Entering the world with a slap and a squawk back in 1959, back when tailfins touched the sky, my folks welcomed me to the American Dream. They expected me to study hard, get good grades, land a good job, marry a nice girl, buy a suburban home with a white picket fence, and have 2.3 kids. This is what happened instead.

Memento Mori

My first conscious memory is the news bulletin interrupting my puppet show on the TV. As news that JFK had been shot in Dallas reached the kitchen, Mom screamed, "My God, they shot the President," rushed into the living room, and snatched me up from the floor to watch the reports. That afternoon taught me where Dallas was, what Presidents do, and how assassins make a buck.

Days before my fifth birthday, just a few months later, my father died, leaving Mom and me on our own. Relatives, neighbors, our pastor, and others told me that I was now ‘the man of the house,’ with ‘big shoes to fill.’ Nobody told me how. Asking for help to find work, they all laughed me off, leaving me to figure things out. Although Mom never complained, the resulting austerity measures, like powdered milk, always felt like my fault.

For a couple of years, I felt like an anchor draggin' us down. Then, sometime during the Summer of Love, I spied an ad in a comic book for The Junior Sales Club of America promising to pay a commission for door-to-door sales. Encouraging me to bet on myself, Mom bankrolled my first order of greeting cards.

Time froze when I knocked on our neighbor's door. Mrs. Andrews seemed bigger than ever as she scrutinized my greeting card samples. Handing the samples back was my cue to ask her to buy a box, but when I did, she said, "No."

When I asked her, “Why the heck not?”, she replied, “Because I want two.” Anxiety was replaced with self-confidence as I entered the state of flow. In no time at all, I was draggin' my empty wagon home with a pocket full of loot, feeling a lot like a pirate. This experience made me a 'sales junkie.' I sell, therefore I am.

Selling has always been fun and easy for me, thanks to the sales tip pamphlet sent with the cards. JSCA instructions not only included the expected reminders to smile and have fun, but also contained the Master Key to All Sales:

Folks are always buying something.

Invite them to buy something from you.

Selling took me to my happy spot during America's darkest days. The bundle of suck during my formative years included many Deaths, the Vietnam War, The Draft, Free Speech, Sexism, Racism, Stonewall, Espionage, and the Atomic Bomb.

The Chicago Police Riot poured into America's living rooms via TV as protesters chanted, "The whole world is watching." With the '68 DNC only 25 minutes away, Mom feared they would literally be in our living room by morning. The Weathermen blew up the Haymarket Police Memorial during the Days of Rage the next year, so Mom sold the house in Franklin Park, and we moved 400 miles away to her hometown of Ironwood, Michigan.

Culture Shock

With no friends or family to hang with at first, I looked for work in the godforsaken hinterlands. Delivering papers, shovelling walks, and mowing lawns filled my pockets with loot. To get out of school one hour early each day, I got my first retail gig at a McLellan's department store. Our manager, Mr. Smith, had me follow him to each department to get my to-do list for the day. Observing that he pushed a different "button" with each employee, commenting on the work done by one, the appearance of another, the efficiency of a third, etc. Pondering what my button was ended when a blizzard delayed our weekly delivery.

Mopping the restaurant was one of my last daily duties. Mr. Smith would sit in a booth reviewing the day with me and the restaurant manager, Bunny. When the door blew open at 4:35pm, I welcomed the driver, but Mr. Smith reviewed the bill of lading and then told him, "I'll see you in the morning, since there's no way this boy can unload 95 pieces of freight before five o'clock." The mop handle dropped with a thwack as I told the driver to pull around and ran to open the freight chute.

This boy handed over the signed bill of lading at 4:59 with a mumbled "fuck you", confirming that my button must be labeled "DARE ME!" I declined his offer of sponsorship in the McLellan's Manager Training but continued to learn from him.

Meanwhile, American industry was going full-tilt boogie. At school, they were grooming us to be fleshy, little cogs for one of their many machines. Thankfully, Waldo had warned us all about the Status Quo: Beware of THEM!

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” 
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Socrates. Waldo. The Beats. The Hippies. The Punks. Free thinkers with somethin' to say, all daring to Question Authority. Musicians. Poets. Artists. Activists. Tellers of truth and agents of change. My Tribe was out there, but where? I read about them in newspapers like The Chicago Reader and in magazines like Rolling Stone and Creem. I heard them on AM radio stations from Chicago and on international shortwave broadcasts. But when would the revolution ever get to Ironwood, Michigan?

On a Friday at the American Legion Fish Fry.

Sharing the far end of a table with other classmates, Wayno's comments on our peers echoed my own thoughts! He soon became the unindicted co-conspirator in many of the shenanigans that followed. Upon refining my forgery skills in drafting, I knocked on the door of Wayno's biology class and got him excused under false pretenses. Repeatedly. Like, dozens and dozens of times. Hot lunch tickets were also available, along with State of Nevada driver's licenses to facilitate our underage drinking. When the entire starting lineup missed Monday's practice due to our Sunday night shindig, Coach Harry was not pleased.

Branding Wayno and me "Yahoos" on Tuesday, the coach threatened discharge of any players caught talking to us. Then, in our haste to hit the parking lot that Friday, the coach caught us crossing the newly refinished gym floor in our street shoes. "You Yahoos! Get off of my new gym floor in your street shoes!" echoed through the gym as we hit the door.

The name stuck, and the logo I sketched up in my geometry notebook met with unanimous approval. Nik's dad was a screen printer, and when I shared the gag, he graciously shared how his whole business ran. Charging `set-up costs only, he gave me a full-color proof and terms permitting me to drum up sales.

Folks love to be on the inside of an inside joke. Harry's Yahoos t-shirts quickly sold out and were worn to school and games with pride. Branding inspired our antics at games, and our cult of personality grew. The Ironwood Red Devil cheerleaders created Yahoo cheers, and our rowdy behavior was often noted on local radio broadcasts.

Success can have costs beyond wholesale. The Assistant Principal, a golden gloves phenom back in his day, once literally pulled me out of an assembly by my hair. He then escorted me to the office via the back stairs. Pushing me down the steps, landing after landing, for three flights. Reporting for detention (again), the Principal snapped and referred to me as a "Fundamental Fuck-Up" in front of the office staff. Granted, I was a frequent flyer, but this made it personal. Treatment like this fueled my low-fidelity life of crime for a few years.

Beyond forgery, my particular set of skills also included breaking and entering. If you needed something from inside our high school after hours, a six-pack would get you in. "Been there, done that, got the t-shirt" is the participant's point of view. "Broke in there, did time, sold the t-shirts" more closely reflects my experience.

The transistor radio hidden inside my hollowed-out textbook played polkas, country, or Tradio during the day. At night, 50,000-watt blowtorches on AM back in Chicago kept me up on to new music, and ads for Mr. Norms and/or the US 30 drag strip made me homesick. Shortwave introduced me to the global village. Radio has saved my life many times since the Lombardi era.

In January 1977, The Ramones' prophetic second album, Leave Home, was released. Two weeks after graduation, I headed back to Chicago with a high school diploma, a particular set of skills, and a decade of sales experience. Gabba Gabba Hey!

Computer classes at DeVry looked like the best ticket back to Chicago. Departing from Ironwood, the Duster rolled under a railroad bridge graffitied with the word "Yahoos!" Thanks to Krylon, it remained there for years. Some of my finest work.