We all enter this world with a slap and a squawk. They first slapped my ass in Chicago back in 1959, when tailfins touched the sky. My folks welcomed me to the American Dream, and 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: JFK had been shot in Dallas. Mom rushed into the living room, wiped her eyes on her apron, and snatched me up from the floor to watch the reports. That afternoon I learned where Dallas was, what a president does, and how assassins earn their living.

Then a few months later, my father died, just days before my fifth birthday, leaving Mom and I on our own. The resulting austerity measures, like switching to powdered milk, always felt like my fault. Relatives, neighbors, our pastor and others told me I was now ‘the man of the house’ with ‘big shoes to fill,’ but nobody told me how. They thought it was cute when I asked for help to find work, but they all laughed me off, leaving me to figure things out for myself. Even though Mom never complained, for a couple of years I felt like an anchor, draggin' her down.

Then sometime during the Summer of Love I spied an ad in a comic book for The Junior Sales Club of America. If I could muster the courage to sell greeting cards door to door, I could earn a commission on each sale! Encouraging me to bet on myself, Mom bankrolled my first order.

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 for the very first time. 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 due to a pamphlet of sales tips sent with the cards. Instructions from the JSCA 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, and Espionage.

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

Culture Shock

With no freinds or family to hang with at first, I looked for work in the god foresaken hinterlands. Delivering papers, shovelling walks and mowing lawns filled my pockets with loot at first. Learning I could get out of school one hour early if I had a job, I got my first retail gig at a McLellan's department store, and met my first mentor. Our manager, Mr. Smith, had me follow him to each department to get my to-do list for the day. I observed 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. Hmmm, what was my button?

When a blizzard delayed our delivery until 4:35 pm, Mr. Smith told the driver "I'll see you in the morning, since there's no way this boy can unload 95 pieces of freight before five o'clock." 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. 

Meanwhile, American industry was going full-tilt boogie and at school they were grooming us to be fleshy, little cogs for one of their many machines. Don't cry for me, Hialeah, 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 would the revolution ever get to Ironwood?

Then, at an American Legion Friday Fish Fry, I met Wayno.

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 class, I knocked on the door of Wayno's biology class and got him excused on false pretenses. Repeatedly. Like, dozens and dozens of times. Hot lunch tickets were also available, along with State of Nevada drivers licenses to facilitate our underage drinking. When the entire starting lineup missed Monday practice due to our Sunday night shindig, Coach Harry was not pleased.

Branding Wayno and I "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 floor!"

The name stuck, and the logo I sketched up in my geometry notebook met with unanimous approval. My pal Nik's dad was a screen printer, and when I shared the gag he graciously shared how his whole business ran. Charging only for his set-up costs, he gave me a full-color proof and 30-day terms so I could drum up sales.

Folks love to be in on an inside joke. Harry's Yahoos t-shirts sold out, worn to school and games with pride. T-shirts 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. 

But success can have costs beyond wholesale. The Assistant Principal, a golden gloves phenom back in his day, once pulled me out of an assembly by my hair and escorted me down the back stairs by pushing me down 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 justified my low-fidelity life of crime for a few years. 

Beyond forgery, my skillset also included B & E. 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 textbook played polkas or country or Tradio during the day.  At night, 50,000-watt blowtorches on AM back in Chicago kept me connected to the music I wanted to hear. Ads for Mr. Norms or the US 30 drag strip made me homesick, and shortwave introduced me to the global villiage. In so many ways since the Lombardi era, radio has saved my life! 

In January 1977, The Ramones' prophetic second album Leave Home came out. Two weeks after graduation, I did, heading 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.