Too forthright, he was, hm?

The outlawed emblem …

Some people won't let me live down this story:

A long time ago, in a life too far away these days, I designed this emblem for the adult patrol of Boy Scout Troop 328 in Carmichael, Calif.

Lots of Boy Scout troops have adult patrols. They serve many purposes, the most important of which is that adult patrols are formalized excuses for the adults to join in the fun but stay out of the Scouts' way. Scouting is toughest on parents and guardians because adults want their children to succeed without risk of failure, and Scouting is supposed to be the opposite — to enable boys to risk failure in repeated attempts toward self-discovery and success.

I must admit, I liked this design; it
incorporated Berthold City typefaces,
which I used as titling fonts in Troop
fliers, handouts and other communications.

At the same time, adult patrols enable adults to model success and, every once in a while, excellence. Many adult patrols will set up camp and cook fantastic meals one time through for their Troop, as a way of showing how it should be done properly and setting the bar high. After that, the adults will leave the Scouts to their own peer leadership, and periodically model patrol behavior later when they think it's needed.

Most adult patrols go by a small set of nicknames: Geezer Patrol, Rocking Chair Patrol, Old Goat Patrol.

Eh.

I thought our adults should have something better and more befitting our own ideals as teachers and mentors. We could have fun, but we could also say something with our patrol emblem, something to symbolize pride.

Yoda.

It was perfect; so perfect I need not explain why, need I? I designed the emblem and even a patrol flag, since the Scouts had one for each of their patrols. The emblem is simple because it has to be embroidered and I didn't want to make enemies of the emblem manufacturer.

At the last moment, I acted on this thought: I'm trying to be a professional illustrator, and I'd have a fit if someone used my work without permission or recompense. I'll ask LucasFilm Ltd. for permission. George Lucas, who created Yoda and Star Wars, puts all of his creations under Lucasfilm's protection. It'll be a show of good faith. LucasFilm wouldn't say no to a bunch of well-meaning Boy Scouts.

LucasFilm said no.

A pleasant attorney thanked me for asking, even complimented the design, but said LucasFilm no longer allows use of its properties' imagery, even for a lowly Boy Scout patrol. George Lucas used to grant Marin County scouting groups to use the images, the attorney said, but had to clamp down on that.

Blame the military, he said: Too many flight crews and patrols were … modifying, shall we say … the Star Wars characters for their uses … one person's light saber is another's phallic symbol, I guess … and LucasFilm wanted to stop it.

Eh. Someone suggested, cleverly, that the bunch
should be grapes or bananas. My attempts at those
are too sophomoric to show here, even worse than these.
Once Star Wars turns you down,
it's kind of hard to gather energy.

Despite several more stops and starts over the years, I never did design an adult patrol emblem.

What'd you go and ask LucasFilm for? some asked — some of them adults within Scouting. Hmm. What am I missing here?

It reminds me of junior high, when I pointed out to my PE teacher, politely, that he had made an addition error and that in fact I had not earned sufficient points to receive special colored gym shorts indicating I had performed well in the presidential physical fitness award (I can't believe we were working so hard for red shorts).

In the after-school TV specials, the adult in this moment always praises the kid's honesty and points out how hard it must have been for the kid to bring the bad news to light, knowing what he/she would lose by doing so. My PE teacher told me I was a fool for depriving myself of the prize, and should have just kept my mouth shut.

Eh.

(Why'm I writing about this, anyway? My daughter went on a college group field trip to San Francisco, and the group went to see the Yoda statue at LucasFilm headquarters at the Presidio. It just reminded me, is all. I'm mulling the idea of a statue based on an imaginary figure; sorta off kilter.)

One big walking pimple*

Such a happy, deluded kid …
Is this vaguely R. Crumb-y?

Lengthy correspondence with a friend from high school long ago (thanks facebook!) forced me to reckon with the fiery trial through which we pass: Junior high (or middle school, if you insist, though a different name doesn't improve that hell) and high school, especially the Making Our Way in the World part.

