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http://www.getbound.io

What I Did Last Summer

Turner L. Watson Leave a comment

Everything. I did everything last summer. Want to know why I haven’t touched this blog in forever? Because I was doing everything.

Let’s rewind a bit. I began the summer chugging along professionally in a pretty sweet gig as copywriter/digital content specialist for Asher Agency. To sum that position up: I would come up with ideas for commercial campaigns. TV, radio, digital, print, whatever mediums we were going to use, and then the message or thought behind said concept. From there, I’d work with the other creative team members to shape it up into something that made sense and looked great, and we’d produce it. I’d cast actors, guide the graphic artists, write the actual “copy” or words (spoken by actors or printed on billboards, etc.), get it all produced, and then we’d throw it all out there into the world. The process is truly a satisfying experience, watching your ideas come to life, even if only for thirty seconds at a time or on a clickable strip of banner on someone’s website.

I must’ve been fairly decent at this, because I started getting nibbles. People inquiring as to my future plans. Recruiters asking “Hey, how happy are you at Asher?” Finally, an old compatriot called me up and basically offered me his job as creative director. He described the position to me thusly: “you’ll come up with ideas for commercial campaigns. TV, radio, digital, print, whatever mediums we were going to use, and then the message or thought behind it. From there, you’ll work with the other creative team members to shape it up into something that made sense and looked great, and we’ll produce it. Cast actors, guide the graphic artists, write the actual “copy” and then throw ‘it all out there into the world.”

Huh. So, of course I took it. A corner office with windows? A bunch of new business cards? Hells yes. So I took a new position doing pretty much what I did at Asher, only with more perks and a nifty title. So that was cool.

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Plus, I mean…a place to hang an old Robert August promo flyer (autographed!) and prop my Scottish claymore against a vintage photo of Fred Toenges?! SIGN MY ASS UP!!

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!

 

My wife and I also decided to sell our house. We had lived, with our two boys (Simon is 12, Rhys is almost 9) in a nice, old (built in 1920) home in the Oakdale Neighborhood in Ft. Wayne. Tree-lined streets, gorgeous old houses…and very narrow, busy streets. No back yard to speak of. Or front yard, for that matter. In other words, charming as all hell but not conducive to bike riding or football tossing or anything else that growing young men want to engage in. So, when the market heated up, Heidi and I jumped at the chance, trading the urban pulse of the ’07 for the serene spaciousness of the ’15. It was a long, hectic process, selling the old house. Folks can be very particular and selective, even in a sellers’ market. It was stressful, especially since we purchased our new (current) home before we’d sold the old one. But in the end we persevered, chalking up another adventure on the Watson Family history. (An adventure that yielded a three-car garage and the chance to hang hockey equipment up without carting it all to the basement after every practice or game.)

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Basically from this…

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…to this.

BUT YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!

 

Actually, that’s not accurate. The “next” part. That’s not how this timeline played out. Sorry. I strive for realism, and that’s…that’s misleading. Clickbait nonsense. No, this is actually something that’s been simmering along for a while now, but in addition to my role(s) at a couple of different ad agencies this year, I had the opportunity to write for a fun, exciting new enterprise. The minds at Bound Publishing have come up with a mobile-specific reader, and are releasing serialized stories on it. One of the cool features of the Bound app (learn more here or find them in the iTunes store) is the ability to expand on the story via sourcebook entries, diary passages, bits of propaganda, etc. from the story universe. If you’ve ever seen the Star Wars sourcebook or any of the supplemental Lord of the Rings or Song of Ice and Fire materials, imagine being able to have those open to cross-reference whilst reading the novels or watching the movies. “Oh! The model that Luke is playing with is an actual Incom T-16…and later, during the Death Star briefing, he talks about bulls-eyeing womp rats in it! I always wondered what the T-16 looked like!” Well, the Bound platform is like that, with all sorts of artwork and specific expanded entries, and I was asked to write the sourcebook materials for a science fiction space epic called Purgatorio. Go get the app and download it and let me know what you think. It’s been a great experience, and the Bound guys have given me all sorts of latitude. It’s been pleasant and rewarding, in a very different way than the advertising life.

http://www.getbound.io

A mobile-based work of expanded fiction, based on a mobile-based FPS game. Welcome to the future, kids.

