2007 March | BoWilliams.com

Six odd things about me

Mar 222007

At Brina‘s request, here are six odd things about me:

I’m not colorblind, but can’t pass colorblindness tests. You know those pictures made of circles in which you have to find the number? I always either don’t see a number or find a number that it says means I’m colorblind, usually corresponding with red-green deficiency. Obviously if I’m missing anything I don’t know it–that pesky “one set of experiences” thing and all–but I do see in color.

I like peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwiches. Actually I like any two of peanut butter, mayonnaise, and banana, or all three. The peanut butter has to be creamy. I also like Worcestershire sauce with grilled cheese sandwiches, sport pepper vinegar (like what goes on turnip greens) on spaghetti, black pepper on cantaloupe, and barbecue sauce in macaroni & cheese.

I don’t like having my toes spread apart. The big toe separated from the rest, like what happens when you wear flip-flops, is fine. But I can’t stand to have my little toes spread apart. It feels very wrong. I keep them clean, of course, but I have to grit my teeth when I do it.

I didn’t get a cavity until I was 28 years old. For years I had called Lea, who has several fillings, after leaving the dentist and told her I had a cavity. And for years she didn’t believe me. So naturally she didn’t believe me when I called her and I really did have a cavity.

I can put my entire fist in my mouth. I can’t remember quite when I learned this, but I’m certain there was alcohol present.

I’ve been to paradise, but I’ve never been to me. Actually, I have. It’s a pretty nice place to be most of the time.

Beware the dreaded pack saddle

Bug Shots, Family, Memories 1 Response »

Mar 212007

“Hey Bo! Get a jar!”

I was about 8. I had been riding my bicycle in the cul-de-sac, and my dad was calling to me from halfway up our persimmon tree, where he’d been doing some pruning. I rode into the garage and came out with an old mayonnaise jar.

“Perfect!” I handed it to him. He was poking and prodding somewhat gingerly with a stick on a branch a couple of feet in front of him. I moved to the side to get a better view, and saw a creature so weird it looked plausibly extraterrestrial. He plopped it in the jar and put the lid on. It was about 4 inches long, as big around as a quarter, and mightily pissed.

Meet the hickory horned devil, the caterpillar of the regal moth.

Of course, we didn’t know what it was then. This was most of two decades before the web could have told us what it was, and trying to look up “weird huge caterpillar” in the Funk & Wagnalls doesn’t work nearly as well as Googling the same thing.

But the county agent, Mr. Robertson, lived two houses down. So we took it to him. He said it was a “pack saddle,” and asked if we’d touched it. (We had taken substantial care not to; do you see that thing?) We said no. He said “good, because it’ll put a welt on your arm the size of a golf ball.”

Looking back, I’m guessing he had a wire or two crossed and had inaccurately accessed a memory of a saddleback: another strange, large caterpillar (though not at all similar in appearance) that is venomous. Turns out the hickory horned devil is completely harmless.

I wish we’d known what it really was, so we could have held it and let it go when we were done looking at it. But alas, Mr. Robertson had told us it was the heinous and venomous pack saddle. So we drowned it in the mayonnaise jar in the garage sink. Hopefully I’ll see one again sometime.

Thanks to the University of Kentucky for the photos.

PostSecret

Language, Menagerie 2 Responses »

Mar 202007

From this week’s selection at PostSecret:

Incidentally, Rich Fields, not Bob Barker, says “Come on down!” But no harm done.

I look forward to few site updates as much as PostSecret. People send in anonymous postcards with secrets on them, and a couple dozen or so new ones appear every Sunday. Sometimes the secrets are hilarious; other times they rip your heart out. Most all of them are compelling in one way or another. The page is excellent, thought-provoking entertainment.

117 in a 55

Bo's Favorites, Memories 9 Responses »

Mar 202007

Early in 1996, on the way back from Lea’s one clear night with little traffic, I jumped on I-565 in my little red Integra and scanned behind me for Crown Vic and Caprice lighting signatures. Seeing none, I redlined in third, then fourth, and then briefly gave it a bit in fifth before I started coasting down for my exit. Just as I noticed a car coming up very fast behind me, it sprouted roof lights. Blues and no reds all the way across; that means State Trooper ’round these parts. I hadn’t detected him because he was in a previous-generation Caprice: the squarish job, not the turdmobile I’d looked for.

Oh, shit.

I stopped on the shoulder of my off-ramp, turned my dome light on, rolled my window down, and put my hands on the top of the steering wheel. I’d never even gotten a ticket before, much less gotten caught doing anything like this. I was absolutely certain I was going to jail. I wasn’t getting “license and registration, please”; I was getting “get out and put your hands on your head” with a loaded 9mm or .357 pointed at me. I remember being thankful I didn’t have my nice watch on, so I didn’t have to worry about the handcuffs scratching it.

I also remember hoping I didn’t piss myself thinking about the gun, because I was going to have to sit in a cell in these clothes.

