Hott Lixx: My Bum Hip

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pizza_faceI got a bum hip. It all started back in 1983. I gotta admit it - although nowadays I'm wowin' em, in those days, I was a bit awkward around the ladies. The really hard part about dating (or, as I like to call it, "eat 'n fuck") in the early '80s in the greater Denver metro area was the selection. Jeez, back then, height of Pat Benatar's heyday, the girls were so hot they could melt a Formica countertop just by licking their finger and letting it hover a couple of millimeters off the surface. Spandex, Lycra, Polyester, Bangles, Baubles, Beads, and Bodacious Booties and Boobies. Those were the days. As luck would have it, though, my adolescence was heralded not by gilded trumpets and wingéd angelic cherubs but by the curse of pizzaface-ism. Blogs are about honesty, right? Well, I'm pouring it all out right here and now. Although you all know me as the strikingly handsome, thick-maned Lucretio of lead guitar in the Ranch, what you may not know is that I was indeed an ugly duckling in my earlier days.

So, like I said, the Denver girls were oh-so-magnificent. There was one. God. She was a senior when I was just entering Englewood High, Debbie Morgan. She had it all. Feathered blonde hair, Jordache jeans, gold ID bracelet, Kaepa trainers, the whole nine yards. She was rich, though, and only hung out with the cool kids. I, in all my pizza-visaged awkwarditude, swathed in second-hand OP and Hobie shirts, my cousin's old, beat up 'Roos, and stone-washed Generra velcro-belt dungarees, could only stare as Debbie and her entourage tred the halls, all the while feeling as hopeless as a fat guy at a chin-up competition.

So I sought to gain the attention of the sexy, stylish women of the '80s in the only way I knew how at the time: physical prowess.

pogo_ballSure, I'd dabbled. I'd done my fair share of skateboarding, a taste of roller skating (I could almost do a 360), and I was better than anyone on my block with the Pogo ball. I could do it for almost 3 minutes without taking a break. So what did I decide to do to win Debbie's heart? What any self-respecting, confident young man did in the 1980s. I challenged Debbie's boyfriend Marc Cremaster to a footrace. That's just how we did it back then. Evidence of this can be gleaned from some of the better films of the era. Kids now just don't realize the efficacy of this sort of technique. Chalk it up to this damn internet.

So I went up to Marc during lunch hour. He was throwing french fries at some of the JV kids. I tapped him on the shoulder pad of his red-and-black pleather action jacket (this was during his Michael Jackson phase) and after he turned around, I winked at Debbie and said, "Debbie, I am the man who will fight for your honor," then looked down at Marc. Continuing, I said, "Marc, meet me at the Three Peaks Rec Center at 4:30." And before he could respond, I turned and walked away. After taking the requisite 3 steps toward the exit, I turned on my heels, took an apple out of my pocket, threw it up in the air, caught it, took a bite, and with the wedge of apple still in my cheek, pointed at him and said, "Sharp." And with that, I was out the door. I think I handled that as well as any man of the '80s could have.

Well, I'd obviously impressed Debbie, but now I had to pay the piper and race Marc. Like I said, I was pretty physically active - Pogo ball, Skip it, Simon, running around in the lawn sprinkler, above-ground pool, I'd done it all. But now I had to figure out how I'd beat Marc Cremaster in a footrace. He had about 6 inches on me. But I bet I had about 6 gallons of moxie on him. After challenging Marc and leaving the cafeteria, I skipped class and went to the Rec Center to wait for him and stretch. When Marc and his posse, along with half of the school, showed up, I was leaning up against the brick wall, with my left foot propped up, eating a Tootsie Pop. I took out the Tootsie pop, and with one smooth motion, flicked it away. I took off my jean jacket, tossed it away, rolled up the sleeves of my Hobie t-shirt, and said, "Didn't expect you to show, geek." A chorus of "ooo"s and "in yo' face's" emanated from the receptive audience. Marc shrugged, said, "Who the fuck are you?"

I had already won; I was in his head.

My friend Scooter served as ref. Marc and i got ready for the footrace. Scooter stood alongside us and gave us the "On your marks, get set...GO!" and we were off. We were about neck and neck for the first 20 yards or so. Then, out of nowhere, a guy riding a riding lawnmower swerved to miss a rake and veered right in front of me. I didn't have time to stop and slammed right smack-dab into the lawnmower's engine. Marc laughs and keeps running, and I go flying, arms and legs splayed out, and flip ass over elbows over the top of the mower, hit the ground hip-first, bounce, and land in a bloody heap on top of the aforementioned rake. The immediate pain of the experience was overtaken by the pain of knowing that not only had I lost the girl forever, but that girl would probably be giving Marc Cremaster a tugjob in his Camaro in about 15 minutes.

After that day, my hip's given me nothing but grief. Although I eventually outgrew the acne, the bum hip lingers on, a reminder that no matter how sexually attractive or prolific I have become as an adult, part of me will always be that devil-may-care kid in stonewashed jeans and an apple in his jacket pocket.

 

Marcus "Jojo" Timmins is the lead guitarist of the Denver Metro Area metal band Hidden Valley Man Ranch 2, formerly known as Hidden Valley Man Ranch. "The Ranch" is available for birthday parties, cocktail parties, bat mitzvah's, and high school dances. 

5 Comments

  • 1

    Thanks again for bearing your soul, Jojo. The world needs you.

  • 2

    6 minutes on the pogo ball. No kidding. Just ask my cousin.

  • 3

    If I wasn't so gall darned hetero, I'd wanna eat n' fuck Jojo til the cows came home.

  • 4

    No diggity

  • 5

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