So a very full summer now gives way to a hectic fall, because, as many of you know, we’re at the cusp of hockey season. And I live with a hockey family. Both kids play, Heidi is a team manager for one kid’s team, treasurer for the other, and I coach the boys and play in my own ASHL beer league every Sunday. From now until April. And it’s awesome. And we wouldn’t change this life for anything. Which leads me to my other big news…

 

WHICH WILL HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL NEXT TIME!!

 

Seriously, I can’t talk about it, but it’s pretty rad. Talk to you later.

American Wedding

Turner L. Watson 12 Comments

If you’ve arrived here hoping to find some extended treatise on the American Pie sequel, well, sorry, friend. You’re out of luck. I’ve never even seen it. But stick around anyway.

I recently had the honor of standing up with my friend Derrick as he married another one of my very best friends, Amber. I’d watched those two grow together through many trials and tribulations into a power couple. They’re truly two of the best humans on this planet, so it was exciting to see them combine forces. And as their wedding date drew near…

The world seemed to go to shit.

Two well-publicized police killings, right after another. Were the killings racially motivated? It seemed entirely possible. Were they straight-up assassinations? Less likely, but that didn’t prevent people from drawing virtual battle lines on social media, on horrible cable talk shows, and even more repugnant blogs. And then, the most despicable (and yet, sadly, not completely unexpected) reaction occurred. Officers gunned down in cold blood during a peaceful protest in Dallas. Our nation seemed headed to the brink of disaster at breakneck speed.

And once again, idiots and fools raised their ignorant voices in an attempt to fan the flames of hate. The one that filled me with rage and despair was the since-deleted Tweet from former Congressman (A GODDAM CONGRESSMAN!) Joe Walsh (not the guy from the Eagles. The other one.)

Check it out:

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It was a punch in the gut, perfectly encapsulating the point of view shared by so many of my backwards-thinking white brothers and sisters. It was as if they all breathed a sigh of relief and said “Finally! Now we can be open and direct with our hate and violence! At last, war!”

Of course, some of my black brothers and sisters played right into their hands, Tweeting support for the gunmen and praising the murders of men that had done nothing wrong except wear a badge.

Things looked bleak, to put it mildly. Depression set in and seemed determined to hang around indefinitely.

Derrick and Amber to the rescue. Again.

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See, that Friday night, the 8th of July, members of both wedding parties and families and friends all gathered for the wedding rehearsal. That’s when hope showed up again. Hope in the form a stunningly beautiful, petite, blue-eyed, blonde bride and the imposing, handsome, tall, black man she’d fallen in love with. A man who had already demonstrated compassion, patience, and love with her two wonderful daughters…and incredible patience with the fiercely independent Amber. I mean, seeing them stand there together, Derrick towering over her, neither one of them concerned about anything other than being excited to begin the rest of their lives together…how could you not be inspired? But it got even better.

The kids.

Yeah. The kids. A colorful mix of punk-rock haircuts and shades of pink and green, of glasses and suspenders, and skin tones ranging from pale white to rich mocha. And they didn’t give a good goddam about looks or religion or skin or social expectations. They had no idea that they were avatars for the literal future of our country. They were kids. They wanted to play. They wanted to dance. They wanted to take their shoes off in the church. They were hungry and wanted pizza. Kids.

And the groomsmen! Black and white. Tall and short. Ukrainian and Liberian. The bridesmaids were just as impressive: servicewomen, teachers, writers…tattoos and smiles and confident female sexiness in all its sizes and shapes and colors and ages.

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“Where you from, Paul?” “My mom.”

So on Saturday, after the ceremony, after the pictures and the uncomfortable clothes and the waiting and the standing, came the reception. Dancing, drinking, hugging, laughing. Joy. Bliss. Hope. Everywhere. And it was good. And I felt so happy.

So thanks, D & A. You guys rock, and this huge clan of ours, these wonderful misfits…they restore my hope. Constantly. I’m so very proud to be part of that. Take a look..

I threw that video together, not just for Derrick and Amber or their guests and friends, and not just to try and inspire anyone who needs a pick-me-up. I did it for myself. I cobbled it together over the last few evenings so that in days to come, if and when I feel hopeless and sad, I can watch it and remember how great this world truly is. I can remind myself that hope is very real, and Real America is still the best place in the world.

