It was the summer of ’79. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
We lived. We died.
We laughed. We cried.
And through it all we never lied.
We wore sarongs and huge spiked heels.
We worshipped Jack Lord and made sweet deals.
More than men, we were gods!
We braved all odds
To find the path and the true meaning
Of all that was holy
And we called it Careening.
Careening. The mere thought elicits wave after wave of nonsense and nausea. Diarrhea, vomiting, masturbation of the senses: this and more, Horatio. Careening at its finest can be an art form; at it’s worst, a grand and gracious oratorical tool that can leave the mind of even the strongest willed a putrid, stinking, scummy, molten pile of flimsy, moist, gray matter that would rival any porcelain receptacle just down the hall from where the 33 empty kegs are strewn about like so many discarded wine bottles at a homeless convention. Try it the next time you owe your boss a report. Guaranteed to blow his mind.
And so, just what is careening? You mean, you haven’t figured it out yet? Well, let me tell you. No, wait. I just did. Didn’t I? Or was I just careening? Circular enough for you? Then I fart in your general direction. And may the boogers of life protect your feet from the burning sands of the shores of Lake Michigan. (I would have said Lake Gitchigoomi, but I haven’t a clue how to spell it.)
It was the summer of ’79, as I started to say. I had my usual job lined up which consisted of stacking and restacking large, cardboard boxes, metal drums, desks, cordwood, pipes, bananas, feces, small, legless vermin and anything else that wasn’t fast enough to evade my ceaseless obsession. In other words, I worked in a warehouse. Ah, I still remember driving the forklift through the aisles of the factory that produced the small, legless vermin… No, wait, I produced those after running them down with the forklift. I also produced much anxiety among the others in the facility since I had this habit of going very fast with the forks about 4 feet off the ground while yelling harsh, Japanese war cries at the top of my lungs. It was really quite fun. I’m thinking of doing it again when I retire. Or maybe sooner.
So, anyway. It was the summer of ’79. I had my guitar strung way down low. With the hole towards me, you know? That way the strings… Whoa. Getting a bit too personal here. And I careen.
It was the summer of ’79 and I was working at my usual summer job in the warehouse of a small, plastic factory. Well, the factory wasn’t made of plastic. It was actually made of some kind of concrete block. With a cement floor. And I think it had a kind of corrugated metal roof with metal bars running across it to keep it up and all. But there was lots of plastic inside because the things they manufactured there were all made of plastic. So that’s why I called it a plastic factory, you see. Nothing to do with how the place was constructed or anything. In fact the building is still there and if you drive by you’ll see it really isn’t made of plastic at all.
But I careen again.
It was the summer of ’79 and there I was working merrily away when I got this phone call. Well, again, I wasn’t actually working when I got the phone call. It was after work one night. Or maybe it was a weekend. Or I guess it could have been after school let out and before I even started working. But I did get this phone call and it was from, drum roll please, “Mark!”
“OMIGOD,” he began. “IT’S SUMMER AND I NEED MONEY AND I DON’T HAVE A JOB AND IF I DON’T GET MONEY SOON I’M GOING TO STARVE AND MY CLOTHES ARE GOING TO FALL OFF AND I’LL HAVE TO RUN DOWN THE STREETS NAKED AND SCREAMING AND SLOBBERING AND BEGGING FOR SOAP SCUM TO WASH THE BLISTERING, FESTERING BOILS THAT ARE BEGINNING TO FORM ON MY BUTT!”
“Oh, hi, ‘Mark’, what’s up?” I replied.
“GANOFSKY! YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME. I’LL BE YOUR SEX SLAVE FOR LIFE IF YOU HELP ME FIND A JOB.”
Now, you have to understand this is more than 20 years later as I’m writing this, so I may have forgotten some of the exact details. But I swear that’s how it all started. So I made a few discrete inquiries at my place of employment and sure enough, not only did they have soap scum, they also had a job opening. And the next week “Mark” started work at the plastic factory that was actually made out of concrete block with cement floors and a corrugated metal roof.
As I recall, “Mark’s” job wasn’t nearly as glamorous as mine, but it did have its moments. I believe he had to roll naked in hot, steaming machine grease and then dive into a rather large pile of sawdust at least once every other hour. And that was just for the boils! The rest of it was swirling his head in a 55 gallon drum of red powder and urinating on the other workers if they complained, which they did often at first but then they sort of quieted down. Which, as I recall, caused “Mark” some pain. Now, someone can correct me if I’m misremembering, but didn’t “Mark” have some kind of bladder problem at the beginning of Fall Semester ’79?
