August 22, 2012: Slamming your barefooted toe into the computer table is a painful experience worthy of protracted strings of expletives and worthy of two fist shakes at the heavens. I just did it and there are no words for the pain.

I threaten the computer table with colorful epithets; it smugly just starred back at me in defiant silence. I don't suppose shooting it would teach it to get out of the way either.
This kind-of stuff happens to me all the time. It's just pitiful! And may I add, smarts like hell!

These incidents have beset me since boyhood. My sister Erin might be right that Fred's (Dad) kids were cursed by the evil Disney Granny Queen or JoJo the dog face boy. See, I know that these mishaps happen only to me. You guys never get a hard time from the universe, just me.

Betty would refer to me as a "Bull in a china shop." That phrase is right up there with last weeks most hated "husky size," especially when shopping for back to school clown pants. Clown pants were those dress pants that made you resemble "Bob's big Boy" traveling off to the local carnival to stand in for Clarabelle. I'm a jeans guy. I hate kakis and slacks, always have.

When the first week in September loomed closer, I would break out in hives knowing my life of relative freedom was about to end. Just to be clear, I thought a digit amputation could be less painful then going back to school.

I had a teacher in the 2-3rd grades that I, to this day, hate and, sadly, it was mutual. She alone killed for me any good concept of school. She had a Ph.D. in Education and I suspect was a card carrying communist KGB agent. At "reading time," she would interpret "Dr. Seuss" books. Her favorite was "Green Eggs and Ham," a truly sick idea to read to a gaggle of eight year olds. No wonder I had to log in seven years of therapy as an adult.

So, I had to sit there and listen to stories of cats wearing hats clad in "Bob's Big Boy Balloon" carnival pants after knocking over the juice table at juice time. This was a major blunder which resulted in depriving the other little geniuses of their tomato juice. Show me a kid at that age that even liked tomato juice, and I'll show you a child raised on Bloody Mary's, which was highly possible in those days.

School had its daily high points. The best one, of course, was the bell at 3:00 pm. B'ville at 3:00 pm was the magic kingdom for me. That blessed bell meant freedom! It was outdoor action time. I would purposely go out to destroy the Clarabelle pantaloons. It worked to, after a while I was sent to school in jeans. I won, they lost!

One favorite memory comes from the 50's playing with the tackling dummies, while the Bronco's practiced. My friends and I would roll around playing football using the dummies, I just loved it. There was one senior, who after practice would play with us while the other players hit the showers. Nick Nicholski (56) was a big tackle who called us "His little Gang." I still hear from Nick once and a while, he lives in California. He served with the 82nd Airborne. He always wanted to visit Russia and finally went with some 82nd vets to a paratrooper round-up in Russia. Some Soviet paratroopers arranged for him to jump with them at the age of 70. Nick was always a hero of mine.

I hadn't finished writing this column but within 2 hours Nick called out of the blue. Maybe I'm not cursed with friends like Nick. He was and still is a no fooling around guy who had justice in his quick hands and a big heart. Nick is one of the great memories for me at the BHS dinner table.

I will continue to bumble through this life, bobbing and over turning the juice bar and chairs. But I'm putting my foot down (very carefully) no more wearing of Clarabelle blimp-o pants size Husky.