Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Take Five

I'm giving up...sort of...and temporarily.

Our spotty (but mostly out-of-service) DSL and the final push of a huge, HUGE project at work are kicking my arse up one wall and down the other.

So for the next two weeks, bloggage will be a bit sparse, and a lot short.  (The Leviticus series will continue soon -- my apologies for the delay.)

Which means it's the perfect time to break out absolutely nobody's favorite ongoing series...Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus.  This time around, we take a look at what I think must be somewhere around fifth grade, which makes it summer, 1973.  I was a lousy player on a lousy team -- take a guess which one is me.

(click to enlarge..who knew that we were being coached by three-fifths of the Dave Brubeck Quintet?)

Give up?

We'll Be Loyal Scouts

I know what you're thinking...

You're thinking, "Geez, the guy takes a month of, comes back, posts two lame entries, then takes a day off."

You're right.  I'm a slacker.

More specifically, the side project that in large part spurred my month's sabbatical isn't yet complete -- hence the lameness.  My apologies.

As a way of apologizing, here's another in the seemingly endless series of Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus.

Here's a little photo that I like to call "Cub Scouts -- Not All THAT Depressing."

That's me in the back row, second from the right, looking like I'd like to strangle myself with that yellow neck thingamajigger.  Here's a closer look:

If you think I look bummed here, you should've seen the look on my face whenever I had to tell someone that I was a Webelo.

Rock & Roll Dorcus

Yeah, yeah -- I really need to do a rehash of last Monday's little incident.  After all, it's Bobby's first heart attack!

But it's too late, and I'm too pooped, and the story isn't all that interesting anyway.  And I'm fine.

So instead, let's revisit our old favorite topic -- Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus.

This one's from the rock & roll years, roughly 1985 - 1988.  Dig the mullet.  Dig the suspenders.  Dig that tenor sax, which is a 1927 Conn.  Never has the phrase "they don't make 'em like that anymore" been more true.  That's one kick-arse horn, right there.  I never did it justice.

Here are a handful of the past photos in the dorcus mallorcus series:

Ninth grade glasses dork

Disco Dork

Ice Cream Dork

That 70's Kitchen Dork

Boy Scout Dork

Concert t-shirt dork

Bozo Dork

Mary Lou Retton dork

Mullet Dork

A History of Bad Haircuts

Ahh, best laid plans and all that.  No time to post the multimedia extravaganza I had planned for today -- so instead, let's fall back to the old standby...

Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus

Today's entry hails from the glorious Ford administration.  1974, to be exact.  Sixth grade.  And striding the halls of Northern Pike Elementary was the following:

Why yes, my parents DID cut my hair back in those days.  Why do you ask?

Good lord.  If you ever needed proof that I've patterned my life after Bobby Brady, there it is.  And by the way, the blonde-ness was more-or-less natural.  My hair was a bit lighter back then -- but in those days, I used to go swimming nearly every afternoon in the summer, so the sun and chlorine would bleach me out to the lovely shade you see above. 

Feel free to caption/mock/whatever.  And in case you were wondering, the logo on the turtleneck is a snowmobiler.  Go figure.

Ol' Baldy

Yar.  Sick.  Tired.  Sick and tired.  And nary a bloggage topic in sight.

And you know what that means...Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus.  Enjoy.

This one's from May, 1963.  If it's not the exact day my parents brought me home from the adoption home, it's close.  VERY close.  I do actually believe this is my first day as a Braughler.

And actually, for once, I'm going to have to say -- not too dorky.  (Dorkage didn't come on strong until, I'd guess, somewhere around the third grade...)

Oh, and this photo serves as a vivid reminder as to why I'd deathly afraid of getting a buzz cut -- I do, in fact, have a weirdly shaped and oversized melon.

Pimpin' Ain't Easy

Just going to pimp a couple of things today -- but if you're real nice, and read what I have to pimp, then you'll be rewarded with a brand new Dorcus Mallorcus picture at the end....

Item the first -- Pittsburgh Blogfest #2.  Wednesday, January 19 @ Finnegan's Wake.  Here are the complete details.  Yours truly is going to try to make it, which may be either incentive for you to go, or incentive for you to not go I suppose...

Item B -- Go buy some of Mrs. Subdivided's beaded jewelry.  She's the Bead Babe, dammit!  Seriously, Mrs. S makes nice stuff, it's reasonably priced -- and it's all on a Web site that I can't quite figure out how to edit!  (In other words, I KNOW about the apostrophes not showing up.  I'll figure it out sooner or later...)

Item the third -- heard from old pal The NorthFace Guy yesterday.  If you happen to be in the market for North Face apparel, you can do far worse than checking out what TNFG has to offer...

Item the last -- if you're one of the tens of people who enjoy Subdivided We Stand, I invite you to check out what my pal Joe's most excellent blog.  He's re-branded and re-focused, and exploring life as a displaced northerner now living among the NASCAR set.  Enjoy Life in thisLowcountry (formerly "Remembrance of 'Tangs' Past and formerly formerly "Freckle-Faced Strawberry.")

Still here?  Lovely.  Enjoy this photo from June, 1971 -- also known as "That Championship Season."  Yes, you're looking at the legendary Monroeville Baseball Association "C" League Champion "Ted's Gulf" squad. (Click the photo to enlarge -- and guess which one is me.)

I'd like to report that yours truly was only a role player on that team -- but that'd be an out-and-out lie. 

In truth, I was a hindrance.  One at bat and one inning in the field per game.  I played with a beat-up glove that a neighbor kid had found in his grandmother's attic, and I'm not joking when I say the thing was probably a 1940's vintage. 

