When I was in third or fourth grade, I joined a little league baseball team at my school in Lynchburg, Ohio. I had never played any form of organized sport before—I actually remember the coach, Gary Smaltz, asking that very question.

“You ever played any type of organized sports before?” he said.

“No, sir,” I replied.

In all actuality, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to play this time either. I’m not quite sure at what point I decided I wanted to or even why. I think it was a combination of wanting to make my father to take notice and my friend, P.J., being on the team.

To a child, Smaltz was very scary. I believe he was in the National Guard and kept his hair cropped very short. He was also one of those outdoorsy types that like to repel off the sides of cliffs and, in my fragile seven or eight year old mind, probably blow things up. Thinking back on it now, he has also become a caricature of the stereotypical, cartoon coach; a screaming, tobacco chewing, huge mouth in gray polyester coach shorts with veins throbbing underneath his mesh cap.

Having never played baseball before, I was not the keenest eye in the batter’s box and it was merely a matter of time before the ball and I had our first dance. A few weeks after joining the team and trying to level out my wildly arcing swing, Smaltz decided it was time to put me in against someone other than my friend P.J.—he wanted me to attempt to hit off of Richard Vilvens—the devil himself in a little league uniform, or so I thought at the time.

Richard liked to throw the ball and he had two pitches at that time—fast or hard. I’m not sure which one he threw at me. Wait, did I say at me? The ball made contact with my left cheek and everything turned white. That little Rawlings baseball peeled all the skin from my left cheek and I sported those seam marks for weeks.

Needless to say, practice was over for me that day and I didn’t want to play anymore—ever. I was certain the next time my head would come completely off. My father made me go to the next practice and the coach could tell I was afraid of the ball after the experience I had a few days earlier. To get me over my fear, he had me put on the catcher’s gear and had the entire team throw baseballs—at me.

So there was a Henry Rollins spoken word show on Friday in West Palm Beach. Gwendolyn attended the event and didn’t hang around the incredibly small venue to meet Mr. Aging Alternative Rock Icon afterward.

The following morning I may have been insensitive to the fact that she really wanted to do it but came home without because she was worried I would be angry. I may have joked about how I would have made sure to have met the person after the show. I may have gotten carried away in doing so and actually hurt her feelings. I may have. And I did.

Saturday we drove up to Orlando for my father’s birthday party. We arrived around 5:00 P.M. and soon after the party was in full swing. I knew that Henry was doing a show at the House of Blues in Orlando, so I suggested she drive down with my cousin and meet him there. Normally these from the hip approaches don’t work out for me—or for her—but this time was a little different.

What’s the moral of the story? Don’t be a dickhead or you will have to drive 240 miles to track the fucker down to undo your dickheadedness.

There is still a rather large quantity of ButtonMonkey crosshair stickers left if anyone would like some. I suppose it is time to actually try and give them out as they are just sitting in a box in my closet.

It is kind of abstract and some people can’t see it so let me say it here—no, it is not a map, it is a stylized howling monkey in someone’s crosshairs. Whew. I feel much better getting that out of the way. I think the confusion comes from having the name run up the side. People hold the sticker out with the name horizontally and the monkey must get lost.

Occasionally they have popped up on historic landmarks, street signs, gas pumps, bathroom stalls, dumpsters, pay phones and various other stick-able surfaces in many countries on Earth.

The remaining pile is a situation I am reminded of by Mrs. ButtonMonkey any time the large container of stickers falls on someone’s toe, or occupies a space in my closet that would be better occupied by something else.

Come on, you know you want to make the world just a little more orange than it was the day before and I am here to help you. and I will reply with a physical address for you to send your self-addressed, stamped envelope. In a few days you will receive ten shiny, new stickers to plaster all over your town. Want more than ten? No problem send more self-addressed, stamped envelopes. (I can only get away with sending about ten on one stamp.) I know, I know, last time I sent them out myself to anyone that wanted them but that started getting expensive.