The Iconoclast of the Mohicans

I'm at odds with this world. Oh sure, every person with a teenaged past can say the same thing, like how they were misunderstood, lonely, or living with the shame of a 5 - 10 stretch for arson on their record. My diametric opposition to this world is far less colorful. It’s not that I intentionally puff out my chest, tap the world on its broad shoulders and snort, "What are YOU lookin’ at, chief?" No, I'm far more passive aggressive than that. You see, there aren't many earthlings like me, and if there are, they sure do a damned good job of forgetting to mail me invites to their biker brawls, skinny dipping parties, and box socials. I guess I am what you would call the Iconoclast of the Mohicans.

It all started when I was young, because that’s usually where the entrance is. I have an older brother. We'll call him "Dave," since that is his name. Dave is seventeen months older than me, or, if you prefer to rank according to graduation, two years my senior. Dave, or David, as he was known back then, was a cyclone of an infant. Subtlety just wasn't part of his M.O. Loud, energetic, and aggressive, he dove headlong into whatever tickled any of his five senses. Smell something good? Let’s grab for things on the stove. Hear a song he likes? Played the damned record until the grooves were smoking. Saw a package of cookies? Jumped on it like a frothing hyena. I was probably too young to understand, but, after seeing the ass-whuppins administered to my older brother, I tended to take a more low-key approach. Using my powers of human-to-cookie psychic ability, I would wait until no one was near the kitchen. Then, I would send coded messages to the package of Oreos in the pantry.

"Monkey balls make great ornaments."

"It’s a cold day for pontooning."*

That was the signal to slide the chair to the pantry, open the door, stand on the chair, and slowly PEEL back the cellophane to get to that rich cookie goodness. No crinkling of the package and no sloppy execution. It was a military-style cookie-d’etat. The cupcakes on the next shelf trembled. I was a sneaky kid and I ruled. I knew then that I was destined for a different path than my gloriously force-of-nature brother. But, I was just getting started.

As the 1960s coughed and hacked their way into the 1970s, I started to take a bigger interest in the broadness of my surroundings. Anyone who tells you the hippies were firehosed away at the end of the previous decade obviously never attended the seemingly weekly parties held at my house. An endless string of groovy people floating in and out of the house, lots of suede and macramé, and Moody Blues albums were par for the course. Every now and again, Dave and I would slide down the stairs on our rumps, on step at a time, in our Scooby-Doo pajamas and peer around the corner at the mellow being manufactured in the living room. Occasionally, we would encounter a zombie-eyed hippie on his way to or from the bathroom. He'd ask my brother what he wanted to be when he grew up, and Dave, being the painfully honest person he was would say, "I wanna play drums!" or "I wanna play baseball!" Then, the hippie would turn to me:

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Older"

This would invariably blow the hippie’s mind and he’d go back to the party and start seeing faces in the turquoise of the kiln-fired ashtrays.

It kind of went like that for years. Putting ketchup on bologna and cheese sandwiches, switching to shoot my hockey stick left-handed because my father said I had to do it right-handed, and sleeping under the coffee table after dinner.

It’s not that I ever consciously went out of my way to be a weird kid. It just came naturally. I honestly didn't see the big deal. Various lectures, medications, and emergency psychoanalysis sessions in Vienna notwithstanding, it was just who I was. My freak flag was flying high and my family was shunned by the neighbors.

I guess I can agree that the actions and events of our childhood go a long way towards shaping us into the horrible creatures we are today. We develop all kinds of weird self-rituals and biases. For example:

* - When I see an accident by the side of the road that all the rubberneckers just HAVE to see, I purposely look away. Oh sure, I might drive into the bumper in front of me, into a ditch, or into a backyard barbecue, but I am NOT going to rubberneck.

* - The radio. I hate the freaking radio. I hate what passes as music on the radio. I hate smarmy, smartass DJs, stiff traffic copter reporters, and commercials - really LOUD, annoying commercials - for local car dealerships. There is always some damned lame guitar solo and flat soda lyrics grunted by a faded 80s hair-band singer. Or, perhaps there is some idiot screaming that all of their "last year’s inventory must go!" in a voice that sounds like it’s coming from the strained vocal chords of a low-fiber carnival barker.

* - And let me lay this jive on you. I love the cold. Give me cold weather over that unimaginative hot weather nonsense any day. I've talked to many people who have said, "When I go on MY honeymoon, I'm going to , Hawaii, or some beach in Mexico." Wow. The beach. Hot, unmerciful sunburn, that nasty back-of-the-knee sweat, and other jerk-off Americans who are JUST LIKE YOU! I don’t know about you, but, I'd much rather try something imaginative, like an Alaskan cruise, a trip to Ireland or New Zealand, or making a fort out of couch cushions, watching movies with explosions, and answering the door naked when the pizza arrives. Granted, you'd want your significant other with you for that last one, otherwise, you'd be living my typical weekend. But, back to the cold. I run the air conditioner in the Winter. I drop the thermostat on that sucker so far that the carpet crunches under my feet. I like the feel of permafrost under my sheets and snapping icicles off the bathroom spigot because, let’s face it folks, there ain’t nothin’ like sleeping in cool weather. I want to see my breath collect in a threatening maelstrom while I'm in bed. I want to wrap myself up tighter than a Cuban cigar rolled on a sweet virgin’s thigh and cook hotter than a 3 a.m. jazz combo hopped up on goofballs. But get that damned snow off my streets and sidewalks. I like cold weather, but I freaking hate snow.

So, you see, I'm a little different. I'm not your sweet cup of Chamomile or a floppy-earred puppy. And, I'm not changing for you or anyone else. In the words of the great philosopher, Paul Reubens: "I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel."

So, the next time you see me, either on the street, online, or on C.O.P.S., just think of me while you're in your car, listening to the radio while driving past an accident and dreaming of hot, sunny beaches.



* - All credit to Trace and the gang at MST3K