Tell me a story.

[Connor B]

You guys aren't going to believe this, but I know the actor Jackie Earle Haley on Facebook. He's a nice, funny, all around cool guy. I noticed that he was friends with this movie director that I know, Albert Pyun, who's been in the business since at least 1982. I figured that I should take a chance and friend him... and he accepted my request! We don't get to chat much, considering how busy he is, but still, it's awesome that he keeps in touch with fans. I'm also FB buds with Kevin Sorbo of TV's Hercules.

 

[Dana Jean]

When I was a little girl, I was watching the Olympics. Gymnastics. The year Olga Korbut (sp?) was the big star. She was amazing. But, I loved her teammate, Ludmilla Turisheva (sp?) and no, I didn't have to look that up. I remember her because she was very tall and older for a gymnast. Well, I was very tall, and I watched her do these amazing things.

I thought, I can do that, and proceeded into our formal living room to do "flips." Needless to say, I did not take into account the years and years of practice and dedication to learn gymnastics. To be at the level of The Olympics.

I pulled a bunch of muscles on one particularly flip floppy move. My dream died.

 

[Dana Jean]

I've told this story before, but, for some reason, I just love it. It sums me up in a nutshell. I love learning new things. Lots of different, weird, wonderful new things.

There was a movie called Harry In Your Pocket.

It was about a group of pickpockets. A low-level team, man and woman, were picking pockets and a high end scam guy played by James Coburn sees these two doing their thing. He decides to recruit them and teach them, bring them to a higher level to pull off big pick pockets. Elaborate plans.

To teach them, he would put a suit on a hanger and hang it from a string from the ceiling. He would put a man's wallet in the breast pocket because according to him, that's where men with a lot of money on them kept it, not in their hip pockets. He then pinned a bell to the lapel and had them practice lifting this wallet. If the bell rang, they were too heavy handed. Everyone would know including the mark, that they were being robbed.

I took one of my dad's suits, put a wallet in the breast pocket, pinned a bird seed bell to the lapel minus the seed and hung it from a light and practiced pick pocketing.

My life of crime didn't pan out either. I sucked. I couldn't lift the wallet without ringing the bell.

Onto the next career.

 

[Doc Creed]

I've told this story before, but, for some reason, I just love it. It sums me up in a nutshell. I love learning new things. Lots of different, weird, wonderful new things.

There was a movie called Harry In Your Pocket.

It was about a group of pickpockets. A low-level team, man and woman, were picking pockets and a high end scam guy played by James Coburn sees these two doing their thing. He decides to recruit them and teach them, bring them to a higher level to pull off big pick pockets. Elaborate plans.

To teach them, he would put a suit on a hanger and hang it from a string from the ceiling. He would put a man's wallet in the breast pocket because according to him, that's where men with a lot of money on them kept it, not in their hip pockets. He then pinned a bell to the lapel and had them practice lifting this wallet. If the bell rang, they were too heavy handed. Everyone would know including the mark, that they were being robbed.

I took one of my dad's suits, put a wallet in the breast pocket, pinned a bird seed bell to the lapel minus the seed and hung it from a light and practiced pick pocketing.

My life of crime didn't pan out either. I sucked. I couldn't lift the wallet without ringing the bell.

Onto the next career.

 

[Blake]

Sorry Mr. Cranky, we don't allow fiction writing posted directly to the site.

When Siggy asked for a story, we have to keep it within the rules of the board.

Wasn't fiction, was true story. But I'm glad you removed it because it might paint my father in the wrong light.

 

[Doc Creed]

The summer I was twelve I lived in Florida in a house on a canal. We'd often see turtles and ducks and even gators. Our aluminum fishing boat perched on the water's edge and I remember peering at the tea colored water watching for the dark garden hose shapes that would silently appear. It was not uncommon to see six or more nubs peering up from the lapping water. My skin would crawl as my eyes adjusted just right, revealing half a dozen water moccasins. Sometimes they'd be on land and out of the corner of my eye I'd see what looked like a black strip of molten tar swirling out of sight. We always had to be cautious because they are aggressive snakes and very poisonous.
Mostly we'd see the mother duck and her waddling babies at our sliding glass doors. They were used to being fed morning biscuits and other morsels. I remember the ducks coming into the house and having to chase them. They were fearless. We'd even hear them tapping on the glass at night, but only on occasion.
One night we had just had a pizza delivered, a few pieces getting cold on the cardboard box, when a scream echoed off of the canal. Then the woman's cries reached our glass doors accompanied by fierce pounding. The doors trembled and my mother flipped on the porch light revealing a puny blonde woman squinting against the ugly yellow glare, moths fluttering. "He's got a knife! Hurry, he's trying to kuh-HILL me!". Mom reluctantly opened the door and let in the skinny, shaking woman. It was our next door neighbor. Her husband was a paraplegic war vet, bound in a wheelchair and suffering from manic episodes. This was the first evidence that we had of him being violent.
Her wet cheeks ran with mascara. She held onto a dining chair and trembled. "Please. Call the cops. Please..."
She eyed the door. We were all terrified and waited for the cops to come. Only later did I realize he could've never made it across the sandy hill to our back door...could he? Not in a wheelchair. That night I kept picturing him crawling by his arms, dragging his body, bellowing her name in a rage. Please let that tapping be ducks, I prayed.

