then, and here's the fun part, they put me in a half-body cast. For three months. Although fiberglass casts came out in the '70s, they were still fairly unused at that time. However, the doc felt that a plaster cast would render me immobile because of the size. At this time I was weighing in at a solid 63 pounds. A cast of plaster, of that size, would have weighed close to 1/2 to 3/4 of my body weight.

The body cast also included a nice arm cast. The arm cast was then connected to the body cast to keep my arm and shoulder completely stable.

The incision was fairly large. Because of the size of the cut and my age, they wanted to try out stitchless stitches. When they were done rebuilding my shoulder, they used super-glue to close up the wound.

Interesting side story. While in the hospital, I couldn't walk. I was still getting used to the cast, and still groggy from the anesthesia. One day there was a puppet show in the rec-room. The children's surgery recovery wing was on the 4th floor. The rec room was on the 7th floor. For some reason they were slightly understaffed the day of the puppet show. They gathered up all the gimpy kids and put us in wheel chairs.

The nurses assessed the situation and, if a kid had the use of their arms, they let the kid push their own wheel chair. All well and good, with the small exception of… I ONLY HAD ONE WORKING ARM.

I rolled in a circle for about a half an hour before an orderly came by and started laughing at me. He asked where I was headed. He informed me that the puppet show was already starting, but he'd take me up there.

I spent the next three months at home.  My teacher came by every day to go over any lessons.  I got to a point where I was  2 weeks ahead of the other kids and the teacher slowed down to twice a week.

Aside from homework, I spent my day watching sit-coms and comedy movies on TV.

Today, I find things funny, but I have trouble laughing.  I enjoy good jokes and good comedy, and I do find it funny… but I was jaded.  Maybe not jaded.  OK, imagine if you love Oreo cookies.  Now, imagine if you had nothing but Oreo cookies 20 hours a day, 7 days a week… constantly.  You'd lose a little taste for them.  You'd grow numb to their fat ladened  goodness (SCREW YOU Stephen Joseph!)

I began to go beyond watching Lucy and Ricky argue, and began to study.  WHY is this funny?  Where is the punchline going to come from?  Why is Tootie putting jellybeans in a bong humerous?

So, that injury rendered me bed-ridden, which caused me to over study the very essence of comedy.  It's a scary concept.

Seriously… Gilligan's Island should never be savored.  It's like  Diet Mt. Dew.  You drink it, slam it, guzzle it… whatever… but you do not swish it around like wine.  When you analyze Gilligan's Island, you realize how truly stupid the human race can be.