Days of Pinewood Thunder

I come from a line of men who had achieved the all-high title of becoming an Eagle Scout, my brother was one, and my father before him. Perhaps there were others before them, but I can’t be bothered to look back any further in my family line, as that requires a mild amount of effort. Though I never made it to the rank of Eagle Scout, I was a member of the Boy Scout’s equivalent to pre-school: the Cub Scouts. Though I would never reach the ranks of men such as Gerald Ford and Elmo Zumwalt, I could still make one hell of a balsawood aero plane (provided easy to read instructions were included) and design some pretty creative Pinewood Derby cars.

Life as a Cub Scout wasn’t exactly as hard as living as a serf in the middle ages, but it had its ups and downs making construction paper turkeys did take its toll on me after a while. We would meet once a week, usually at someone’s garage, though perhaps sending a group of children to a stranger’s domicile wasn’t perhaps the best idea of how to get the kids out of the house on Saturday afternoons. The actual activities we did remain a mystery to me, perhaps they were so traumatizing that my brain blocks it all out so I can’t be bothered by it.

I seem to remember participating in some kind of contest were we would have to accomplish, like bird watching, knot tying, personal hygiene, and finding mint vinyl records of Roger Whitaker’s entire body of work. Anyways, following some kind of assignment, we would be rewarded a certain number of points, with which we could redeem for a (not so) fabulous prize. Then for a few weeks of taking on assignments to do the things Cub Scouts do like, wildlife exploration, delivering small packages to the backs of warehouses, and continuing the search for Jimmy Hoffa. Eventually I was able to choose a prize from the fabulous selection of assorted crap that which likely didn’t cost much money, so that the den mothers could spend the money on online poker (which didn’t exist back then.)

I eventually spent my hard earned points on a Nickelodeon trademarked wide-ruled notebook. Why you ask? Well I will give you a speculation of mine. I had enjoyed the life luxury known as basic cable in my early childhood, but then came the dark ages. During a several year stint, my parents decided to no longer pay for cable, and had our television reduced to a measly twenty channels, including three Spanish-language networks, and Catholic public access. In my desperation for children’s entertainment, I grabbed the notebook, believing that inside there would be a screen which would play any of the network’s shows at my leisure. Alas it was just a regular notebook which I filled with crap like this:
As previously stated, I am lacking in the physical ability department, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a productive individual. What I lacked in physical prowess I could usually make up with creative skill, or whininess. Every year there would be a Pinewood Derby competition amongst the regional Cub Scout dens, where in we would see who could design the fastest car. When assembling you car, there were two kits, one which contained a solid block with pegs, weights, and wheels, for when you wanted to carve your own design for the car. Or you could simply take the pre-cut car and paint it whatever color you want (these are what the loser kids used). I am no expert in aero dynamics, but I did know how to change a block of wood into something a bad art critic would deem to be a masterpiece.
My first car I had transformed into a cartoon cat and dog watching a television while sitting on a purple couch. The cat and dog were a toy I had received from Taco Bell kid’s meal, as opposed to an extra cup of cheese, which became an unwanted item during some visits. Though the car wasn’t exactly the Mach 5, it did catch the judges eye, enough so to win me first prize in the most creative design competition, a prize awarded so that the socially awkward kids would have something good to feel about. The following year I entered in again to see if I could once again obtain the title of “most creative design,” falling in line with the previous year’s motif, my second car included kittens bowling. Daring, if not strange. I eagerly awaited for the judges to call my name, but alas like all my childhood dreams, it was crushed, preventing me from ever daring to dream again. But the thing that grinds my grits the most is that the kid who won the most creative award, obviously didn’t design it himself, his dad did it, or his dad paid some Audi mechanics to design it for him.