 

[Dana Jean]

Wasn't fiction, was true story. But I'm glad you removed it because it might paint my father in the wrong light.

Oh, I'm so sorry Mr. Cranky. Well, as a compliment to you, I felt like I was reading a book!!!! Please post it again, I'm sure everyone will understand these fatherhood stories.

 

[Dana Jean]

The summer I was twelve I lived in Florida in a house on a canal. We'd often see turtles and ducks and even gators. Our aluminum fishing boat perched on the water's edge and I remember peering at the tea colored water watching for the dark garden hose shapes that would silently appear. It was not uncommon to see six or more nubs peering up from the lapping water. My skin would crawl as my eyes adjusted just right, revealing half a dozen water moccasins. Sometimes they'd be on land and out of the corner of my eye I'd see what looked like a black strip of molten tar swirling out of sight. We always had to be cautious because they are aggressive snakes and very poisonous.
Mostly we'd see the mother duck and her waddling babies at our sliding glass doors. They were used to being fed morning biscuits and other morsels. I remember the ducks coming into the house and having to chase them. They were fearless. We'd even hear them tapping on the glass at night, but only on occasion.
One night we had just had a pizza delivered, a few pieces getting cold on the cardboard box, when a scream echoed off of the canal. Then the woman's cries reached our glass doors accompanied by fierce pounding. The doors trembled and my mother flipped on the porch light revealing a puny blonde woman squinting against the ugly yellow glare, moths fluttering. "He's got a knife! Hurry, he's trying to kuh-HILL me!". Mom reluctantly opened the door and let in the skinny, shaking woman. It was our next door neighbor. Her husband was a paraplegic war vet, bound in a wheelchair and suffering from manic episodes. This was the first evidence that we had of him being violent.
Her wet cheeks ran with mascara. She held onto a dining chair and trembled. "Please. Call the cops. Please..."
She eyed the door. We were all terrified and waited for the cops to come. Only later did I realize he could've never made it across the sandy hill to our back door...could he? Not in a wheelchair. That night I kept picturing him crawling by his arms, dragging his body, bellowing her name in a rage. Please let that tapping be ducks, I prayed.

Yikes, that's a scary story. Would make a great story with some fictional liberties thrown in, that could be sent into magazines.

 

[Doc Creed]

Yikes, that's a scary story. Would make a great story with some fictional liberties thrown in, that could be sent into magazines.

Thanks, I'm not quite the story teller Muskrat is but I try. This actually happened and it fostered so many evolving thoughts about war, domestic violence, and pity for both neighbors. Interesting how my child's mind saw the event and how as a man I can at least try to understand the vet's motivation and troubled psyche.

 

[not_nadine]

I've told this story before, but, for some reason, I just love it. It sums me up in a nutshell. I love learning new things. Lots of different, weird, wonderful new things.

There was a movie called Harry In Your Pocket.

It was about a group of pickpockets. A low-level team, man and woman, were picking pockets and a high end scam guy played by James Coburn sees these two doing their thing. He decides to recruit them and teach them, bring them to a higher level to pull off big pick pockets. Elaborate plans.

To teach them, he would put a suit on a hanger and hang it from a string from the ceiling. He would put a man's wallet in the breast pocket because according to him, that's where men with a lot of money on them kept it, not in their hip pockets. He then pinned a bell to the lapel and had them practice lifting this wallet. If the bell rang, they were too heavy handed. Everyone would know including the mark, that they were being robbed.

I took one of my dad's suits, put a wallet in the breast pocket, pinned a bird seed bell to the lapel minus the seed and hung it from a light and practiced pick pocketing.

My life of crime didn't pan out either. I sucked. I couldn't lift the wallet without ringing the bell.

