Life According to Gilligan's Island

When I was coming up, life was simpler. There were two kinds of guys, those that liked Ginger and those that liked Mary Ann. We were simpler too. Gilligan's Island originally aired at night, but by the time my sister and I discovered the comic adventures of the seven eclectic castaways the show moved to syndication, airing in the afternoons.



Even when I was eight it seemed odd that the SS Minnow originating in Hawaii would be blown off course by a sudden tropical storm and lost at sea. The tourists aboard the Minnow that day were an unlikely group. A professor and a movie star. And what about the Howells? Why would such a wealthy couple patronize a decidedly rudimentary operation run by the Skipper and his "little buddy."

I always thought the professor was a Soviet spy and was trying to rendezvous with a submarine or something. Most of the plots were far less nefarious with the seven castaways always just missing salvation. Rock stars and cosmonauts all paid Gilligan's Island a visit with none of them assisting in a rescue. My favorite episode was the one in which Gilligan fabricated a pedal powered taxi. He drove the castaways back and forth on the island for apparently no compensation. If the show went on for more than three seasons, food would've gotten scarce, and things might have taken a turn for the dark side. You know more like a Lord of the Flies kind of thing. The Howells would've been the first to go.

Ginger was always made up like she was going to a movie premier, and Mary Ann routinely churned out coconut cream pies. I bought into the coconut part due to the island theme, but where did she get the cream? I think you need a refrigerator, not to mention a cow. Ginger and Mary Ann bunked together as did the Skipper and Gilligan. The Professor flew solo which I always figured gave him the best chance to hook up with one of the women. After three seasons it was bound to happen. Just look at Survivor: Marquesas. Rob and Amber paired off after two episodes. Heck after three years Mrs. Howell would start looking good.

So life is more complicated today. Sure some men like Ginger and others Mary Ann. There are also guys who like Gilligan. Still others are born in Ginger's body and want to be Gilligan. Some Mary Anns are questioning whether they want Gilligan or Ginger while others are perfectly fine with both. There are some men who are still in the closet like the Professor. Some people are shaped like the Skipper and get to talk at TEDx about body shaming and accepting yourself as you are. No one wants to be the Howells.

Through it all one question remains. If that white transistor radio with batteries that lasted for three years could pick up a signal, how far from civilization could the castaways really have been?

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 13, 2017.

The Accidental Computer Scientist

Back in the mid 90s my wife, Christine, and I were living in a small one bedroom apartment. I toiled away all day on a Unix based mainframe terminal. She used a computer at work for scheduling, presentations and email. One day she announced that she really wanted a home computer. I resisted. This may seem odd today, but back then a personal computer was still a relatively new appliance. I spent all day in front of a screen doing numerical analysis. The last thing I wanted was to get one for our home, but Christine insisted,

"We need a home computer."

"For what?" I asked.

"Well, when we run out of syrup, you can logon and enter it in a grocery list," Christine answered thoughtfully.

Back then whenever anybody talked about personal computers, they would invariably mention the grocery list. In those days the biggest problem plaguing mankind was the lack of an adequate means of tracking staples. That and the hole in the ozone layer. No one ever said,

"With a home computer you'll be able shop online and stay in contact with all your friends."

All of that came much later. Printing out a grocery list via an expendable ink cartridge and consumable paper was the technological achievement of its day. As far as I recall no one on the planet ever actually made a grocery list on a computer.

Cabbage Patch

Eventually I relented. We went to a big box store where the purchasing was frenzied. People were buzzing about, scoffing up anything piled up on display. The last time I saw that kind of unfettered purchasing people were trying to get a Cabbage Patch doll. Caught up in the madness we dove in and surfaced with a Compaq Presario as our selection. Three thousand dollars later we were on our way home with several large boxes. We set up everything, piled a stack of manuals to one side then flipped the switch.

The boot up procedure involved a flashy presentation highlighting all the features of our new personal computer followed by the smug smiling face of Dennis Miller sauntering onto the tube screen. Dennis was sent in to walk us through the setup procedure. Not the old Dennis Miller with the gray goatee we have now. Back then we had the wavy haired fresh off Weekend Update young hopeful Dennis Miller who thought he would have a much more lucrative career in Hollywood post SNL. I always hated Dennis Miller. I thought he was a pompous asshole who tried to come off like an intellectual even though he graduated from a liberal arts school that no one ever heard of with a degree in journalism. Now, he was running his mouth on my new computer helping me set up AOL and configure the modem. I have no patience for this kind of thing especially when I am being directed by a smarmy pretentious asswipe.

