Have I ever mentioned how much I despise painting? Anyone visiting my house will immediately notice the stark white walls with white trim. That’s not on purpose, that’s how it came. They could’ve painted that shit purple and green and those walls would still be purple and green to this day. I. Hate. Painting. Hate it. We have one painted room in the house—the TV room—which was doused in a bright, Disney teal. Despite the festive color, know that every brush stroke in that room was wiped with unbridled hatred. We also have two gray-ish test spots in our bedroom with color cards taped next to them. They’ve been on that wall for two years.
With this deep-seated hatred of painting, I embarked on the last phase of my Cobra Commander Cosplay Journey. And this phase did not disappoint. I added the final coat of blue that morning and let the helmet dry all day. After an insanely fun evening of fantasy football drafting and chugging beers at Hooters, I got home and quickly set to work on clear coating.
Although Tuesday mornings are always shitty, I was having an exceptionally shittier than shitty Tuesday morning when I walked into work yesterday. Todd hit me up the moment I settled into my desk. He beamed a grin that could only mean one thing: the Cobra Commander Staff was complete.
Todd rushed me and a small entourage of curious onlookers out to his car to make the big reveal. The staff was carefully packed into his car, wrapped in a protective blanket. I couldn’t make out any details other than the general size of the staff. This was better than Christmas morning.
So, I never realized I had any OCD tendencies until I reached the Bondo and Sanding phase of creating a Cobra Commander helmet. I had nearly moved on to the painting stage. I was *this* close. That was until I sprayed on a coat of primer and realized that my helmet looked like a hyperactive kindergartener’s paper mache project. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad, but I still couldn’t let the bumpiness slide. My entire Sunday was spent adding a sixth full coat of Bondo and sanding some sexy curves into the helmet.
And to think I brushed aside warnings that the Bondo/sanding portion was the most difficult part of this process. After the first week in this stage, I could almost hear Terry Silver from Karate Kid III saying, “Now the real pain begins, Danny-boy.”
You know, I spent years proselytizing Karate Kid III’s greatness to a chorus of jeers and snickers. Now, through the jaded eyes of a middle-ager, I guess I can understand why the movie is so reviled.
For most of my life I’ve had an unnatural fear of fiberglass. It’s actually more of a tick than a phobia and I blame my parents on this one. As a young kid, probably around 6 or 7 years old, my dad gave me a dire warning to never go into the attic. He did, however, allow me a peek when we were taking down Christmas decorations that year.
This attic was one of those old school ones where the builders sprayed loose, off-white, fiberglass fuzzballs all over the floor. The randomly stacked mounds and valleys of fiberglass looked the pictures of Antarctica I had seen in the Funk & Wagnalls Encyclopedia. We had rats the year before; you could make out their little trails through wilderness of fluff. As I gazed into the dark abyss of the attic, I began to sweat from the damp, imposing heat. Some fiberglass latched on to my arm. It itched like a motherfucker. Then I caught a slight scent of death hanging in the air. The attic was a house of horrors.
I was terrified of that attic ever since. Whenever a hurricane came nearby, I wasn’t afraid of the howling winds, the torrential downpours, or the flooding. No, I was scared shitless that the storm would collapse the ceiling and rain down Satan’s death flurries like a blizzard of needles.