Yes, Virgina, I Did Happen To Score Molly Hatchet Tickets

Speaking of children, BM was a child once.

I wasn't always big. My long-term memory still seems fairly well intact; I can recall plenty of instances when I was still insignifigant enough to blend in with the general populous. Sure, that feat is somewhat more difficult now as I've since fully blossomed, outweighing your middle-of-the-road human in terms of importance by a metaphoric 24 metric tons.

In order to have reached my current bigness, I had to learn certain things on my own. No, not boldface names in history books or the locations of state capitols on a pull-down map, but so called real life lessons in so called real life situations.

As a pre-kindergarden child, I always wanted to catch a bird. Salamanders and nightcrawlers were easy; enslaving a winged sky-beast seemed the ultimate challenge. My first and most feeble attempts were essentially dead sprints toward a morning robin pecking for a worm. I thought I could catch 'em off their guard. No such dice however. I soon figured that what I needed was some kind of lure. I stood dead center in the nearby field hoisting a granola bar into the taunting lair of the common barn swallow with one hand, while poised to swoop in and snarl my feathered prey with the other. I failed again. Eventually I ripped a page from Wile E. Coyote's handbook of gadgetry and did the ol' box with stick and string ploy. We all know how well it worked for Wile E. It worked equally well for LM. I didn't possess a bird until I happened upon a wounded crow years later. I had conquered the sky-beast. Lesson learned: ain't no crow with a broken wing gonna' fly higher than LM's ambitions.

LM idolized Popeye. BM does too. When I was four I lived in my grandparents' rural home with my parents and younger sister. One evening our meal consisted of this, that and spinach. I knew from Popeye's seafaring toils that spinach could instantly make you mega-powerful simply by causing the spinach lid to pop like a Pringles can, than chewing and swallowing the contents; sometimes you even get a battleship to appear on your tricep. Yes, I would become mega-powerful for a few ticks after swallowing, but would I have the short-lived strength to raise my grandmother's organ over my head. So I inhaled a large portion of spinach, excused myself from the dinner table, then ran full throttle down the hall and into the living room. Confronted with the hulking organ, I wedged my fingers underneath either side of the pedals and attempted an overhead press. No such dice again. The 2 ton organ proved too bulky for LM and I was later lectured about chronic back problems. Lesson learned: you don't need to eat spinach to manhandle a tin whistle however.

The Molly Hatchet album covers are scary; each lp sleeve depicts either a super-spooky monster-thing or a menacing tribal warrior-god or something. I would pluck the Molly Hatchet albums from my father's record collection and create a mock Thunderdome-like scenerio where the Molly Hatchet albums would battle one another in a single elimination round-robin tourney until only one Molly Hatchet lp remained to be hailed "best rock album ever." Dad didn't like me crashing his Molly Hatchet albums together like those rubber WWF wrestler that had the consistancy of giant erasers. Speaking of my father...

I remember when Dad told me that Santa wasn't real. Six year olds rarely have heart-to-heart conversations with thier fathers'. Sure, Dad and I would discuss how awful the Phillies were performing, or why a fairly elaborate pulley system would be required in order to lift an organ, but nothing that would really stick with me so earnestly while becoming the well-rounded adult I am today. See, since about the September before that particular Christmas I had begun to wonder if Santa Clause was a set-up. I didn't want to think he was, but recent taunting from some of my friends had forced me to refocus.
My father must have picked up on my dilemma because shortly after I had opened my final gift on Christmas morning I heard him call from the top of the stairs, "Matthew, put down your toys and come upstairs for a second; there's something I want to tell you." At the time, I probably didn't feel much like a cattle being led to slaughter as I ascended the stairs; I was however. Upon scaling the final step, I turned and began a march toward the master bedroom until, "No, I'm in here son." I halted midstride and pivoted toward the voice until I was face-to-face with a wide open bathroom door. Beyond the door was my insightful father, pantless and perched on the pot. "There is no Santa Clause boy," he declared mid-smash. I was frozen and speechless (I would say his junk hung like mistletoe but that might be tastleless). But what he said next I remember word-for-word, resignating as maybe the most genuine thing the old man, or anyone, has ever said me, "Santa lives in here son" he said as he motioned to his chest, then he smashed again. Lesson learned: my Dad kicks ass.

"Tis more conducive to seek the advice of a fool than the words of a wise man rendered invalid via a freak scooter accident."
-ancient Chinese proverb.

BM