Pop is the embodiment of Hemingway in logger boots. A living breathing Old Spice ad, swaddled in plaid. The poster boy for Lumberjack Monthly. To my wide-eyed impressionable self, the Paul Bunyan of our suburban wilderness.

 

     Myself? Macho as a marshmallow next to Pop. But I cling to hope like a squirrel to the last acorn. That's the thing about being young, we’re like mini factories of dreams, pumping out endless 'what-ifs.' Until, that is, some cranky adult steps in and rains on our parade with their insistence on reality checks.

 

     From afar, Pop seems absorbed in his own world, zeroed in on his deer meat stew. It’s a dish he lovingly dubbed 'mountain-man's sushi.' That’s like calling a hot dog, gourmet, when dining in a 5-star bistro. I smile when he calls out, “Check out this buckskin,” waving me over like a game-show host unveiling a grand prize, “make a fine sofa for Mama, think?”

​

     In a hushed sigh, I eke, "I suppose.” Feeling as out of place as a poodle at a Pitbull party, wedged in between two burly loggers who'd be perfect for "Timber Beast's Got Talent."

 

     Abruptly, Pop breaks in, gumption of a log splitter, "Whatcha doin' here, eh?"

 

     Clearing my throat, hoping to sound more like Harrison Ford, less like Pee-Wee Herman, “I need to talk to ya, Pop.”

 

     His gruff, as indifferent as ever commands, “Spill it, kid.” And spill, I did. Uncorked like a bottle of vintage champagne. I let loose this torrent of dreams about donning flannel, conquering the backwoods like some sort of hipster Les Stroud. Imagine me, one sec shredding an air guitar, a spruce the next. Full disclosure, I couldn't play a lick of guitar. Muh, a minor detail on the grand vision board. Next on my to-do list.

 

     He can read my thoughts, I’m thinking. The one hidden beyond the plaid mask of dreaming. He's got the inside scoop on my mental chatter. I can practically feel it when he speaks. 

 

     "Scoot, kid," he bellows, splitting the silence like a mighty oak succumbing to the lumberjack's axe. "High-tail it home. Don’t let me catch you here again." The threat dangles, like a cliffhanger.

 

     The sheer unfairness of it all gets my blood boiling. My pushback, a sparky defiance against my gathering rage. 

 

     “But, Pop, I wanna be a lumberjack, too!”

 

     He serves a look harder than a late-night monologue skewering a politician. Like I announced plans to trade my boombox for a Walkman, and start grooving in an aqua disco ball.

​

     The lumberjacks, silent as a studio audience until this moment, erupt into laughter that echoes like a sitcom laugh track. Who knew that tree-felling folks could crack up like they've just seen a comedy queen's snatch game performance?

 

     But Pop, he ain't joining the laugh track. His irritation sticks out like a sore thumb in a handshake. He slaps his calloused hand on my shoulder, “This here's a man's gig, squirt. Not for boys like you. You ain't cut out for this kind of work.”

 

     "What’d ya mean?—Boys like you?” I’m puzzled, "If you're talkin’ height requirements, let me assure you I've grown since yesterday," I smirk. Though, let's be honest here, I'm more of a cocktail shrimp in a world full of lobsters.

 

    "Ain’t your scene, kiddo. Now, skedaddle." His glare, a silent storm of disapproval, leaves me bare. My self-esteem nosedives, hard and hurtful, like a balloon meeting a throne bush. Kicked out of the humiliation huddle, my ego is trailing behind me like a peacock that lost a beauty pageant to a turkey.

 

     That damn wilderness, acting high and mighty, passing pitiless judgments. Those trees are no mere bystanders. They're the no-nonsense panelists on Nature's harsh game show. Compassion? Slap in the face of my adversity. Each branch, each twig, and every little leaf, is practically dripping with scorn. An audience on mute, kicking back, soaking up the disaster unfolding before them with a perverse, binge-worthy curiosity.

 

     Even though my treehouse is just around the corner, there's this big ol' gorilla on my back, making the short walk feel like trying to bike across the whole galaxy. The summer heat is so thick, I could cut it with my plastic sword. And the non-stop chatter of the trees is driving me bonkers, echoing the epic battles from my favorite Saturday morning cartoons inside my head. I swear on my prized stack of Hardy Boys mystery novels, I was ready to put 'em all on my hit list. Every last one of 'em.

 

     In my noodle's noodling, something sparkles, as attention-grabbing as a rhinestone unicorn strutting among donkeys. Weaving through the pines, he's owning that whistle punk stand. Serving uncut lumber-licious glamour, while slaying with logger-realness. Topped with a side of fierce.

 

     His song bursts forth with the panache of a seasoned Broadway diva, "Bold voice uncages heart takes stage, in the pine's heart under star's age. Spirit soars forest roars, echoing echoes it's all yours." His rhythm, infectious, the trees around him sway in time. The forest seems swept up in a cha-cha slide.

