Tales From The Lebowskis - Great Jaja Adventures, Vol. 2

Welcome to the second installment of Tales From The Lebowskis! Last time, you were introduced to my great-grandfather, Great Jaja. You were promised at that time that the 2nd volume of Great Jaja Adventures would be the tale entitled "Tree Hunting." I have decided to change the order of the installments, and will be saving Tree Hunting for a later date, after I check some of the facts out with other Lebowski historians. Today's tale is Great Jaja Adventures, Vol. 2: Rasslin' Emergency.

Great Jaja loved professional wrestling, or "rasslin'" in his vernacular. This was odd, because Great Jaja hated most entertainment that he didn't find believable. He hated the film Jaws because, "without the shark, there's no damn picture!" So it was surprising to his friends and relatives that Great Jaja would enjoy professional wrestling, a sport that is not only fake, but makes no secret of this fact. When confronted with this, Great Jaja would always just reply, "I'd like to see you get in the ring with them, see how fake it is then."

He believed, until the day he died, that once Hulk Hogan had his limo driver bring him to Great Jaja's house to wave hello on the way to an important match. He believed this because one day he got a phonecall from his grandson Stephen Lebowski (more on him in a moment) informing him that just this would happen as a reward for years of rasslin' fandom, and moments later a limosine pulled in the driveway. The window lowered just enough to allow a man's hand to reach out and wave. Great Jaja asked if it was really Hulk Hogan. The hand gave a thumbs up. He offered the venerable Mr. Hogan a drink. The hand waved a refusal, then was joined by a second hand adorned by a wristwatch, which the first hand pointed to, indicating a lack of time to enjoy such hospitality. "Alright then, Hulk. Good luck rasslin'," dismissed Great Jaja. The limosine carrying his granddaughter's husband in the back, borrowed an extra day from a wedding rental, drove off into the distance. We're all assholes in the Lebowskis, kind of. But we're lovable.

One day, my father, Steve Thirty, aka FST (F-ing Steve Thirty, a nicknamed coined for him by a delightfully irate and comical restauranteur) and Stephen Lebowski, aka Hulka (not Hogan. Just Hulka.), the abovementioned grandson decided to take ol' John Lebowski aka Great Jaja up to the city to see some live rasslin'. Professional wrestling was not then considered the high art it is now, and the arena was really nothing more than a gymnasium with rows and rows of folding chairs packed tight around a wrestling ring. It should be noted here that Hulka and Great Jaja are/were both very large men. Great Jaja was of average height, but he had what we might today call a bit of a badonkadonk. And Hulka, well, his nickname is Hulka for a reason. He is mountainous. My father, FST, is of average size, perhaps very slightly shorter and a bit more fit than most.

FST, Hulka, and Great Jaja found three seats near the front. Much to my father's distress, Hulka and Great Jaja took the two outer seats, leaving only the center spot (barely) available. My father wedged himself between these two family-sized helpings of Lebowski, clamping his knees together and holding his arms more or less sarcophagus-style across his chest. He readied himself for what would be a long, uncomfortable evening of tolerating his in-laws' favorite fake bloodsport.

As the show went on, as shows are wont to do, my father noticed Great Jaja beginning to gently rub his (my father's) leg. At first he wrote it off as nothing, an unthinking movement of an elderly man. But the rubbing continued. My father silently caught Hulka's eyes and indicated the troubling motion. Great Jaja's eyes were fixed straight ahead, on the match, his face an impassive stone wall. Hulka contained laughter and shrugged; even if he COULD do something about this, it was too entertaining to interrupt. My father's distress increased as did the speed and force of the rubbing motion. Within seconds, the rubbing could only be described as frantic, and my father, dumbfounded up to this point, finally turned his head to address the issue.

Before he could utter a word, Great Jaja turned to him with panic in his eyes. "Jesus Christ, Steven," he said, a tremble in his voice, "I can't feel my leg!"

That's it for this installment of Tales From The Lebowskis. Stay tuned for more tales, including more Great Jaja Adventures! And coming soon, clear a spot (it better be a big damn spot) for Hulka to take center stage in his own tales of misadventure!