To my deep, deep surprise, “may I see your driver’s license, please?” is exactly what I got. I handed it to him.

He looked my license over, then got a little closer–not in my personal space, but at a good make-the-point distance. “I just paced you at one hundred and seventeen miles per hour. You’re in a big hurry tonight, aren’t you?”

I mumbled something about just having my wheels balanced and wanting to check it out. (I was scared to death; give me a break.)

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

“No, officer.”

“Have you been cited for speeding recently?”

“No, officer.”

He took my license back to the cruiser. I briefly allowed myself the hope that he was going to cite me for aggravated speeding, which would be a steep fine (double a normal speeding ticket), but not a night in jail with God-knows-who. (Contrary to popular belief, a certain amount over the speed limit is not automatically reckless driving in most states. If you’re not doing anything else stupid, like weaving, drinking, or pulling the stunt at rush hour, there’s a charge called aggravated speeding that exists nearly everywhere.)

After approximately fourteen hours, he stepped back to my window, handed me a citation on a clipboard, and showed me where to sign.

“Traffic’s light, you haven’t been drinking, and you didn’t lie to me about not being cited for speeding recently. So I’m citing you for 75 in a 55 instead of taking you to jail. Okay?” (Back then I-565 was 55, not 70, until you got west of the airport.) Then he said some other stuff about court date, blah blah blah. I was just happy to be going home to bed instead of to be Big Zeke’s bitch at the lockup, so I didn’t really listen past “75 in a 55.”

“Thank you, officer.”

“You’re welcome. Be careful.”

Court? Yeah, right. I paid the ticket the next day.

Pat Boone, Vietnamese food, and thee

Memories, Popular Culture 5 Responses »

Mar 202007

Whilst enjoying a particularly delicious bowl of pho today with Greg, I told him about yesterday’s Neil Diamond post. He laughed and said “so are you going to do a Pat Boone post tonight?”

Ha, ha, ha. Have a seat and hang on, wiseass.

I embraced nearly all of the pop culture of the ’80s. I was 8 when they started and 18 when they ended, and if those aren’t “formative years” I don’t know what are. Of all the ’80s had to offer in the way of music, I really liked new wave, but my first love was hard rock/heavy metal. Oh my, were the ’80s good times for that, with lots of talented new folks, and older folks who weren’t over the hill yet. You couldn’t turn around without a rib-cracking A-chord knocking you to your feet. Damned good times, even if the Aqua Net did flow a little liberally.

But with the avalanche just behind “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” those times passed. Grunge settled in, and though a few ’80s bands persevered, most were snowed under. The importance of popular music declined in my life as I started my career, began dating the woman who would become my wife, and moved into a respectable apartment.

Then, in January 1997, Pat Boone released In a Metal Mood: No More Mr. Nice Guy. Yes, that Pat Boone. And yes, it’s an album of hard rock/heavy metal covers.

Wow. I don’t know how to begin telling you how bad it is.

I bought it immediately. I wanted to hear it for the novelty value, of course, but I also knew I had scores of friends who would want to hear it, and I wanted to be the guy who had it so no one else had to buy it. Indeed, it was borrowed here and there for most of the first year I had it.

Want to hear “Stairway to Heaven” as a waltz? Want to hear “Paradise City” as a catchy little lounge number? Want to hear “Crazy Train” with Andrews Sisteresque backing vocals and horns that are at once lazy and whimsical? This is your record.

The guy stabbed at heavy metal’s heart, too. The track listing was poignantly brutal. Included are Judas Priest’s “You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’,” Dio’s “Holy Diver,” and Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” which I consider three of the purest examples of the craft. I think you could do these songs on a banjo with Yoko Ono on vocals and it wouldn’t be as offensive as Pat Boone slaughtering them. The entire track listing:

“You’ve Got Another Thing Comin’,” Judas Priest
“Smoke on the Water,” Deep Purple
“It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock & Roll),” AC/DC
“Panama,” Van Halen
“No More Mr. Nice Guy,” Alice Cooper
“Love Hurts,” Nazareth
“Enter Sandman,” Metallica
“Holy Diver,” Dio
“Paradise City,” Guns ‘N’ Roses
“The Wind Cries Mary,” Jimi Hendrix
“Crazy Train,” Ozzy Osbourne
“Stairway To Heaven,” Led Zeppelin

I don’t consider some of these heavy metal, but it does all hang together in its hideously perverse way.

To be fair: while obviously a lighthearted project, I don’t think this ended up a total goof for Pat. His liner notes indicate that he found much greater musical depth in heavy metal than he expected, and he laments (sincerely, I think) some of the artists he had to cut for the final listing.

If you have intellectual curiosity about intense aural pain, and you don’t quite have the stomach for shoving a meat thermometer in your ear, this album is the next best thing.

I warn you: if you loved heavy metal as I did (and do), you’ll never be the same.

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