my comedic genius, I got a job working at a new family fitness center in Okotoks. I had been training in the Palkos’ barn like Stallone in
Rocky IV
, so the arrival of the new gym not only brought in extra cash but allowed me to again build muscle with weights, not haystacks.
The gym was also the perfect place to meet girls. It became the hot place for all the high school kids to hang out and the fact I was the muscular wrestler working the front desk made me the Fonz. Girls like the Fonz. After not meeting anyone all summer, I now had teenage girls flirting and hanging all over me. Being nineteen years old with a badass car (or just a bad one), I had become the proverbial magnet of the chicks. If you’ve ever seen the
Three’s Company
episode where Jack has three different dates at the same restaurant and has to run himself ragged so that none of them finds out about the other ones, you’ll get an idea of what I had to deal with. There was a certain hot tub room that was a favorite rendezvous spot of mine, and let me take this opportunity to say, Thank goodness for chlorine.
The girls may have dug me, but the local Popo did not. One John Cleese–looking, Inspector Clouseau–sounding cop in particular named Dan Powers was always looking for ways to mess with me. He pulled me over for going the speed limit (“It’s so suspicious”) and watched me buy lunch at the Petro Canada just to make sure “I wasn’t stealing anything.”
One evening, a few older ladies that I didn’t recognize came into the gym. I chatted for a few minutes with each of them and then they left. The next day, Powers called me at the Palkos’ and told me to come down to the station immediately. When I arrived, Cleese Clouseau proceeded to tell me that there’d been a rash of obscene phone calls in town and guess who he was accusing? He’d told the victims that I was the guilty party and sent them to the gym to speak with me to clarify it. The power of suggestion is a tremendous thing, my friends. If the Pope said you would burst into an order of onion rings if you read this book, would you have placed your filthy hands on this tome so quickly?
When he called Jerry Palko to check our phone bills, Jerry told him to either get a search warrant or leave us both alone. The lack of evidence soured Powers and that was the last time I ever had any problems with him or his mustache. I resumed making calls later that night.
CHAPTER 11
PROPER CRACK-BUYING ETIQUETTE
A fter the Powers debacle, I welcomed the opportunity to take another road trip. This time to Wichita, Kansas, of all places. Mike had established contact with a promoter named Christopher Love (no relation to the illustrious Dr. Love), who was starting up a promotion in the central states. He’d gotten himself booked and had convinced Love to give Como and me shots as well. So the 1-2-3 Stooges got into Mike’s car and began the drive from Calgary to Wichita under standard wrestling driving rules of course.
Being the rookie, it was my job to drive all night and after a few hours I fell asleep at the wheel. I opened my eyes just in time to see the hood of the car nuzzling with the ass end of a four-wheel-drive. I slammed on the brakes and smelled the rubber burning as we skidded to a stop on the side of the highway. Once again I became John Candy in
Planes, Trains & Automobiles,
as the guys woke up and angrily asked if I was going to keep driving.
“Yes I will,” I said. “Yes I will.”
I’d like to mention that it’s very hard to drive when your pants are filled with dookie.
We stopped the next evening when we hit Denver. Instead of checking into a hotel or getting a decent meal, we went straight to Shotgun Willy’s.
The strip clubs I’d been to in Winnipeg were just glorified pubs with the occasional bored naked girl wandering around, but Shotgun Willy’s had scantily clad gorgeous goddesses everywhere. I promptly fell in love with a lovely
Rocky IV
, so the arrival of the new gym not only brought in extra cash but allowed me to again build muscle with weights, not haystacks.
The gym was also the perfect place to meet girls. It became the hot place for all the high school kids to hang out and the fact I was the muscular wrestler working the front desk made me the Fonz. Girls like the Fonz. After not meeting anyone all summer, I now had teenage girls flirting and hanging all over me. Being nineteen years old with a badass car (or just a bad one), I had become the proverbial magnet of the chicks. If you’ve ever seen the
Three’s Company
episode where Jack has three different dates at the same restaurant and has to run himself ragged so that none of them finds out about the other ones, you’ll get an idea of what I had to deal with. There was a certain hot tub room that was a favorite rendezvous spot of mine, and let me take this opportunity to say, Thank goodness for chlorine.
The girls may have dug me, but the local Popo did not. One John Cleese–looking, Inspector Clouseau–sounding cop in particular named Dan Powers was always looking for ways to mess with me. He pulled me over for going the speed limit (“It’s so suspicious”) and watched me buy lunch at the Petro Canada just to make sure “I wasn’t stealing anything.”
One evening, a few older ladies that I didn’t recognize came into the gym. I chatted for a few minutes with each of them and then they left. The next day, Powers called me at the Palkos’ and told me to come down to the station immediately. When I arrived, Cleese Clouseau proceeded to tell me that there’d been a rash of obscene phone calls in town and guess who he was accusing? He’d told the victims that I was the guilty party and sent them to the gym to speak with me to clarify it. The power of suggestion is a tremendous thing, my friends. If the Pope said you would burst into an order of onion rings if you read this book, would you have placed your filthy hands on this tome so quickly?
When he called Jerry Palko to check our phone bills, Jerry told him to either get a search warrant or leave us both alone. The lack of evidence soured Powers and that was the last time I ever had any problems with him or his mustache. I resumed making calls later that night.
CHAPTER 11
PROPER CRACK-BUYING ETIQUETTE
A fter the Powers debacle, I welcomed the opportunity to take another road trip. This time to Wichita, Kansas, of all places. Mike had established contact with a promoter named Christopher Love (no relation to the illustrious Dr. Love), who was starting up a promotion in the central states. He’d gotten himself booked and had convinced Love to give Como and me shots as well. So the 1-2-3 Stooges got into Mike’s car and began the drive from Calgary to Wichita under standard wrestling driving rules of course.
Being the rookie, it was my job to drive all night and after a few hours I fell asleep at the wheel. I opened my eyes just in time to see the hood of the car nuzzling with the ass end of a four-wheel-drive. I slammed on the brakes and smelled the rubber burning as we skidded to a stop on the side of the highway. Once again I became John Candy in
Planes, Trains & Automobiles,
as the guys woke up and angrily asked if I was going to keep driving.
“Yes I will,” I said. “Yes I will.”
I’d like to mention that it’s very hard to drive when your pants are filled with dookie.
We stopped the next evening when we hit Denver. Instead of checking into a hotel or getting a decent meal, we went straight to Shotgun Willy’s.
The strip clubs I’d been to in Winnipeg were just glorified pubs with the occasional bored naked girl wandering around, but Shotgun Willy’s had scantily clad gorgeous goddesses everywhere. I promptly fell in love with a lovely
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