 

Why Bernie

Turner L. Watson 3 Comments

Well, this is something new. I usually write funny nonsense or sci-fi short stories or a combination of both. I may discuss comic books, movies, or music, but I’ve shied away form one area of discussion: politics. Gods, I can hear you rolling your eyes at the very mention of the word. Politics. Ugh. So I’ll forgive you if you check out right now and browse elsewhere on the vast prairie of the interwebs. I completely understand. But if you have the gumption, or simply want a bit of insight into my personal beliefs, then read on.

A friend of mine asked me recently to explain to him my support of Bernie Sanders for President of the United States of America. He went so far as to throw down the gauntlet of “Convince me.” Wow. There’s a big difference between explaining your position and trying to compel the other party to change theirs. I’m not sure I’m up to that challenge. I don’t know if I’m eloquent enough. Maybe my words aren’t that great. But what I hope, what I believe, rather, is that by reading this, and reading all of it, maybe you’ll at least come to accept that my beliefs, my hopes, are not so crazy as perhaps you imagined.

 

Why do I support Bernie? Because I believe America is already pretty great…but I think it can be better. I think that we have to improve not only the lives of citizens (like me, for example. Like my brother. Like everyone, gay, straight, man, woman, Christian, atheist, Muslim, artist, worker, soldier, teacher…everyone.)

I support Bernie because Big Money has always run the show, realistically. But until the Reagan years (and yes, Bill Clinton played a part with the deregulation of the media companies and the NAFTA agreement), those entities were at least held in check. Now the corporations act with impunity. They beg for tax cuts, then move their factory overseas anyway. They bitch about raising the minimum wage, yet accept billions in bailouts (from OUR taxes) and reward their CEO’s with insane bonuses and salaries.

I support Bernie because he believes that if you have the money to send soldiers to war, then by God, you have the money to care for them when they return. Not just with medical care and such, but with mental health care. There’s an epidemic of our fighting men and women committing suicide or sleeping on the streets, and Big Money (and the Republican party that acts as Big Money’s political arm) not only don’t care, they hinder efforts to spend tax money on solving the problem. Yes, I know that some of those bills probably have pork or other attachments that make lawmakers balk, but it’s happened over and over and over.

I support Bernie because he tells it like it is. He speaks his mind. But unlike Trump, he does it 1) because he actually believes it, not because he figures it’s what the crowd wants to hear and 2) with dignity and grace, not scraping down to cater to ignorant, racist, homophobic, misogynistic pricks.

I support Bernie because he wants to use our taxes the way they were meant to be used. Not increasing taxes on you or me (or anyone not ‘rich’) but by allocating those taxes to where they need to go. Instead of a couple of billion for jets that are obsolete before they even enter the theater or another bailout and tax breaks to a multinational corporation , he’d use them to rebuild the bridges, dams, and highways that are not only out-of-date, but dangerously close to total collapse. And yes, he’d use that money for education. Speaking of which…

It’s not “free shit for everyone.” The state colleges would offer free tuition…but only to students that were accepted. You’d need to pass the same entrance exam, maintain the same GPA, do the same work as anyone else who had received a grant or scholarship. Don’t do all that? Buh-bye. Seeya. Collect your things and go. And the private schools would still be private. If you could afford them, hey, God bless. Go for it. Spend mommy and daddy’s inheritance on that sort of education. Good for you! But for the rest of us? It’s a chance to finally narrow the gap between ourselves and Japan or Germany. To have the best-educated workforce in the world. And on a personal note, it’s a scientific fact that the college-educated folks may not be smarter than the kids that stay in their hometown and get a job at the factory…but they are more tolerant. Respectful of other cultures. Less racist or homophobic. Why? Because they will have been exposed to all those things, different accents and skin tones, different dress and eating habits…in other words, the WORLD. And the more you know about the world, the less you fear it. And the less hate you harbor as a result. So, more college students = more cultural harmony.