Dennis Miller

Miller said things like,

"Hey, Cunningham. Andy Warhol called. You're at 14:55, and we're tickin' big-time here, Chachi."

What the hell does that mean? Anyway after some basic settings Miller starts pushing America Online which I decline. He said something like,

"So you don't care for AOL, babe? You don't mind being left behind by the techno tsunami like Mr. T after a long evening sleeping through Aida."

Dennis and I moved on to the modem. He had me enter simple things like the phone number and select pulse dialing, then he said,

"You're burning through this like a rabbit with a three day pass and front row tickets to the Ice Capades."

What's that supposed to mean? Miller laughed with an ingratiating priggish chuckle, then the modem test failed. As I struggled to get the device to work, Miller said,

"This is a little like watching Mohatma Gandhi arm wrestle the Dalai Lama for a signed picture of Lance Armstrong."

Huh? Dennis Miller based his career on being obtuse as if doing so makes up for excessive partying in college and selecting a major popular among potheads. The string tones of the modem echoed in our small apartment as we tried another test after changing a few settings. The modem failed yet again. Miller exclaimed,

"Looks like someone has to go back to geek school."
 

I began to wonder about the wisdom behind the management decision at Compaq to play a video of an insolent dickhead as a welcome to a product costing thousands of dollars. The desktop finally booted up, and I grabbed for the mouse. Next came the blue screen of death which I carefully read through because I thought it was more setup instructions.
 

The Blue Screen of Death

Now we spent a heap of money on a pile of electronics, and we were unable to configure the modem or gain access to the desktop. In desperation I called my internet provider which Christine set up in advance. They blamed both Compaq and Microsoft and in general were no help at all. I turned to Christine and said,

"Let's just put this whole thing back in the box and take it back."

"Give me a minute," she deflected.

"This is not us," I pleaded, "We like the outdoors!"

It was a beautiful sunny summer Saturday. I wanted to go to the park and play Frisbee or the beach and ride some waves. Christine, sensing mutiny, reached into the stack of books and pulled out a manual at random. Searching for a toll free number, she dialed the first one she found. Christine called the help line to Microsoft Network. A very skilled young man walked us through the proper procedure to get the modem working. When he finished, he asked,

"Now that you can get online you want to sign up?"

"Sign up for what?" I asked.

"MSN," he answered.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Microsoft Network."

"Thanks but no. You've been way more helpful than my internet provider."

If Christine would have pulled out the Windows manual and called their toll free number, they would have charged us $35 to get our brand new modem working. That would have got that thing on the curb in no time, but she inadvertently reached a guy from MSN who was trying to get us to subscribe, and I naively explained that he was way better than our internet provider. He got nothing for his efforts, and I got my new computer up an running with no help from Compaq, Dennis Miller or my internet provider. The only person who helped us was someone trying to hawk a membership to Microsoft Network.

Our new computer fatally crashed at least once a month requiring a full restore which forced us to sit through Dennis Miller's condescending advice every time. It was beyond painful. His monologue was as awkward as Elizabeth Warren explaining her Native American lineage. Eventually we gave that computer to our neighbor's daughter who was just starting college. Later propelled by the technology industry as well as our home PC we both went back to school for a masters degree in computer science. I published papers at leading software conferences. For a few years I taught masters level computer science courses at a local college.

Our oldest, Aidan, went to computer camp in the summer ever since middle school. Our dinner conversations often involve the finer aspects of software engineering. In a day and age when the vast number of college freshman are majoring in finance or psychology, he spends his time programming in Java, Python and C++. Recently, he was hired as a moderator for the discord server associated with the jazz band, Lucky Chops. He's sixteen and a junior in high school. We'll never know if Aidan would have discovered a talent for software development in eighth grade if on that fateful day Christine hadn't pulled that particular manual from the stack.

In truth I have become someone who hates technology. Having to cycle the power to devices to get them to work correctly really chaps my ass. We reboot computers, phones, televisions, the cable modem, the router, even the oven in the kitchen, all to clear some error code to get something working properly again. I had to cycle the power to our pool pump this morning to restore the temperature reading on my smart phone. Imagine that. I had to reboot my pool. Far from making my life more convenient, I have become a slave to technology.

And now that I said that, my last comment will likely trend on social media as culturally insensitive.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 4, 2017. 

I Hate the 70s

My son, Aidan, and I were walking to a nearby field to fly a kite. As we hiked I carried a folded delta wing close to my body. Aidan picked up that my head was on a swivel.

"What's the matter Dad?" He asked.

I soon realized my unfounded paranoia was causing him some concern. The reason I was on the lookout was because back in my day when I was walking somewhere to fly a kite if I encounter a long haired hippy type there was a good chance he would grab the kite from my hands and break it for no reason.

