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COOKIE
“ C H A I N S A W ”
RANDOLPH
Cookie “Chainsaw”
Randolph provides
a well-thawed-out
perspective, weekday
mornings with Dave,
Shelly & Chainsaw on
100.7 Jack-FM.
Boy Blue
Little
The curious case of the Blue Ice Bomber (a true story)
January is the month of renewal, of fresh beginnings, of
rebirth. Yet, for me at least, the idea of rebirth can never
be contemplated without thinking of my original birth.
It’s a strange tale, but, according to those who know me
best, it explains a lot.
I’d like to share it with you.
My mother, San Francisco Bay Bomber roller derby queen
Hallie Randolph, was midway through a flight from San
Francisco to Denver in August 1955 for a game versus the
Colorado Sea Munchers, when she felt her belly rumble.
As was her way, she enlisted a teammate to whip her
down the aisle, knocking down three passengers ahead
of her in line to the lavatory. Once she squeezed into the
lavatory and upon the throne, the volume of the payload
surprised her, but she chalked it up to her voracious
appetite. Little did she know, what hurtled from that
Douglas DC-7 was not only the first and only blue-ice baby
on record, but the first to survive the tumble.
For her part, Hallie gave her ensuing trauma little concern,
having survived much worse on the banked oval at Kezar
Stadium, home of the Bay Bombers. That she soon began
lactating was a bit off-putting at first, but it soon became a
favored parlor trick at team parties.
As told by my adoptive godmothers, the chunk of blue
ice (me) crashed through the hull of a rowboat in the middle
of Trout Lake, Colorado. The single occupant, one Chester
Phelps, was thrown from the watercraft. Summoning a
courage he didn’t know he possessed, Mr. Phelps wailed so
plaintively that a rescue team from nearby Telluride beckoned.
His boat having sunk, a shivering Phelps was found clinging
to the chunk of blue ice (me), which had popped to the
surface after initial impact.
The rescuers were so curious about the chunk of blue ice
(me), they hoisted it (me) into the rescue boat before they
hoisted Phelps, who soon began to sink. The rescuers snagged
him with a grappling hook, which would leave him with a
nine-inch scar on his inner left thigh.
After dropping Phelps off at a local bait and tackle shop to
get stitched up, the rescuers took the chunk of blue ice (me)
to a nearby saloon for examination, but not before using it
(me) to chill a bucket of Coors. After a few hours and several
beers, the ice had melted and a baby wailed. To my rescuers’
astonishment and ever-lasting epiphanies, they believed a
beer-baptized messiah had fallen from heaven.
Blue heaven.
Overwhelmed by the responsibility, my drunken rescuers
swaddled me in a burlap potato sack and dumped the bundle
on the doorstep of the Midnight Ranch, a combination
Spanish mission/whore-house on the outskirts of town. It
must have been that place that inspired my life-long devotions
to the Padres and disinfectant.
As you can imagine, despite the initial trauma, I proceeded
to enjoy a typically idyllic American upbringing. Likely
due to that burlap swaddling, I never lost a potato sack race
during Telluride’s summer festivals, plus I won 11 diving
competitions at Trout Lake over the years (I hope this doesn’t
sound like bragging).
Having now shared this deeply personal tale, I hereby
open the bidding war for the movie rights to my life story.
(I’m thinking it’s a perfect vehicle for Brad Pitt, spinning
off his wide acclaim in The Curious Case of Benjamin
Button, not to mention his striking resemblance to what I
wish I looked like.)
The journey includes hardships (bullies who called me sh!tbaby)
and triumphs (a tearful reunion with my birth-mother
at a traveling carnival, where she was making ends meet as a
bearded lady/alligator wrestler).
The most amazing thing about this story? My mom played
the entire game the night of my birth, as her Bay Bombers
totally face-planted the Sea Munchers, 169-54.
Overwhelmed by the responsibility, my drunken rescuers swaddled
me in a burlap potato sack and dumped the bundle on the doorstep of
the Midnight Ranch, a combination Spanish mission/whore-house on
the outskirts of town. It must have been that place that inspired
my life-long devotions to Padres and disinfectant.
28 pacificsandiego.com { January 2011}