And finally, let’s talk about healthcare. I’m not a huge fan of Obamacare. I think it’s a half-measure. I think it was a way to kiss the ass of the insurance companies (once again, Big Money calls the shots.) But I also have a friend who has insurance provided by her company, and she’s considering going back to part-time to work on other projects. I was concerned about her lack of insurance coverage. She told me “I’ll just go back to the ACA. It was better than what I have now, anyway.” Of course, that could be more an indictment of the standard of care offered by employers nowadays, or it could be that the ACA just really works out to be a great deal for a single mother of two (as is her case.) Either way, she wouldn’t have even had the option before Obamacare. But let’s take it further…

Say they raise my taxes to pay for Bernie’s universal healthcare. The good shit, the “show up at the emergency room, get your broken bone set, go home. No deductible, not co-pay…it’s just done” variety. The sort of thing they have in, you know…every other civilized country in the world. Every. One. Say I end up paying an additional 2.2% in taxes. Maybe my work pays me a bit less to pay for my proposed payroll tax. The fact remains: The typical family of four making $50,000 a year would pay less than $46 a month under Bernie’s plan for three months of paid family and medical leave and universal health care. (That’s from TIME magazine, January 28, 2016.) In other words, I’m coming out ahead. Also, The typical American family of four covered by an employer-sponsored health care plan paid $24,671 last year on health care costs alone, according to the non-partisan Milliman Medical Index. So, as it stands right now, they’re taking money out of my paycheck to pay for coverage…and I’m STILL paying a shitload in health costs. Maybe it’s not a big deal to people without kids. Maybe it’s not a big deal to rich people who can afford it. But to my family and me, that’s huge.

And the other thing to consider: say I end up actually losing money. Maybe I’m short about $3000 a year, all things being equal. That’s too bad. Perhaps I’ll have to skip playing hockey and forget about taking a vacation. But if it means that every single parent, every kid, every human being in the country has access to medical care when they need it, then, dude…that’s not even a question. Hell, take it. I’ll even chip in a bit more. That makes every taxpayer a big damn hero. That’s what society is supposed to be. That’s why we live in communities, why we have police, why we elect a mayor, a governor, a president, why there’s a highway system, air traffic controllers, and a standing army: because it’s us. Not me. We’re all in this together.

So, in conclusion, I’ll answer your question. Why Bernie? Because I want to live in a better world. I want my kids to have a better opportunity. I want the people to reclaim some of the power from the corporations. I want freedom and equality for every human being in the United States of America. Right now, Bernie Sanders offers the best possible hope of beginning the process that moves us towards those things. It won’t be easy. It won’t all happen right away, especially as Big Money pushes back hard and exerts its force on politics. But it can happen. And it must happen if we are to survive as a nation, rather than a bunch of individuals fighting one another for the scraps thrown our way by Big Money.

 

 

I Didn’t Choose the Pug Life…

Turner L. Watson 2 Comments

I’m a cat person.  That is, I prefer cats to dogs.  Don’t get me wrong, dogs are swell;  they just ain’t my cuppa tea.  Friends’ dogs?  Hey, they’re A-OK.  Any pooch I can play ball with or run up and down the beach beside for a few hours is cool in my book….as long as I can go home without the burden of canine companionship.  I imagine my thoughts on man’s best friend are much like the attitudes of those folks unburdened by children who find themselves at a family gathering which includes toddlers.  You know how it goes.

AUNTIE: Oh, she’s so cute!  Oh!  Look at her little face!  I just want to eat it up!  Who’s a cutie pie?  You are!  Oh, yes you are!  Oh, can I hold her?  Wow, she’s so tiny!  OOoooOOO!  She’s smiling at me!  Yes she is! She–

[VOMIT APOCALYPSE!!]

At which point the stunned, soaked, smelly relative hands the wailing kid back to the parents.  Quickly thereafter, auntie swears to NEVER give birth to living young. Ever.  She even considers a life of celibacy, just in case.

Now, all that being said, pugs are pretty goddam cute.  I’ll give the little bastards that much.  I mean, look at this guy.  His name is Gene.  He was so named because his tongue, usually lolling out of the side of his mouth by a good eight inches, so resembled that of legendary KISS bassist/God of Thunder Gene Simmons that the moniker was perfect.  Personally, I think he looks more like Samuel L. Jackson, but hey…diff’rent strokes.

Say "what" again!

Say “what” again!

My lovely wife and I agreed to foster Gene for a while through a great organization known as Kentuckiana Pug Rescue.  They do great work finding loving homes for otherwise neglected or abandoned animals.  I know, I know…who in their right mind would pay top dollar for a purebred pug an then simply walk away from it?  But it happens.  Sometimes the new pet owners have sorely underestimated the financial cost of owning a pet or the time required to care for a living, breathing, furry member of the family.  Sometimes it’s an even sadder tale:  Gene’s human mom succumbed to cancer, and he needed a home.  Simple as that.  My wife and I, the good-natured, animal-loving liberals that we are, offered to keep ol’ Gene for a while.  It was sort of trial run for us as well, as we’d considered adding a small dog to our two cats and two human boys.  The boys wanted a dog, and we decided that the middle of the worst goddam winter in Ft. Wayne history was the perfect time to add another animal to our home.  Not just another pet, mind you: no, another animal which required closely-monitored feeding (pugs will literally eat anything and everything) and trips outside to the bathroom.