I grew up in the 70s not as a teenage participating in the drug fueled free love psychedelic tune in and drop out counterculture. I was a ten years old dealing with the aftermath of a society where most teenagers and many adults were routinely taking illicit recreational drugs. Having an older rebellious sister who was fully immersed into the whole 70s scene meant that all the sordid things of that decade were inside my house as well as prowling the streets outside. My other sister, Jeannine, and I huddled together in our kid world playing with Lincoln Logs and Hot Wheels surrounded by drugs, alcohol and satanic verses.

Whenever the music from the 70s comes on the radio, I overtly cringe. People think the music of that time was so far out, but I think of the many groovy beatings my friends and I took from the fun loving hippies of the time. Ozzy Osbourne, Alice Cooper, Frank Zappa were all the cultural icons of the day. Many of these guys were so artistically challenged that they incorporated carnival theatrics to take the focus away from their poor musicianship. All these bozos were succeeded by the band, Kiss.
 

Kiss

While I disliked the others, I hated Kiss. They were a band formed by four former high school teachers who at least where sober enough to realize that musically they stunk so badly that they had to come up with characters to be successful. Gene Simmons was a demon. Ace Frehley was a spaceman. Paul Stanley was the starchild. The drummer, Peter Criss, became a cat. I can just imagine what Simons must have said when this was being sorted out,

"Look Pete. I'm the demon. Ace is the alien. You have to pick something cool."

"Like a cat?" Criss asks.

"I don't think we're on the same page here. I said something cool. Why not be a ninja?" Simmons offers.

"I want to be a kitty."

Then Paul Stanely says, "I'm gonna be the starchild."

"Am I the only one who get's this? You can't be a starchild if Ace is gonna be a spaceman."

"Well, if Pete can be a kitty, I want to be a bunny," Stanely asserts.

"You're not gonna to be no fucking bunny!" Simmons decrees.



David Cassidy

The part I could never figure out was why so many kids from the 70s related to satanic themes. Ozzy Osborne was the lead singer for Black Sabbath. A British heavy metal band was called Judas Priest, and of course, Kiss was sometimes touted as an acronym for "Knights in Satan's Service," but I suspect it really meant "keep it simple stupid." They all had their demonic songs which my older sister played endlessly. She transitioned from David Cassidy and the Partridge Family to Alice Cooper and his sixth album, Billion Dollar Babies. I heard that record countless times. I still recall the lyrics,


Alice Cooper

If I'm too rough tell me

I'm so scared your little head will come off in my hands

Billion Dollar Baby

Back in the 70s, Alice Cooper said that he didn't want to live past thirty. My older sister thought that was way cool. My father used to say,

"Let's see if he says that when he's twenty-nine and a half."

Cooper, whose real name is Vincent Furnier, is pushing seventy-five and enjoys golf. My older sister used to put on eye makeup like Alice Cooper and wear a white tuxedo she sewed herself, including a white top hat she made out of paper mache. She wore this get up to school and insisted that everyone including her teachers call her "Alice" even though that wasn't her real name.

As a kid in the 70s our parents would let us roam the neighborhood which was great when we were up to mischief but not so great when the hippies were wandering about. They concentrated at the top of the street where the local drug dealer set up a small yellow trailer advertising flowers. He never had any actual plants in the trailer which was chained to a payphone. The dude just leaned against the rig and made drug sales all day. The hippies close to this area didn't have time to mess with us kids. Going in they had a wad of cash. Going out a stash of illegal narcotics. Either way they were usually strung out and on a mission. We learned quickly that the time to worry about hippies was when they were stoned and wandering around aimlessly. It was never near the drug dealer because he wouldn't tolerate that kind of attention close to his operation.

The presence of the sole drug dealer at the top of the street was great news for Alice. She began frequenting the plant stand. When I came home from school if she was sleeping on the couch my mother would say,

"Be quiet. Alice is sleeping."

Slumber meant she took downers. If she was buzzing about the house doing laundry or folding clothes, then she took uppers. Speed or something. Jeannine and I knew to always stay clear of Alice when she was awake and high.
 

Pot would make hippies anything from jovial to paranoid. Recognizing the signs was the difference between being beat up or escaping with your kite. If a hippy was smiling, it usually meant he smoked marijuana and was going to be generally friendly. If he was jittery and agitated, then he took some narcotic, and one of us was going to catch a beating. For some reason a beard usually meant a pot smoker and a cheesy mustache was likely a hard drug user. Both had long hair bell bottoms, a jean jacket and often a drug themed T-shirt or that stupid Rolling Stones lips and tongue logo.