 

     In the thick of the beat, all glitz and glam, sashays the Timber Tamer. Making his big-time debut in my world, not just strolling, but werk-ing it with a magnetic charisma like he owns the forest’s floor under his feet, preaching. 

 

     “Don’t sweat it, like, why would you?” His words roll off his tongue smoother than butter sliding down hot toast. “Like, ohmyGod, you’re meant for so much more. And your aura? It's like the collision between a sunbeam, and a pumpkin spice latte."

 

     His announcement spins me like a disco ball in a cat's playtime. All I manage to squeeze out, "Come again?"

​

     His grin’s full Pac-Man, trying to gobble up the moon, as he chimes in with a voice smoother than a MJ track, "Caught your pow-wow with your old man. Name's Michael, but all the cool cats know me as Madonna Mike." His words lingered, knitting an unspoken bond in the void between us.

 

     Michael, an ordinary name? Ah, but he wears it with the flair of a Parisian in a beret; just as out of place, and yet, owning it with an irresistible panache. In the gumbo of life he’s that dash of cayenne that makes you reconsider your bland culinary choices. His zest, more contagious than chickenpox at a preschool.

 

     His stride isn't merely a step, it's a one-man Mardi Gras moving at a snail's pace. His prance is so flamboyantly unique, lawyers are scrambling for copyright dibs. It's so singularly his, it makes vanilla feel like it got upgraded to rainbow sherbet. Seriously, the guy could trademark it.

 

     And his way of speaking? A striking lisp, as if his tongue is perpetually playing Twister with each syllable. This transforms the s's and z's into a symphony of hisses and hums that make you pause and listen. Words like 'special,' or 'amazing,' are his favorite dance partners, served up with a slow, sassy savor, like he's relishing a perfectly mixed cosmopolitan. Michael, you see, has a vernacular of the Valley girls, peppering his talks with gems like, "Girl, like, OhmyGod! It was, like, sssoooo amazing!"

 

     And speaking of Valley Girls, fasten your seat belts, 'cause we're zipping back to the bodacious '80s in our totally tubular time machine. The era of Punk Rock and raccoons were ready to file lawsuits over blatant rip-off of smoky-eye aesthetic.

 

     And hair? This isn't just some laid-back head covering to block out the sun. This is a rebellious, physics-defying billboard of self-expression, screaming your identity to the world louder than a chipmunk on a caffeine high. It’s all about the statement.

 

     Hairdos were the allegiance to the spotlight: a living, breathing testament to the social tribe you identified with. Imagine your own Everest, a towering triumph of hair spray, bobby pins, and unadulterated ambition. The more altitude, the more attitude. The higher it soared into the stratosphere, the more applause it harvested from the masses below.

 

     And what's hair if not paired with fashion? Michael’s a resplendent fashionista. His arms adorn with more black rubber bracelets than a Hot Topic stand. His blouse, a Hall of Fame for music legends. An MTV-infused Rosetta Stone. A walking 80s playlist of greats like Boy George, Pete Burns, and Robert Smith.

 

     But let's be clear, his pièce de résistance, Madonna.

 

     His collection of Madonna badges are off the charts. It's like a pop culture museum on his blouse. If her career was a pizza, he's got a slice for every topping: the "Like a Virgin" mozzarella, the "Vogue" pepperoni. Each gleaming pin a shout-out to his unwavering fandom, turning his chest into a wearable billboard of pop culture fandom, lit up like Times Square on New Year's Eve, under the forest canopy's spotlight.

​

     His Madonna obsession is so deeply ingrained in his persona, it's like she's his own Personal Jesus, directing his journey of self-discovery. Executed with a level of precision that could make a Swiss watchmaker question his career choices. He's capturing her essence, mirroring her moxie. Hard to differentiate where he wraps up, and where the Pop Diva takes the stage. If it weren’t for his beard I couldn’t tell.

 

     His attitude is a full-on assault against the mundane, waged with leg warmers and shoulder pads as weapons. Velcro rollers, teased hair, a polka-dotted bandana. He might as well have a neon sign on him blinking, I march to my own Bronski Beat. Dance with A Flock of Seagulls, in my living room.

 

     Madonna Mike pauses, giving the once-over with a gaze that's as intense as a laser beam, as his words tumble out of his mouth with a sort of cheeky charm, in his angsty teen lingo.

 

     "Like, ohmyGod, in case you're, like, curious, he's totally off base. I mean, check me out," he says, waving a hand at himself, "If I can pull this look off, anyone can.” The nerve of it, the brazen self-assuredness, it's as thrilling as a roller coaster, as laugh-out-loud funny as a well-delivered one-liner.

 

     "No offense, but your whole job is just blowing that whistle, right?" I say, rolling my eyes at the Steam Whistle idling over yonder. Every gadget that surrounds it, as familiar to me as the spangled galaxy of beauty marks gracing my own cheeks.