Didn't matter -- I wouldn't have caught a ball even if one had ever been hit to me out there in right field.  But none ever was, so I had plenty of time to ponder the important strategic elements of the game, such as "will anybody notice if I run into those woods over there and take a leak?"

Just to prove that I wasn't hopeless as an athlete , I should in all fairness report that eventually I improved to the point where I was downright mediocre.  By my next year of "C" league, I was a starter.  On a very mediocre team, perhaps, but a starter nonetheless.

When I showed my dad my "C-League" trophy, he told me to "enjoy it -- you'll never win another one."  Dad was and is the eternal pessimist.  Every year during the 70's, he'd predict a losing season for the Steelers.  "Don't Get Your Hopes Up."  That's the Braughler creed, right there.

God Rest Ye Dorky, Gentlemen

Had a lovely little plan for today's entry -- a plan that was ruined by the short battery life of my digital camera.  Yar.

So while the ol' batteries recharge, let's revisit nobody's favorite topic: Portraits of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus. 

Today, we revisit the late 1960's.  I'm going to guess that yours truly (that's me on the left) is around 4 years old in this one, which places it firmly in 1967.  We're wearing jackets, so it's probably just a few months past the Summer of Love.  Sgt. Pepper's was only a few months old at this point.  Jeez.  (I remember that jacket like I wore it yesterday, by the way.  Those little round patches on there are baseball team logos.  The Pirates HAD to be on there somewhere -- my mom wouldn't have bought it if it didn't.  I can spot a Cubs logo, on my right shoulder, right underneath the other guy's hand.)

Anyway, the fellow I'm lovey-dovey with there is my next door neighbor, Billy F.  We remained friends, although not particularly close friends, throughout high school.  While I was at PSU, he would occasionally show up in State College, where he had reserve duty from time to time.  Last I heard, he was married, living in Texas, and I'm pretty sure he's the father of twins.

The guy in the back is Bill's older brother -- who is there to remind us all that while I've been a dork for 41 years, dorkier folk DO exist out there.

For those of you keeping score at home, here are links to all of the previous entries in the Dorcus Collection:

• Ninth grade glasses dork
• Disco Dork
• Ice Cream Dork
• That 70's Kitchen Dork
• Boy Scout Dork
• Concert t-shirt dork
• Bozo Dork
• Mary Lou Retton dork
• Mullet Dork

 

The Dorcus Collection

My original plan was to skip posting today.

Then, when I got a load of yesterday's Mary Worth, I gave some consideration to finally revealing the sinister connection between Professor Ian Cameron (he's the mook in the portrait in yesterday's Mary Worth), Bill Clinton, Jerry Falwell, my first serious girlfriend's father, and Beaker the Muppet.

But instead of all that, I'll fulfill the requests of the teeming masses (actually, I brought up this idea last night at the blogger convention, and the raging indifference pretty much constitutes a mandate as far as I'm concerned)...

Where was I? Oh yes. Today's time waster. A couple of people mentioned that they enjoyed the Portraits of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus series, so I've decided to capture them all, right here, in one convenient package. So here you go -- our dorkage so far:

• Ninth grade glasses dork
• Disco Dork
• Ice Cream Dork
• That 70's Kitchen Dork
• Boy Scout Dork
• Concert t-shirt dork
• Bozo Dork
• Mary Lou Retton dork
• Mullet Dork

Braces and Boots, A Handful of Grease In His Hair

My bloggin' biorhythms must be at a triple-low. Nothing has struck me as interesting lately. (The literalists and word geeks among you are now asking yourselves "Gee, is Bob about to go off on an existential rant about the concept of "nothingness" and how it interests him? Fat chance, Charlie. Contemplating the meaning of my underpants is about as deep as this site gets.)

No, the fact that I'm trying to dance around is this -- I got nothin'.

And as a handful of you know, when I got nothin', it's time to break out the favorite gimmick of absolutely nobody:

Portraits of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus.

Today, we revisit the pinnacle of nearly every male's dork years -- ninth grade.

Braces, zits, nerdware glasses, "Moe Howard" haircut, band geek, sullen expression -- yup, yours truly had it goin' on in 1977, and boy did the ladies take note.

The lunch ladies that is, who ridiculed me daily for my horrid lunches. (Two packs of cheese curls, bottle of chocolate milk.) The rest of the female population took little to no notice of my existence. And here's why:

(Bonus points to the person who can identify the source of the title of today's entry.)

Disco Dork

Time once again for everybody's favorite "filler" blog gimmick...the favorite of no one, which I drag out on special occasions like today -- "special occasions" being code for "I got nothin'"...

Yes, kiddies, it's time for "Photos of the Blogger as a Young Dorcus Mallorcus." Today, for the first time, we enter...the Disco Years.

Now let me be honest, here. I was NOT a disco dude. Those of you who didn't live through the era may not know this, but there was a serious disco backlash that hit somewhere around '79 or so, and I liked to fancy myself on the "rocker" side of the rock vs. disco schism. The truth, as this picture reveals, is that NEITHER side would've actually claimed me.

Anyway, in spite of my "rocker" pretensions, there was no avoiding disco fashions in 1979. That shirt there, my friends, is a classic "Quiana" shirt. Silk (or silk-like, anyway), and most often accompanied by one or the other stupid-ass medallion.

The belt buckle, by the way, is some fodder for one of my high school friends, with whom I attended the Buc game last week. Although you can't tell from this shot, that belt buckle features the cover art for the Steely Dan album "Aja." I thought it was a cool, artsy cover -- the friend of whom I'm speaking used to tell me it was a stupid cover and a stupider belt buckle. Turns out we were both half-right -- it's a GREAT album cover, but it's a stupid-ass belt buckle.

(Oh, and dig the Pro-Keds, too. Rock on, conflicted rocker-disco seventies dude...)