Sometimes we would get detained by some drugged out bully. If we had our bikes there was a chance we could out run them. One time on Monterey Drive a druggy grabbed onto the sissy bar on my bike. I broke free and darted for Cowesett Avenue, a busy road to this day. The hippy chased me as I darted into the street. A driver in a car slammed on the brakes, just missing me. I made it to the other side, my "plat" as we used to called it. I owe my life to an attentive driver who stopped in time. The hippie turned and sauntered by the drug dealer who casually walked up to the dude then beat him senseless.

This guy violated the one unwritten rule, making a commotion around the plant stand. The hippie collapsed on the ground in the fetal position while the drug dealer kicked in his head. It was simultaneously horrible and satisfying. I'd like to think that the dope dealer had a sense that it was wrong to chase a kid on a bike into a busy street, but that wasn't the case. He just didn't want the disruption to his business which would've occurred if the cops had to scrape a body, however small, off the pavement.

One day I was walking to Kmart with my friend, Mark, when this hippy came up to us saying,

"I knew someday I would kick your ass Mark."

He proceeded to hit Mark in the head. I punched him in the kidney because that's all I could reach. I got mine next. Mark and I were resolved to start weightlifting so we would bulk up and protect ourselves from the long haired freaky hippy types. I lobbied for a 110 pound concrete filled vinyl weight set for my next birthday. I bought a bench with my paper route money. It was more puberty than exercise, but before long I was buying another weight set because one wasn't enough. One thing about taking a beating, you get used to being hit and that gives you an advantage. The next time we crossed path with a hippy bent on pushing us around things went a little different.

I wish I could tell you that my experiences made me a better person who stood up for the weakest in our community, that I led the fight against bullying long before it trended on social media, but that didn't happen. Victims of bulling often become the next bullies. While I doled out my share, all of which I deeply regret, I never did so with the same enthusiasm of my tormentors. I'm sure that is no consolation to the people I hurt so badly.

In middle school my son, Aidan, reported countless incidents of bullying both against him as well as others. The backlash was excessive and often physical. He's tall and has a good reach. I've taught him how to defend himself, but I warned him never to use it.

"Why do you teach me how to fight then tell me not to hit anyone?" he asks.

I've explained that striking another student, even in defense, makes it harder to make your case to school officials. Recently a friend of mine suggested that all this anti-bullying agendas might be "making kids incapable of handling conflict." I thought about this for days, and I've come to the conclusion that the bullies are the ones who can't deal with conflict, not my son, who certainly can defend himself but chooses not to.

We flew the kite that day. It soared across the sky. The sound of it's long plastic tail fluttering in the wind was familiar and comforting. We both wondered how far we could pay out the string, and if it was tied to the spindle. It was thankfully. On the way back Aidan asked,

"Dad, did you ever win a fight?"

I was reluctant to answer. Not because I lost many and wanted to come off as a tough guy to my son. I was trying to frame my experiences without reliving the abuse I experienced in my youth. Eventually I answered,

"You know, I used to make my own kites. Once I made a box kite. It took me a month."

"Did it fly good?" Aidan asked.

I never knew how well it would have flown because a drugged out hippy broke it on the way to the field. The late afternoon sun cast shadows across the empty meadow. The wind had dissipated leaving the sound of the frogs in a nearby pond.

"It flew beautifully," I said.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 18, 2017.

Prime Suspect

Back in 1990 I was living in a rented house in the inner city with two dude bro roommates, Doug and Jim. Doug was tall and played beach volleyball. Jim was short and wrote software. My height was coincidently the average of my two roommates. One Friday night I was meeting Jim at a favorite watering hole. I had just enough time to work out at the gym, shower then drive to the bar. It would be close so I had to hurry. Little did I know that the events of this night would unfold in such a way that I would be accused of a crime I just couldn't have committed.

I knocked out my gym routine in record time, bolted into the locker room then prepped for the shower. As I headed for the communal pen that men shower in at gyms I looked back at my locker which was open with my pants hanging and my wallet in the back pocket clearly visible. The city I lived in hosted its share of criminal activity. Still yet, I was in a hurry so I decided to just leave my locker open even though the gym provided a means to secure it.

I chose a shower to the far corner. There was no one in the communal shower area so it didn't really matter where I went. Oddly a guy entered and chose the shower to my right on the adjacent wall. I thought this was odd and a bit of an intrusion. Let me explain a piece of unwritten bathroom etiquette to women who are collectively cursed with the inability to urinate standing up.