Onto the next career.

 

[not_nadine]

The summer I was twelve I lived in Florida in a house on a canal. We'd often see turtles and ducks and even gators. Our aluminum fishing boat perched on the water's edge and I remember peering at the tea colored water watching for the dark garden hose shapes that would silently appear. It was not uncommon to see six or more nubs peering up from the lapping water. My skin would crawl as my eyes adjusted just right, revealing half a dozen water moccasins. Sometimes they'd be on land and out of the corner of my eye I'd see what looked like a black strip of molten tar swirling out of sight. We always had to be cautious because they are aggressive snakes and very poisonous.
Mostly we'd see the mother duck and her waddling babies at our sliding glass doors. They were used to being fed morning biscuits and other morsels. I remember the ducks coming into the house and having to chase them. They were fearless. We'd even hear them tapping on the glass at night, but only on occasion.
One night we had just had a pizza delivered, a few pieces getting cold on the cardboard box, when a scream echoed off of the canal. Then the woman's cries reached our glass doors accompanied by fierce pounding. The doors trembled and my mother flipped on the porch light revealing a puny blonde woman squinting against the ugly yellow glare, moths fluttering. "He's got a knife! Hurry, he's trying to kuh-HILL me!". Mom reluctantly opened the door and let in the skinny, shaking woman. It was our next door neighbor. Her husband was a paraplegic war vet, bound in a wheelchair and suffering from manic episodes. This was the first evidence that we had of him being violent.
Her wet cheeks ran with mascara. She held onto a dining chair and trembled. "Please. Call the cops. Please..."
She eyed the door. We were all terrified and waited for the cops to come. Only later did I realize he could've never made it across the sandy hill to our back door...could he? Not in a wheelchair. That night I kept picturing him crawling by his arms, dragging his body, bellowing her name in a rage. Please let that tapping be ducks, I prayed.

I got in trouble with ducks once. Actually Canadian geese. But no knives and wheelchairs.

Lived right off a nice pond. Look! Geese. Got into the habit of feeding them. Very pleasant. Had a bag of cracked corn, just for them. Nice way to start the day.

Look more! Gosh there are lot of geese now Ah look! They are having babies! So schweeeet! Little ones.

They turned on me, man. It got to the point that I had to sneak out my own front door. Seemed like hundreds of little babies and the adults running full ducky speed at me. They were waiting. I ran - getting pecked and honked at.

Neighbor complained. Ducky poop all around my front door and the path.

I got a warning from the office.

 

[HollyGolightly]

Loving the stories, guys! I read your's before it was deleted Mr. Cranky - very sad. Where does meanness like that come from? What kind of person can just hurt other people and wake up and look at themselves in the mirror? I'm reading Blaze and there's some pretty graphic child abuse in there. Sad.

Sisterwife, you crack me up! I bet you were a fun child with all your attempts at various careers and talents! You couldn't have been the ugly duckling. You're gorgeous! Farging bastidges!

 

[not_nadine]

One time I was in Paris. Got a really dirty look from a street vendor, when I asked in bad french, where is the Looove? He pointed, with that face on.

Just said:

'me diriger vers le musée, s'il vous plaît?'

Annnd I was standing across the street from it.

I have too many stories.

 

[Doc Creed]

I have too many stories.

I wish you'd share more, Nottie. You have a real knack for telling humorous stories. The work stories are great. I agree with Sigmund...I enjoy hearing (reading) everybody's personal stories.

 

[skimom2]

Okay. It's long but here's the story of why I love Rush so much:

On Monday, November 2, 2009 my mother died suddenly. No warning, no indication, nothing. She was seventy. My stepfather, with whom I have not had the best relationship, decided to have her cremated before I could get down to Vegas. I flew down the day after she died. Somehow he talked her sisters into not having a memorial of any kind. She wouldn't have wanted a "fuss made," he said. As if a memorial is for the dead. My feelings were not taken into account. Somehow, I made it through that week. On Sunday, November 8, Barry and I were coming back from the store when we were hit head-on. We saw the car in our lane but had nowhere to go, with a creek and guardrail to our right. So we collided. Luckily, it was an elderly woman going slowly. If it had been someone driving faster with a bigger car, we might not be here. As it was, we got an ambulance ride, me in a neck brace. X-rays showed no broken bones so we got a prescription for Percodan and sent home.

