Doug Blough

When I published my runaway bestseller, “My Lousy World – All Stressed Up and No Place to Go” back in 2000, I was the only one of my family and peers to ever publish a book. Now it seems everyone and their brother — including my brother — are readying books for publication. Big brother Jess has been working diligently on a book chronicling his countess trips to Deep Lake ... basically the saga of a shy Eastern boy running off to become a paratrooper and metamorphosis into the Western way of life. I'd title it “The Long, Long Walk From Home.”

And now my golfing antagonist Dave Beemer has been churning out chapter after chapter of all his family, teaching, coaching, hunting and God knows what other exploits going into this book. I've read several chapters and begrudgingly admit they seized my interest. But for some reason he's dragging his feet on a chapter about his trip back to Pennsylvania with me at age 19 to live with and torture my poor parents for three months. I'm trying to tell him he's missing the journalism boat.

Coaching, reffing and all that is fine, and nuggets of entertainment lie within, but his two-month side-road onto the wild streets of western PA is just the theme diversion any book needs. Dave's normally intuitive bride Cindy Lou, who has heard all the wild stories, thinks he should tread lightly on that stage of his life, but I passionately disagree. I mean, are you gonna listen to a woman who knows you better than anyone and who incidentally happens to be wildly attractive for her age, or are you gonna listen to an endlessly published author?

Since he seems to be swinging her direction, allow me to fill in that missing chapter I would call, “The Lost Winter.” We were 19 when Dave decided his charmed life needed an unchartered detour, and weeks after I drove back home, he followed in his big, ol' red Ford Galaxy. He called from just off the Pennsylvania Turnpike and got the directions to the winding dirt roads leading to the ramchackle Blough residence. He was clearly rattled from all the missed curves.

Next day during a job search, we came upon my old lush buddy Larry Grandas. Larry could have easily become a pro athlete had his inherited alcoholism not taken precedent. We waved him over along route 601 at a state highway department alongside huge shale piles I used to climb on my dirt bike. I told Dave, “Open that trunk and introduce Grandas to Coors Country.” Dave had packed along two cases since Coors was a novelty to my area, and soon we were drinking warm beer like we'd arrived at an oasis.

It didn't take long before we were pickled and outlaw Grandas and I decided we should break into the state shed and take their dump truck for a joy ride. Beemer hadn't signed up for this, so sat in his car as Grandas and I beat down the shed door with a log we fetched from the woods. Just that fast, I, with no driver's license from a previous PA infraction, was in the driver's seat and started up that huge dump truck with a rumbling roar. Larry and I were decked out in the yellow slickers and hard hats we grabbed from their coat room, but were stalled since neither of us knew how to release the emergency brake.

I yelled out the window, “Beemer, you worked for the county; come show us how to get this brake off!” He mumbled something about wanting no part of it, so the joy ride ended right where it began. I'll never forget getting home and Mom warming up lunch for us and Beemer barking, “I didn't come 2,000 miles to end up in jail!” I instructed him to shut his big cake hole before Mom heard, and for the next several weeks we were driving around with stolen raincoats and hard hats in his trunk.

It was right about this time I think Dave contemplated maybe he had taken a wrong turn with his road trip straight into hell. But now I see I'm running out of space and we've barely covered the first two days of a two-month booze orgy. Stay tuned for Part II when I'll try and summarize the next couple months when things started getting a little crazier. Hold on to your hard hats!