The memories led me to confront my sophomore year at Cabrillo High (best mascot ever, as long as you ignore the genocidal pedigree; unbelievably awesome aquarium and graphic design lab, long after my time, sadly; remarkably considered and consistent use of logo elements), when my uniform looked like this (left):

1. A Greek fisherman's hat, worn every single day. I got it at Fisherman's Wharf  on an eighth grade trip to San Francisco because (honest to God!) I saw an ABC After School Special in which the teen-aged protagonist treasured the Greek fisherman's cap given him by his late father. My dad was quite alive.

[Note: I make tangential connections to the world. The reasons I'm a San Francisco Giants fan, for example, are that one of my aunts has lived in and around the Bay area — mostly around, in Marin County and the south Bay — and I found the place exotic and fraught with adventure, and because an older cousin, nowhere near the Bay Area, could imitate Flip Wilson doing his Geraldine character shouting, "Hit that ball, Willie (Mays)! C'mon, Willie, hit that ball!"]

Tabbed for your convenience!
Just clip it out and clad me to recreate
an exciting night at Huyck Stadium!

2. A rugby shirt. Even though they're typically long-sleeved, I insisted (to myself) on wearing a short-sleeve version, because I read that drug users like to hide the needle tracks on their arms with long sleeves, and I didn't want anybody thinking I used. What a full-out weird kid I was. I had several of these, and occasionally wore a collarless polo shirt (there was a name for these, but I've forgotten it) to break up the monotony; you could get them from Miller's Outpost (anybody remember that place?).

3. Jeans, but not real ones, not even real denim. My parents usually bought from JC Penney or the Vandenberg Air Force Base Exchange, and found less expensive bluish looking, kinda stretchy pants that resembled jeans, from a distance.

3a. Sometimes I wore corduroys. Anyone remember corduroys? Where did they go?

4. Those shoes you got at K Mart. They must have had a name — someone told me they're "Clark desert boots" though I think the name may have been (knockoff) Wallabees  — but I call them, "shoes you got at K Mart." They were high-topped (mid-ankle) the uppers made of tan suede, and the soles made of "crepe" if that's what bright, hardened layers of rubber cement means. A ridge of fabric ran from the top of the shoe around the toe, holding the three pieces of suede together. Usually they had only two or four lace eyelets. Everyone wore them at the time. I haven't seen them since.

5. On Friday nights during football season, I wore the same thing, except I added a backbreakingly heavy ivory colored Irish fisherman's sweater, to complete the evening ensemble. It would have kept me warm during a hearty gale, if we ever had one. It did protect me from the fog so common on a Lompoc evening, and any girl who may have even accidentally entertained a molecule of thought about going out with me. I really thought I was something, with a style neither imitated or duplicated, probably with sound reason.

I was, quite plainly, a plain dork. I think I must have seen myself in a mirror or a photo, and decided by junior year to lose the uniform.

But I give myself credit for daring to exhibit what I thought passed for style. My body had thinned from the junior high pudge (think Bobby Hill without the buzz cut), from a lot of running around Mission La Purísima where I grew up (I was hoping to make either the 1976 or 1980 U.S. Olympic team. Honest to God! Don't tell me a rich fantasy life has no benefits!) and I wanted to exult in my sleek form a bit, celebrate a la Walt Whitman. And I credit my parents for not calling me out (maybe they thought it looked good, but having seen their old stepping-out photos,  I don't see how they could). Mom drew the line at a Navy pea coat; that fell into the "get a job and buy it yourself" category. For the most part, my parents let me find my own way; I remember once my mom let it slip that my dad had a conversation with her along the lines of, "No son of mine is going to draw and paint …" but my dad never discouraged me directly from exploring art.

Thanks for coming along on my catharsis …

* Thanks to Carol Burnett for her concise definition of adolescence.