Upright Urinals

Presented with this choice to express your bladder one takes the urinal furthest away from the middle unless someone is already pumping the bilge. In such a case you take the urinal furthest from the one already in use. The same goes for showers. You never shower next to another dude unless there are no other showers available. The guy who came into the cooperative shower chose one on the adjacent wall facing me, that is, the shower closest to mine. He also elected to stand under his shower with his back to the wall which means his jambalaya was staring right at me. By now your probably thinking that I'm a paranoid nutjob. Maybe I am, but I was buck naked in public with a nude stranger watching me while he attempted to bust off a number three in the shower.

I decided to fleetingly glance out of my peripheral vision to see what the guy next to me was doing. I wish I hadn't done that. Let's just say no one's equipment is that dirty. The minute he saw me look his way he took a step forward with his crank in his hand, bent over and put his free hand on the soap dispenser under my shower head. That was well inside my personal space. In fact my brain went into a class five proximity alert causing me to have the most intense flee response of my life. I snapped off the water then got the fuck out of there.

I rushed out of the locker room dismayed that my personal space was so overtly invaded. Throwing on my clothes I bolted from the gym. As I approached my car a rock landed nearby. I spotted some kids in an apartment complex overlooking the gym hurling rocks into the lot. Could this night get any worse? I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. Another rock landed very close to my car. After reporting the rock incident to the police I jumped in my car and sped off for the apartment complex bent on catching the hooligans. Unsuccessful I returned to the lot to find a police car parked haphazardly at the front of the building. As I approached the cruiser I noticed the officer behind the wheel was in plain clothes. I told him about the rock throwing incident. Oddly he never asked me my name. I assumed he knew I was the guy who called in the incident.

At the bar I recalled the story for my roommate and surrounding clientele. When it came time to pay the tab I pulled out my wallet to discover all my money was gone. That was just great. Someone stole all my cash. I immediately took the blame. After all I did leave my wallet accessible and in full view. It was a hard lesson. One I had coming.

The following Monday at the gym I noticed several signs posted throughout the facility that read,

"If you lost money at the gym on Friday night contact Detective Dan at (phone number)."

My volleyball roommate, Doug, went to the same gym. I ran into him there and asked about the signs. He encouraged me to report my loss.

"But it was my fault. I left my locker open."

"Yeah, but something happened Friday night. You better report it," Doug urged.

I found the owner's wife, a young woman who recently married the much older guy who started the gym. She was unusually cold. She was that way normally so I didn't take it personally. She reminded me of the attractive women in high school. You know, the ones that treated everyone like shit.

"Well, if you did lose money then you should call Detective Dan," She said smugly.

Instead of apologizing for a customer being ripped off in her establishment she scoffed at my inquiry as if I was bothering her or something. So I called Detective Dan from my desk at work on Tuesday morning.

"Hello, my name is Robert, and I got ripped off on Friday night at the gym."

"Oh really!" Detective Dan exclaimed.

"Someone stole $96 from my wallet."

"Oh really."

"Yeah."

"Well, why didn't you report it on Friday?" Detective Dan asked.

"Because it was my fault," I answered.

"How's that?" Detective Dan asked.

"I left my locker open with my wallet in plain sight," I offered.

"Oh really. Well, why did some people see you running out of the shower?" Detective Dan quizzed.

Great. Now I had to explain my uncomfortable men's room experience.

"Because some guy in the shower was working over his junk right next to me."

"Oh really. Some people saw you racing out of the parking lot."

"That's because some kids were throwing rocks at the cars in the lot."

"Oh really. Well, you're the only gym attendee who didn't report a theft on Friday night. How do you explain that?"

"What was I going to report? I left my wallet out, and someone stole all my money. I was taking responsibility for my own stupidity."

"You still should've reported it."

"I'm reporting it now."

"Maybe that's because you're our prime suspect."

"What! Me?'

"Yeah you!"

"Well, Detective Dan, you need to talk to the plain clothes cop I spoke to on Friday night."

"That was me," Detective Dan informed.

"Well, that was me talking to you."

"That was you?"

"Yeah, I called the cops on the kids throwing rocks."

"Oh. Good thing you called."

"How so?"

"We were going to pick you up for questioning?"

"Pick me up? For what?"

"I told you. You were the only one who didn't report a theft on Friday night."

"That's because I was taking responsibility for my own lapse in judgment."

"Who does that anymore?"

So it turned out that the theft was an inside job pulled off by an employee with a master key on a night that I just happened to leave my locker open with my wallet visible then was subjected to a dude yanking his crank in the shower and some kids throwing rocks at my car. You know, a typical night.

And that's how I became the prime suspect for the theft of my own money.

Editor's Note: Originally posted on April 6, 2017.