You know what love is?  I’ll tell you what love is.  Love is going out in negative-ten-degree weather and shoveling a 40-by-20 patch out of the two-foot deep snow in your backyard for an animal to defecate in.  Love is hoping that the plows come through again so that you can take the little bastard on a walk around the block.  Love is picking up what seems to be a chewy Lincoln Log from the couch because somebody didn’t get outside fast enough.  Love is putting the kitchen trash can up on the counter top so that the lovable bastard doesn’t knock it over and dig through it to find the empty microwave popcorn bag you threw in there last night.  Love is dealing with pug breath in your face at 5:30 am.  Love is your cute little ball of energy barking incessantly at the inflatable Santa Claus in the front yard.

But, yes, love is also a warm, fuzzy, full belly presented to you out of trust and affection.  Love is also the squeals of laughter from the kids as that stupid beast chases his tail around and around and around until he falls over from dizziness.  And, okay, fine…love is the feeling of happiness as Gene goes off to live with his forever family.    Was it worth it?  The heartache, the angst, the frustration?  Fine. Sure.  Okay, yes, unquestionably.  Did I tell myself “never again?” Damn right I did.

So, yeah.  This week we’re sitting for a friend’s pug.  Goddammit.  His name is Mr. Chubs.  He looks like this.

Taken shortly after eating a one-pound bag of Iams cat food, I shit you not.

Taken shortly after eating a one-pound bag of Iams cat food, I shit you not.

And when he goes back home this weekend (awwww, so soon?) I will be quietly relieved.  My cats will be delighted to have my lap back.  I will be pleased to not have fawn-covered hairs all over everything and thrilled not to worry about stepping into what seems to be melted Tootsie Rolls on my way to the restroom.  The thing is, I’m a cat person and I’m not ashamed to admit it.  Hell, I’m proud of my status.  The entire internet exists because of cats (citation needed.)  Cats have even given me some of my favorite expressions; you could even say they’re the ‘cat’s pajamas!”  And scooping a litterbox in the safety and elemental comfort of my garage in January is infinitely preferable to picking up steaming piles of dog waste at any time of year. So will I ever welcome dogs into my house again?  Absolutely not.  No way.  100% negative on the doggie-sitting.  All done.

Aw, who am I kidding…

 

 

Jokes aside, kindly check out the good folks at Kentuckiana Pug Rescue.  Browse the pooches, foster a dog, make a donation.  And may the odds be ever in your favor…)

 

Stuff I Used to Do

Turner L. Watson 4 Comments

Last week, I solicited ideas for new blog topics.  Thankfully, you’re a creative lot, so I received several good ideas.  Choosing randomly, I have decided to address this suggestion from TopazVonZ:

“How about an occasional “Back in my day” blog about crazy crap you did while growing up, or the wonders of playing Atari for the first time (yanno, because you’re old). ❤ you Turner!!”

Ah, yes. Crazy crap from when I was growing up (because I NEVER engage in ill-conceived tomfoolery these days.)  But where to begin?  Well, any good story of childhood shenanigans must involve my younger brother.  And perhaps the prank that we were always most proud of, a prank we actually learned from my father.  A prank we called “The Sucker String.”

***WARNING: DO NOT, I REPEAT DO NOT DO ANYTHING I AM ABOUT TO SHARE WITH YOU.  SERIOUSLY.  DON’T.***

Here’s how it goes down.  You wait until nighttime.  You find a road/street with moderate traffic.  You get yourself some kite string or twine and stretch it across the road.  Upon this string, right in the middle, you hang a sign that simply reads “SUCKER!”

Then you wait.