Barry hadn't been injured as badly as me. He did bend the steering wheel but escaped relatively unscathed. I had pain in my chest; like an elephant with its ass on fire was sitting on me, at first. That eventually got better but it turned out that my sternum and three ribs were broken. That took a bone scan to find and several months of the pain just not going away. The months that I would have normally been grieving became an exercise in swallowing that grief. To quote a great writer, I was out of touch with love in the land of the living.

In April, Barry was surfing the web when he saw that Rush was coming to the area in August. Why not? So he got tickets and life went on, out of touch with life in the land of the loving. Now, Barry had lost his best friend the March before Mom died. Mark was the biggest Rush fan - with them since the first album. I do believe that Mark was somehow responsible for Barry seeing that concert announcement. So, on August 8th, 2010, we set off for the White River Amphitheater. We left early since we'd never been there before, bringing lunch and sitting in the parking lot. We got to hear sound check, even. Our seats were right in the center, just up from the floor; we had a great view. But the view was just the beginning. What happened with me that night is best described in Bag Of Bones, about Mike Noonan walking through a forest when there is a sonic boom. The woods fall silent after the noise, not a sound. Then "a finch began to sing." The other birds joined in until it was business as usual, "and I got on with mine." When I came across that passage on a re-read, it stopped me cold. This was exactly what had happened on that August night. A bit later Mike comes to the realization that a neighbor he encounters is that finch. "The first bird to sing into my silence." That description stayed with me.

Since that August, Rush has been my true north. Their music, some of which was new to me since I'd fallen out of touch with their work for many years, inspired me. It made my heart sing. It made me start creating again. I picked up the guitar again, after 25 years. I read Neil's books: Ghost Rider was particularly apropos and touched me deeply. Slowly, my ship began to right itself. With this last tour, I decided to try once more for a signed item. I chose 3 pictures I had taken during the Clockwork Angels tour and printed them at the Rite-Aid (ooo, fancy!). I decided that I needed to enclose a short note (some people had told me that helps sometimes). So I wrote them a brief version of what you've read, including that they were my "first bird." I sent the package to the Seattle venue and crossed my fingers.

When making signs for this tour, I decided that my Seattle sign would refer to that letter, hoping that they would have read it and get the reference. So I made this 9x11 sign; small because I was in the front row and so I could set it in my lap. The night of the show, I was so excited! I was sitting right in front of Geddy all night. Now, you know I have had a crush on Alex since 1981, when I first saw Rush, and that I love his antics (and watching him play) but Geddy is fun to sit in front of, too (I sat in front of him on my last CA show and had a ball!). I put my sign on my lap and enjoyed the show. My dream of sticks didn't materialize but I didn't have anywhere else to put the sign so I kept it on my lap. During "Jacob's Ladder," as Geddy was at his keyboard waiting for his part, I looked up to see him looking down at me. Our eyes met for a second and he gave me the sweetest smile. What could I do but return it?

When Alex came over to Geddy's side of the stage during 2112, I snapped a couple of great pics of him (which you may have seen). Just before he headed back over to his side of the stage, he looked down at me and mouthed, "You're very welcome."

So. I knew then that they had read my note and that they knew. They knew what they had done for me, how they had touched my life. There was a sense of relief and release and, with that, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Two nights later, Lydia (the fan liaison whom I had met in Vancouver and to whom I'd mentioned the pictures I'd sent) spotted me at the Portland show and hand-delivered my package. I waited until after the show and asked Kelly and Kristi (2 of my Rush friends) to witness the great moment; I knew they'd understand. Now those 3 pictures have pride of place on my mother's antique china cabinet. Kind of a full circle kind of thing.

I will be forever grateful to those three men for helping me "get back on." They gave me my life back.

*edited to clear up who people are

Okay, so that made me cry. I don't even like Rush (not my kind of music, though I admire their musicianship) but I respect them as people now. That's a beautiful story.

 

[not_nadine]

Gosh, all these stories appearing again. Forgot about the ducks. They were cute and got nasty.

I had to run from them. The babies Running from little fluffy babies. They are fast, and have a purpose. Watch yourself with a bag of cracked corn.
Honking mother and father close behind.

I am reliving it.

 

[Blake]

In about April 2011(?) I went to a late Sunday night viewing of Ridley Scott's Prometheus at the cinema in King Street, Newcastle( Event Cinemas). I parked my car up around the corner in Laman Street, around the corner from the Newcastle Baptist Tabernacle Church. This is a true story. It was about 11:30 pm. I'm around the corner from the Church and this black haired young woman dressed in clothing from around the 1880's comes up to me. She also had a big white dog, like a huge German Shepherd. For some reasons everything around me looked distorted like I was looking through some glass that was dirty. The woman asked me: 'Do you live around here?' and I replied, 'No, I live in Hamilton.' She looked disappointed, so I said goodbye, walked about four steps and looked back and no one was there, even though there was no place for them to go to so quickly.

