Okay, I took up the challenge to do this meme from Sylvanwitch.
And boy, I am reminded yet again how indulgently long-winded I am. Therefore, Part One of this supposedly quick, disposable meme.
But, that means I get another blog post out of it! Yes!
The rules are as follows (courtesy SW):
1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. (I'll tag you, but don't feel obligated.)
4. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.
8 BRIEF FACTS ABOUT ME:
1. T, MY NAME IS NOT ALICE
If I remember correctly, I’m named after a character from a book my mom was reading (or had read), and he was a knight: Sir Terence. (And that’s how I spell it: one “r”, no “a’s”). I mention this in case there’s any confusion as to why a guy who’s Dutch-Chinese-German-Indonesian has an Irish first name.
…and that’s wrong.
Terence is NOT Irish. Crap. All these years I was mistaken. I googled to double-check ethnic origins of my first name and apparently Terence is Latin in origin, from Terentius. D’oh! Also, according to this little chart, it’s a popular first name (top 1000), peaking in 1950-60, in the top 300. So, I’m part of the popularity herd (I was born in ’60). Or a bunch of moms really dug this mysterious book.
Ut-everway.*
*Okay, this was a confusing attempt at Pig-Latin (get it? Yeah, I’m lame). The problem of course, was trying to make it readable to get the right pronunciation, because to just drop the “w” would leave you with “hateverway”, which LOOKS like it reads as, “HAT-everway,” doesn’t it? So, I attempted to spell it semi-phonetically. Mixed results ensued. Curses!, he cursed.
2. I, NUDIUS
For several minutes, I walked about in public in the nude in broad daylight. It was on the nude section of a beach in the Netherlands when I was 18. It took a while to walk to that section of the beach, too, from the regular public area where my mom and relatives were situated. But, determined to find it, I kept trucking. I realized I was getting closer when I’d see occasional “foxholes” in the sand where I briefly spied very undressed couples lying in them. Finally, I arrived: there was a large sign erected, written in several languages, explaining that this was the nude section of the beach.
A lot of the flesh-baring sun-lovers there were mostly middle-aged or older. Although, chasing after each other in the waves, playing, were a couple naked young men. I took a deep breath, yanked off my swim trunks, and pseudo-calmly walked on au naturel.
Other then the two young men, there weren’t any real leering memories I have of the experience, no feverish memories of hot naked young Dutch maidens bronzing in the altogether on the sand, perhaps wearing only wooden flip-flops.
The public beach did allow topless bathing, so I was able to get my eyeful that day, oh, don’t you worry, troubled readers.
Back at the El Nudo Sands, I saw a very old guy, all dressed up in a black suit, stooped over considerably, making his way with a cane as he went across the sand. But, as I said, mostly older, flabby people were displaying their sensual wares.
Another guy (in his 30s, 40s?) walked along starkly and as he reached the multi-lingual sign, almost without breaking stride, simply bent over and put on his trunks and continued walking into the non-nude section of the beach.
Finally, when I saw a couple unattended German Shepherds roaming the beach and water, their tongues hanging out hungrily, I nervously threw on my trunks to protect my modest but unprotected dangling meat.
3. THE SUMMER I STARTED THERAPY
I skydived once from 3,000 feet.
Ah! I remember it well!
I jumped out of a small airplane, and it was only at that point, when I left the safety of the plane, that I discovered that Lady Luck had decided to stiff me that day and, instead, she had taken this one inopportune opportunity to attend a sale at the mall, because my chute refused to open.
After my initial panic, I calmly assessed my situation, and then decided on my best course of action, which was… to start flapping my arms like a delirious, desperate bastard while simultaneously praying (although, it sounded more like hysterical girlish screaming. At best, it was hysterical girlish screaming in tongues.) Somehow, though, through sheer will, adrenaline - whatever - I actually defied physical logic enough to slow my whistling descent to the degree that my dark-green jumpsuit was no longer in danger of bursting into flames from friction.
My featherless, flapping, gibberish-screaming body crashed into a conveniently placed old barn, leaving a hole in the wooden roof that was distinctly in the shape of my body, just like a cartoon (it’s not just a funny bit, it’s physics!). Although my one eye was skewered upon entry by a sliver the size of a chopstick, the other eye that was more adept at winking and signaling morse code was still operational, and for a fraction of a split second, I saw a soft bed of hay beneath me.
Perhaps God had a miracle up his sleeve yet.
I reflexively cried, “Yes!” in optimistic jubilation. Unfortunately, bad luck trumped the Almighty (damn you, damn mall sale!), because there was a pitchfork in the hay as well. While still screaming “Yes!”, I was impaled on the business end of said fork, which had been left standing pointy-side up against a hay bale (uh, one word: “fucking unsafe you fucking farmer fucks!” ). Because of the speed of my descent, my body did not stop at all at the point of four-tined quadruple-puncture impact, and instead, my body quickly ran the length of the handle and rammed to an abrupt, dusty stop into the dirt floor, forcing another body shaped imprint, this time several inches deep into the earth. Since I hadn’t the time to finish screaming “Yes!” like a deluded idiot, the ground crammed immediately into my screaming maw, where it then exited by squirting out of both my ears like I was some Charles Addams themed Play-Doh Factory. The pitch fork’s tines had struck me squarely in the chest, and surreally, tore out both my lungs, which hung grotesquely like a bloody, spongy mop over my flattened carcass.
And that’s how I died that summer day in the 80s.
At my funeral, that irresponsible clothes-whore, Ms. Luck, was appropriately apologetic looking, while still looking stunning in the new floral print dress and wide brimmed hat she bought at the mall…
Okay, seriously, I actually DID skydive from 3,000 feet.
And after twenty-plus years, I remember it, um, okay.
If you want to read my recollection of that day, go here. I originally had it here, but it runs roughly 2700 words, and for the simple concept of an "8 Things meme", it seemed overwhelming. So, I've decided to break it off and post it as a separate entry.
Meanwhile, I WILL finish this meme, just not right now, because, um, I'm a bonehead.
NOTE: I’ll tag my people after I finish the 8 items in Part Two, coming soon…
Later!
Oh, and P.S.: I would include a link to Sylvanwitch's original post, except it's a locked blog entry, so no "general public readers" can read it. Sorry. And hence.
20/209
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