Eventually, a car comes along.  This car’s headlamps light up a seemingly floating-in-midair object.  Is it debris?  Swamp gas?  A pelican?  A misplaced street sign? Jesus?  Whatever conclusion the driver comes to, it happens very quickly.  Imagine the driver humming along doing about 40 in a 35 at night, when suddenly SOMETHING IS IN THE ROAD!!  Brakes squeal, the steering wheel is jerked suddenly to the left or right, groceries in the backseat are thrown to the floor, open soft drinks in cup holders spill.  Once the vehicle comes to a halt, the driver exits, walks to the middle of the street, searches for the random object that nearly caused a rollover, and then there it is…gleaming white, a few feet away.  The driver stoops to retrieve the white paper, and the driver’s mind strains to comprehend the meaning of the letters scrawled in Magic Marker.  Why?  Why did someone put “SUCKER!” on a sign…in the middle…who…god damn it.

The amazing Nic Cage film "Drive Angry" was inspired on events from my childhood or something.

The amazing Nic Cage film “Drive Angry” was inspired by events from my childhood or something.

Now, the real trick for the pranksters is waiting it out.  Staying concealed, usually in a ditch by the side of the road, watching.  You, your little brother, maybe a couple of other street urchins.  Holding your collective breath. Anticipating.  Seeing the look of confusion turn to one of anger, hearing the paper crumple in the furious fists of a soccer mom or Cub Scout dad as they look around, knowing they’re being watched, sensing that a laugh is being had at their expense.  Hopefully it ends with the driver returning to their vehicle, mad at the sticky Tab-soaked dashboard, even madder at the punk-ass kids that almost caused a serious accident.  Usually, that’s how it works.  Usually.

BWAHAHAHAA!!! DUDE ALMOST DIED!!

BWAHAHAHAA!!! DUDE ALMOST DIED!!

Sometimes your brother is cackling with glee at the chaos you’ve sown, and one of your cohorts has to literally clamp a hand over your sibling’s mouth.  And sometimes the angry driver spots you, and you have to dart from cover, high-tailing it through back yards, dodging clothes lines, hurdling fences, inciting the frenzied barks of a dozen curious dogs.  This is much more difficult when your brother is laughing so hard he can barely stand, much less run.  One person on either side, holding him up as he lurches along.  It’s like he’s been gassed by the Joker and hell is chasing behind us in the form of a guy with a mustache and a flashlight and hatred in his glowing eyes, just visible beneath the bill of the dirty Reds cap he always wears when framing houses.

There’s a different kind of fear when you’re a kid.  On one hand, it’s a much more innocent fear.  You know nothing of lawsuits or bail bondsmen or metal-pipe beatdowns (baseball bats and padlocks?  Sure, but that’s a tale for another time.  True story.)  But there’s another fear that kids experience in such a situation.  Fear of the unknown.  What happens if this dude catches us?  What if one of us breaks his ankle stumbling through somebody’s garden?  What if he knows our parents and he’s WAITING AT OUR HOUSE WHEN WE GET BACK?!?!  What if he’s an off-duty cop?  Or a killer?  (When I was a kid, we really didn’t fear kidnapping or abuse or any of the real-world horrors of today.  Nope, getting killed.  That was really about the worst thing a guy could do to you.  Imagine how much nicer X-Box Live would be if that were still the case.  “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, NOOB!”)  That fear was so awesome.  It was sort of a drug, and I’ll admit that my brother and I would probably be labelled “adrenaline junkies” had the title existed back in the early-80’s.  It was the fear you get from riding a really well-designed roller coaster.  You KNOW you’re going to be okay.  That damn thing has been running all day, every day, for a dozen summers in a row, and nobody’s been killed whilst riding it.

Yet.  Nobody’s been killed yet…

Possibly the biggest buzzkill in the history of this blog. Damn.

Possibly the biggest buzzkill in the history of this blog. Damn.

There are a million other wonderful stories of my brother and myself getting into misadventures and, yes, trouble.  But I wanted to share this one so you’d have some idea of how things used to go down.  Was this as bad as nearly burning up a friend with our homemade napalm? No.  Was it as destructive as the time my brother pulled a “Carthage” on a mean old neighbor’s lawn?  No.  Was it riskier than simple tee-peeing?  Yes.  A better story than the time my high-school pals and I attempted to re-enact the taking of Grenada by literally stealing the Grenada Ave. street sign?  Oh, very much so.  There are many more tales of larceny and near-escapes, because I had a hell of a childhood and a brother to share it with.  And now that I have kids of my own, it’s time to pass on what I’ve learned.

Watch out, Ft. Wayne.  There are two new Watson Boys almost old enough to begin wreaking havoc.  May God have mercy on your souls. (And drive safely!)