 

[Scratch]

Thanks for this. I love stories.

Here is the one of the night I came home from the service.

I told Dad not to saddle me with my kid brother that night. I knew when I got together with my cousin Rodney that crazy would ensue but he insisted. I had to take them to the drive in movies before we went to do our thing, which was celebrate at a local bar. I really meant to go easy knowing I would have to pick them up later but I was so happy to be done with the Air Force and I have never been one for moderation. Ever. As much as I can do or get away with at any moment is always who I've been. Don't trust me with responsibility at a time like that.

We had a great time. Loud music and conversation and girls I hadn't seen in years to dance with. We had been killing glasses of beer poured from a pitcher when my smartass cousin filled it full of tequila. I killed it just as I had the beer. I leaned back so far doing so that my chair fell over backwards and the glass clinked against my teeth as I hit the floor still in my chair but I held the empty glass aloft and proclaimed "did not spill a drop!" I should have. I should have dumped it all out. I realized that soon. Oh ****, I had to pick up my little brother in a couple of hours and I was snockered.

I snuck out and walked to a tin shed next to the alley bar I was at and went around back to puke. I knew I would have to sober up so I stayed there in the cold of a November night slumped in a sitting position with my back against icy tin. That would do it I thought. The bracing cold and wind would knock all that alcohol into a back portion of my brain in no time. I fell asleep.

I awoke shivering. How long? I really was more sober but how long was I out? I made my way around the shed and discovered the bar was closed. Oh hell. After midnight. Where was Rodney? Nobody was around. How long after midnight was it? I walked a circuit of the bar block and even went to the courthouse square in Oxford, Ms. but I could not find him. Maybe he got lucky with one of the girls. He was ugly as sin but tall and funny and fearless as a maniac and some responded to that. I would have to go without him. He was in the back seat asleep when I opened my car door.

We drove to the drive in. I know that is horrible. It was a different time but I knew better. Sure it was closer to Donald Draper devil may care but driving toasted and picking up my kid brother was wrong and I knew it. I was going with the flow though. Music blasting I pulled into the drive in and checked the concession stand and all was dark. They must have gone to one of their friends houses just back of it I theorized. Say that frost covered grass looks awful tempting. I cut several donuts and figure eights on the slick frozen grass. It was great. I was one hell of a driver.

Then I decided to burst through the tall grown together Arbor Vitis that lined a section near a side road. I was fearless and having fun. I was king of the road and showing out. I swung around and flew through them like Steve McQueen and slid sideways on the gravel road beyond still punching it in perfect control and... slid right up to the side of a cop car. Oh ****. Nothing to do but roll down my window and speak to him.

Do you know what time it is? No idea, sir. Oh I got a lecture about how my brother and his buddies were shivering in the cold and had been waiting for me hours after the drive in closed. All I could do was hang my head and look sheepish. They were all getting warm in the back of his car while they awaited Dad who had been called to come pick them up. Before he could even finish his berating Dad pulled up mad and disheveled from being woken and having to drive twenty miles at that time of morning. To top his anger off they still wanted me to drive them home.

I got out of that one as I have everything in my life by the luck of the Irish though I only have Scots in me.

 

[Maddie]

Thanks for this. I love stories.

Here is the one of the night I came home from the service.

I told Dad not to saddle me with my kid brother that night. I knew when I got together with my cousin Rodney that crazy would ensue but he insisted. I had to take them to the drive in movies before we went to do our thing, which was celebrate at a local bar. I really meant to go easy knowing I would have to pick them up later but I was so happy to be done with the Air Force and I have never been one for moderation. Ever. As much as I can do or get away with at any moment is always who I've been. Don't trust me with responsibility at a time like that.

We had a great time. Loud music and conversation and girls I hadn't seen in years to dance with. We had been killing glasses of beer poured from a pitcher when my smartass cousin filled it full of tequila. I killed it just as I had the beer. I leaned back so far doing so that my chair fell over backwards and the glass clinked against my teeth as I hit the floor still in my chair but I held the empty glass aloft and proclaimed "did not spill a drop!" I should have. I should have dumped it all out. I realized that soon. Oh ****, I had to pick up my little brother in a couple of hours and I was snockered.

