>This internet thing has been going around; I guess they call it a meme or something? I don’t know, all I know is I got tagged by writer Dan O’Shea, who is laying the blame on the feet of “that bastard” Keith Rawson. I guess it has its origins with that Canadian writer John McFetridge, who is feeling all high and mighty because his new book Let it Ride just came out (which you should check out, of course) and he apparently started hyperactively slinging this stuff all over the place. I don’t know, but when it comes to fishing stories I’m not going to let the likes of those guys one-up me. Here is O’Shea, who left this requirement on my ePorch this morning like a flaming paper bag of dog shit, explaining:
The ground rules?
• Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth – or – switch it around and tell six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie. (See below.)
• Nominate some more “Creative Writers” who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies of their own. (Check the end of this post.)
• Post links to the blogs you nominate.
• Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know that you have nominated them.
I don’t know about tagging anyone else, since everyone else I know has already been tagged (yeah, thanks guys, pick the fat kid last). But here goes with my 6.
1. Unlike Joelle Charbonneau, and O’shea apparently, I was never much for rollerskating. In fact, as a kid I was pretty terrible at it. There used to be a roller rink in Missoula, and I would occasionally be forced to go with my two older sisters. One time — I was probably still in my single digits age-wise — I totally wiped out while leaving the skating area during one of those times where the announcer tells everyone to clear the rink. Some girl a few years older turned around and said something snarky about my skating ability. Nikki, my oldest sister (she has 5 years on me, which makes here really friggin’ old now), wasn’t having it. She had stern words for that girl, and before it was all over she had walloped one lippy chick in the face and sent 3 or 4 others crying to the rink authorities.
2. Same sister, several years later. My first year out of high school I was living in town with her to supposedly attend the University of Montana. In the apartment next door lived a group of college guys. For whatever reason, they were really into The Thompson Twins. Every couple days they would have it on their stereo loud enough for us to hear it on our side of the wall. That would piss Nikki off, and she would immediately go to her stereo, put on side 2 of AC/DC’s Back in Black and crank it way up. Then she would go over right next to the wall and scream, “How do you like that, you little fuckers!” I never worried about them getting pissed and coming over, because we’ve already established she could kick ass in a fight. All 5’4″ inches of her.
3. When my bandmates at the time and I had all graduated high school and moved to Seattle to become rock stars (little did we know at that time we would have been smarter to pack flannel instead of spandex), we were invited by a friend of ours to play his Halloween house party out in the country. He had these flyers all over, advertising live music, a keg, etc., plus the cover charge. So we are up there, had rocked out one blistering set, and were just hanging out. There were maybe 30 or 40 people there, no big deal. All of a sudden the house is full of dudes with guns and jackets that said ATF in bold letters on the back. Turned out a number of the costumed people were undercover agents, and they had set up this huge sting operation to shut down what was nothing more than some 20-something’s private party. I’m sure someone somewhere got a royal ass chewing at the expense of the operation. The idea was that because their was a keg there and a cost to get into the party, technically that amounted to selling alcohol without a license, and they expected some kind of massive, Woodstockian bacchanalia, I guess. I don’t think they even arrested anybody.
4. I literally didn’t start drinking beer until I was in my 30s. I’ve never smoked pot or taken any kind of illicit drug in my life. I’ve only hurled from alcohol after (during, actually) one night of debauchery, and the resulting hangover-lite that I had is the only one I’ve ever experienced, and it wasn’t that bad.
5. My last band used to play a show just about every year in Big Sky, MT, which is a fancy ski resort, mainly because they always treated us like rock stars. One night, the last night of the season, we were up there and this bar was just packed with 20-somethings. It was crazy, and events had been going on all day. One of the bands before us was playing, and it was our PA, when a fight down front broke out that caused monitors to start getting knocked about and mic stands went flying. Me and the guitar player, Jimmy, came over the front of the stage from the back into the fray and started flinging bodies around. When all was said and done we stood in the midst of an open space, back-to-back, with about 50 or 60 North Face-clad bodies strewn about. It was awesome.
6. My last act as a boy was to save a smaller boy from drowning while swimming at the Frenchtown Pond, back before it was a “state park” and was just a swimming hole where you could drive your rig right down to the water’s edge if you wanted to. The kid fell off an inner tube and was sinking like a stone and I hauled him out long enough for my mom to swim from shore and help me drag him back to land. Meanwhile his mom was up on the shore drinking and smoking and never even knew what happened. I say it was my last act as a boy because the kid’s teenage sister did see what happened, and she promptly took me back in this secluded little stand of trees — you know, the one where passing through banditos used to congregate to smoke their mary-who-wanna — and made a Man out of me.
7. I had a debilitating crush on Molly Ringwald when I was in high school. I remember watching Pretty in Pink for the nth time at the theater, and there is a scene during the opening credits where she slowly pulls a stocking* up her leg. My friend, whom we called Lex, leaned over and sneered, “This is the closest you’re ever going to get to that!” I was torn between bursting into tears and punching him in his smug little face.
* I originally typed “stalking”; Freudian slip, anyone?