 

     "Listen up, sugar," Michael claps back, loaded with the flair of a jazzed-up Madonna wannabe. "I'm the mother of twenty-three timber Titians. A job so massive it'd make Joan Collins' shoulder pads slide. And I'm up to my Olivia Newton-John leg warmers in the Spar, too, baby. But trying to explain that to you is like teaching breakdance moves to a goldfish, isn't it?"

 

     He takes a showy pause, before stretching his words, "Here's the 411, boozy, if you see a gem that dazzles you, grab it by the glitter and squeeze the stardust.” His eyes flash with an uncanny gleam, a spark that signals the start of something captivating. "Indulge me," he says, his voice commanding the room as a seasoned actor center stage. As if unspooling a reel of vivid memories, he begins to narrate his tale.

 

     As we stand within the cathedral of conifers, Madonna Mike is a human sparkler, radiating exuberance with every syllable.

 

    "Sweetie, you've gotta trust you can tumble that timber," he purrs. "Anyone can bring down wood," he implies, with a wink and a nod. “But why on earth would you want to? It's a spine- snapping, fist-scuffing, sweat-pouring ordeal." With a casual flick of his wrist, coifs his locks in a flamboyant stroke, "And this humidity is it's a full-on crime scene for my do.” His speech falling over me like Tony Robbins audiobooks.

 

     He catches my gaze with his glinting peepers and out tumbles, "Look, if you've got an itch to fell a tree, then just go for it. Don't let any Larry, Moe or Curly tell you otherwise."

​

     As low-key as a drag queen on bingo night at a small town Rotary Club, but his comments aren't meant to roast, “It’s that muddy-orange I see around you. It shows you have an... imbalance. Like, for real, you need to get that in check.”

 

     Madonna Mike pauses, his head cocked akimbo as if trying to decipher a calculus problem on the face of a clown. "I mean, there's a spectrum of oranges that sing songs of joy and courage, but not on you. Uh-uh. No. You wear it differently.

 

     "But then, there's this rad golden aura shimmering around you, too. And the gnarly part... I see the color of change, a vibrant neon green, like an 80s arcade sign flashing, Insert Coin for the Mega Showdown! Like, sssoooo amazing, are you into that whole 'reach for the stars' vibe, by any chance? Are you ambitious?"

 

     The question, dangles there, a noose in the void between us. Me, a kid, really, lost in a sea of uncertainty, wrapped up in the absurdity of it all. Having a silent existential crisis amidst the pine cones. Him, he's a rock, solid in his unflinching certainty.

 

     Barely a whisper of air separated us, all thick and syrupy with the unsaid and the jumble of maybes. There I was, locked in a stare-down with Madonna Mike, my hands buried like groundhogs in the cavernous depths of my well-loved jeans.

 

     Finally, I pluck up the courage to shatter the relentless silence, “I never thought about it,” I admit, my words tumbling out into the hush like a parade of clumsy acrobats.

 

     A hearty gulp, and nostalgia fills my mouth with a flavor so bittersweet, it was like sucking on a dejected lollipop. "You know what Elvis Presley said about ambition, right? ‘Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine. Ain't nowhere else in the world (USA) where you can go from driving a truck to a Cadillac, overnight.’”

 

     My upbringing weaned on a diet of carburetors, pistons, and engine lingo, thanks to my gearhead brothers.

 

     "It's got a certain kick, doesn't it?" The words sliced through the air from Madonna Mike are fueled by curiosity.

 

     As I saunter away from the logging show, I find myself propped up by my unexpected shiny new dignity. The sun, once elusive, now hoses me down with a wild rush of golden light, turning ordinary dust into a mind-blowing lightshow of brilliance.

 

     Each footfall is a loud declaration of the earth-shaking changes Madonna Mike sparked within me. I slammed straight into my masculinity, my own flavor of machismo, born from the raging furnace of his fearless self-acceptance.

 

     Where green giants lock lips with the stratosphere, soft whispers roll like sage librarian hushing in the wind, a soothing symphony to a world in uproar. They bowed their heads in quiet applause, these ancient spectators, of my coming of age.

​

     They've seen the world's judgments, heavy as a massive redwood, try to squash me into the dirt. But was I squashed? No. I refused to be a trembling Pine awaiting the saw's kiss, my destiny dictated by the luck of where my roots took hold.

 

     As a kid, I aspired to be like my Pop, to don the flannel and be a lumberjack. But Mike, he showed me that my identity wasn't about the perfect ax swing or the calluses on my hands. His guidance led me to realize that my masculinity is my own, not mirrored or borrowed, but uniquely mine.

 

     His name, Madonna Mike, the Whistle Punk. He stands as the enduring homage to the little logger who dared to redefine his own sense of self. As strong and steadfast as the mightiest pine.