I snuck out and walked to a tin shed next to the alley bar I was at and went around back to puke. I knew I would have to sober up so I stayed there in the cold of a November night slumped in a sitting position with my back against icy tin. That would do it I thought. The bracing cold and wind would knock all that alcohol into a back portion of my brain in no time. I fell asleep.

I awoke shivering. How long? I really was more sober but how long was I out? I made my way around the shed and discovered the bar was closed. Oh hell. After midnight. Where was Rodney? Nobody was around. How long after midnight was it? I walked a circuit of the bar block and even went to the courthouse square in Oxford, Ms. but I could not find him. Maybe he got lucky with one of the girls. He was ugly as sin but tall and funny and fearless as a maniac and some responded to that. I would have to go without him. He was in the back seat asleep when I opened my car door.

We drove to the drive in. I know that is horrible. It was a different time but I knew better. Sure it was closer to Donald Draper devil may care but driving toasted and picking up my kid brother was wrong and I knew it. I was going with the flow though. Music blasting I pulled into the drive in and checked the concession stand and all was dark. They must have gone to one of their friends houses just back of it I theorized. Say that frost covered grass looks awful tempting. I cut several donuts and figure eights on the slick frozen grass. It was great. I was one hell of a driver.

Then I decided to burst through the tall grown together Arbor Vitis that lined a section near a side road. I was fearless and having fun. I was king of the road and showing out. I swung around and flew through them like Steve McQueen and slid sideways on the gravel road beyond still punching it in perfect control and... slid right up to the side of a cop car. Oh ****. Nothing to do but roll down my window and speak to him.

Do you know what time it is? No idea, sir. Oh I got a lecture about how my brother and his buddies were shivering in the cold and had been waiting for me hours after the drive in closed. All I could do was hang my head and look sheepish. They were all getting warm in the back of his car while they awaited Dad who had been called to come pick them up. Before he could even finish his berating Dad pulled up mad and disheveled from being woken and having to drive twenty miles at that time of morning. To top his anger off they still wanted me to drive them home.

I got out of that one as I have everything in my life by the luck of the Irish though I only have Scots in me.

Scratch youre so bad ! but That was Hilarioussss , again, just like being there, and Imagining you the young Bruce Campbell and that cop who pulled up was Checkman made it even funnier!

 

[Grandpa]

We drove to the drive in. I know that is horrible. It was a different time but I knew better. Sure it was closer to Donald Draper devil may care but driving toasted and picking up my kid brother was wrong and I knew it. I was going with the flow though.

I think a lot of us who have lived life enjoyably, particularly during years when drinking and driving, even though it was just as dangerous (or more so), didn't have the social stigma it has now (and deservedly so).

Several decades ago, I told Grandma I was having an after-hours beer with a client. This was before cell phones. She said okay. We had our beer, and we were laughing and having a great time. Other acquaintances showed up, more beer flowed, we finally figured we ought to order some food.

It was the Twilight Zone for timekeeping. It seemed like we'd been talking for a half an hour, and I look at the time, and two hours have gone by. Whaaat? Okay, one more beer (at some point, there was a round or more of Crowns ordered), finish it, and go. Much hilarity - maybe a half hour? No, I'm looking at the clock again, and another two hours have bit the dust. Whhhaaaaattt?

Okay, I've got to get home. I walk out and realize that I'm pretty cooked, but I've got the only family car we have, and I'm running so late, and Grandma is already so PO'd, I know, so I'll do what I can, get to the car, and....

While I was in the bar enjoying myself, freezing rain had hit outside. Everything, including the car, was covered with a sheet of ice. I'm frantically scraping a layer of solid ice off the car (actually, a minivan), because every minute, I know, is increasing the bride's ire.

I finally get the ice scraped and hit the road. I was terror-stricken the whole way. The roads were terribly icy. There was nothing wrong with my driving, and sure, drunk people say that, but I had adrenalin racing through, I was driving slowly, carefully, watchfully, staying under the speed limit, staying between the lines, and all with the terrible knowledge that it didn't even matter. If someone came sliding through a stoplight or stop sign on the icy road and pasted me, I'd never get through the Breathalyzer, and even driving perfectly, and not being at fault, I would Go To Jail, Go Directly To Jail, Do Not Pass Go, etc.

I made it home. Grandma laid into me. As she should. I could only take it and admit that, yes, I was an inconsiderate jerk. The only good point was that with that frightful drive home, my actual condition was pretty well masked, and she didn't realize how toasted I was. Don't tell her, okay?

That was the last time I drove in that condition. All in all, it was as cheap a lesson as I could hope for.