One day, sometime in June or July, although I suppose it could have been August, but I really think it was either June or July, there I was sitting peacefully in the break room listening to The Carpenters, er, no, I mean THE DEAD! on the radio after having just finished a rather delightful lunch that consisted of a balogna sandwich, potato chips, cookies and some milk. The door opened and in walked, much to my amazement, “Mark”. It was much to my amazement because we had been working at the same small plastic factory that was actually made of cement block, yadda, yadda, yadda, for several weeks and I hadn’t really seen “Mark” at all. Which was almost peculiar except that the pile of sawdust was out back where I rarely went since there were very few small vermin and no people to impale. So I really didn’t think anything of it until the door opened while I was sitting peacefully listening to The Carpenters, NO, I mean THE DEAD! on the radio and saw “Mark” saunter in.
Now, usually, “Mark” didn’t normally saunter so much as swagger, strut, run maniacally or just downright charge. So I knew this was a special occasion right away when he sauntered in to the break room and dropped into the chair opposite me at the table. My heightened senses picked it up almost immediately. Destiny was in the making. This was the moment we had lived our lives for, up to then. You see, “Mark” was wearing this red shirt with bright, yellow lettering stitched over the left breast. I knew I was in the presence of greatness as soon as I read it. I was just a fledgling, although I did grow to be something of a Master, even if I do say so myself. But here, sitting in front of me, the worn look of running 15 marathons etched into the features of his face, arms, eyes, ears and even nostrils. And there, on his shirt it proclaimed to world, “Camp Don Bosco Careening Instructor.”
“Wow,” I started in total awe. “You were a careening instructor?”
“YES MY SON,” he deigned answer me. “THAT I WAS.”
“But, but, but,” I stuttered. “What are you doing here then?”
“ALAS, THE GOOD COUNSELORS AT THE CAMP FELT THAT IT WASN’T RIGHT TO INTRODUCE SUCH YOUNG MINDS TO CAREENING. I WAS THROWN OUT ON THE ROAD OF DESPAIR WITH NOTHING BUT MY DIGNITY AND THIS SHIRT.”
“That’s, that’s terrible,” I was humbled in his presence.
Yet, I knew something had to be done. And so, through the auspices of the Rolling Bozo Revue, we spread the fine teachings of Careening. I, the pupil, and “Mark” the instructor. Until finally, one day, I surpassed even Him and was awarded the title I will treasure to my grave: Careen Abdul Jabber.
And so, that is how careening began and how it was promulgated by the grand and glorious (kneel when you think of it) Rolling Bozo Revue. Wahrd, Kirby, Dr. D, 2-Spoons, “Mark” and so many others, including my humble self, could never have been half as much as we were without careening. And green leafy substances. And certain fungi. And I seem to recall small pieces of cardboard and Kool-Aid. And even though I never partook, I mean, someone had to be the Reference Point, I know how important these things were for the betterance of careening. Careening defined the Revue as much as the Revue defined Careening.
But now I am careening. So I’ll leave you with this final thought. When we were young we wondered exactly where was the Great Basin. It figured so prominently in the weathercasts of Ollie Raymand, yet we were ignorant of it. We wondered, what is the plural of mongoose? And how many beans were in that jar? We are older now and not only know where the Great Basin is, but have driven through it. We know the plural of mongoose. And the beans, well, the beans were long ago turned into methane so they’re really irrelevant now, aren’t they? But new questions plague us. Questions that will likely go with us to our dotage. Why is it that we put on only a single shirt but a PAIR of pants? I mean, I know what a pair of socks is. I can separate them into their constituent parts. But what, exactly, is a pant? Would it have a zipper? Or just half a zipper? This is puzzling. I have also been pondering the question of the golf clap. Is the golf clap something you pick up from the 18th hole?
Questions, questions, questions, troubling the minds of the concerned Bozo today. But these can wait. For now, I must end my careen. Farewell, adieu and auf weitersein.
My head is on the block
My prick is starting to talk
Which means its time for me to walk
to the sink.
I’ve careened enough for now
I’ve careened enough to make a cow
I’ll careen no more, but take a bow
For no longer can I think.
JR