Chris Chase's Biography

by Jim Schweitzer

     Have you ever noticed that website biographies are always referred to as "biographies", and not "autobiographies"? Well, Chris has. He pays attention to detail. That's the sort of guy he is. So, in the interest of staying true to the letter if not the spirit of the language, he asked me to throw a little something together pursuant to covering the basics of his life story.

     So, here it is.

     Chris Chase's life began innocently enough. He was born in a sleepy midwestern hospital in a quiet midwestern town, a town that would also see him grow, mature, and graduate high school before moving on to larger, greener pastures.

     Chris' childhood was as well-rounded as one ought to expect. His parents, John and Linda, and junior siblings Ben and Sarah all helped provide a loving family environment and a warm, happy home. Yep. Chris had all of the traditional, value-centric foundations one might hope any kid would.

     So, one is hard-pressed to explain why he turned out the way he did.

     Now, that's not to say he turned out "bad," "deviant," or otherwise socially unacceptable; heavens, no. It's just that he isn't exactly 'human' in the sense that most of us comprehend the term.

     Let me explain, as best I can:

     A lot of us read superhero comics. Their combination of whiz-bang zoomery, colorful action, and suspenseful intrigue provides a nice, fantastic escape from the humdrum routine of our daily lives. Chris also collects and reads superhero comics. However, he does so for different reasons. Mostly, he's pickin' up ideas.

     You see, considering his quick mind, apparent physical invulnerability and almost supernatural luck, Chris is easily the closest thing I've found to a bona-fide superhero (minus the spandex). Oh, the stories I could tell you...

     For instance. I could tell you of the time that Chris' mother and her friend were having coffee at home, when suddenly they realized that infant Chris had toddled off in his little walker, and they hadn't heard from him in several minutes. When they found him a few rooms away, he had somehow managed to flip the designed-never-to-capsize contraption completely upside-down, and the full combined weight of baby and walker were resting squarely on Chris' little head. And he wasn't making a sound. Chris' mother approached in a panic, thinking for sure that inverted child plus walker on head multiplied by zero cries of pain or despair must surely equal a severely injured (or worse) child. But when she got closer, she realized that, in lieu of crying out of hurt or helplessness, Chris was actually kicking his legs and grunting quietly... attempting to right the walker.

     I could also impart the story of the time that a high-school-age Chris had just finished dropping off his then-girlfriend at her home in rural Wisconsin with time to spare before he was expected home. Rather than simply go, he figured he'd take the extra few minutes he found himself with to pull out his trusty skateboard, and finally brave the near-45° gravel driveway that led away from her house. His considerable thrashing skills kept him upright for most of the trip, but then the trucks on the 'board began to wobble under the pressure of the extreme amount of speed they were being subjected to, and he got pitched. Still, he had the presence of mind to tuck his head, and let his shoulder absorb most of the impact and subsequent skid. When he picked himself up and checked out the damage, he was sorry he'd worn a tank top that day. His whole upper-left arm was hamburger, and was more full of rocks than Rush Limbaugh's head. Nevertheless, realizing he was in the direct center of nowhere, he walked back up the hill and drove home, making in into the front door before nearly collapsing from blood loss at the feet of his father, who promptly carted his battered, bruised and bleeding butt off to the hospital. To this day, there's still gravel working its way out of his skin...But is there a drop of scar tissue to mark the site of the former wound? There is not.

     Just as staggering is the incident wherein college student Chris was being harassed by a small gang of common street thugs who were looking to relieve him of his trademark leather jacket and trusty Walkman. After repeatedly asserting that he was in no way interested in sharing his things despite their repeated entreaties that he do, things got ugly. They stopped asking and got a little more insistent. So, Chris responded with his own insistence. When push came to shove, he once again threw down the 'board, wheeled himself into busy urban traffic, and pushed off of a moving Milwaukee County Transit System bus to gain enough momentum to make good his escape.

     Then there's the tale of the malicious motorcycle. Chris was headed home from one of his many adventures one rainy afternoon, when the front wheel actually came loose from the fork at 65 mph. The damn thing just detached completely. Such an accident would've flipped and killed any normal person, but Chris managed not to lay it down, against every law of physics known to man. Once he ground to a stop, he simply dismounted, flagged down a lift home, returned with his toolbox, located the tire, fixed it, and sped off anew. Or the Jeep vs. Semi incident, when a semi driver who wasn't paying attention all but nudged the rear bumper of Chris' Jeep as he sped up an interstate entrance ramp, forcing him off of the highway and down an overpass embankment (no injuries, $40 worth of replacement bolt-on parts from the junkyard). Of course, I'd be remiss in leaving out the story of the day that the plows had long since given up and gone home, but despite road-closed warnings, Chris managed to pilot a tiny red sports car 50 miles through snow so deep it brushed his rearview mirrors. Or the time when he hit a full-grown deer at 70 mph in the same tiny sports car, then popped out the only ding with a plunger once he got home.

     Is the pattern apparent yet, or shall I go on?

     Of course, it's not just the death-cheating that qualifies Chris for superhuman status in my book and in the books of others. After all, any schoolchild knows that it's the responsibility of any good superhero to engage in witty reparteé with his or her adversaries, and Chris is no slouch there. Anyone who's witnessed (or even been the subject of) one of Chris' trademark dressings-down can attest: There's simply none better at holding up a mirror to the thinking-impaired, and forcing them to confront their own inadequacy. Really, the only crime in Chris' universe is forsaking or neglecting the perfectly good brain the powers-that-be bestowed unto you. He has zero tolerance for zero intelligence, and isn't afraid to say so. To put it bluntly, as is apropos in this context, he says the things we all think. He suffers no fools. This is an all-too-rare quality he embodies with gusto.

     So... Sharp intellect? Check. Nigh-invulnerable person? You betcha. Incalculable luck? Uh-huh. What’s left? What else does the modern superhero need?

     Ah, yes. The Secret Identity. Well, Chris has several to choose from. The guy wears so many hats, it’s a wonder his neck can hold them all up.

     Do we choose the attitudinous skate punk, cap on backwards, sneer firmly bolted in place? Even at the dawn of his fourth decade alive, Chris still has the limber frame, physical dexterity, shred skills and boyish good looks to pull off that persona. Or, maybe we pick the young urban professional; the Artist-at-Large, currently applying his skills as the head of the Graphics Department of a growing corporation. Perhaps the master builder, basement full of tools and materials joining with head full of know-how; creating gadgets and gewgaws to aid the crusade. Or the musician, who lays down the funky basslines or drumbeats before laying out the evildoers. Failing that, there’s always the raconteur playboy, life-of-the-party with apple juice in his whiskey glass, charming the ladies and entertaining the men. At the periphery, there’s always the physical laborer, the film actor, the computer geek, published author, hot-air balloon pilot, radio DJ, or chess aficionado. Y’know... Just in case the rest are already taken.

     And he makes it all look so easy. You wanna hate the guy, but it’s impossible.

     If there’s anything I’ve learned about Chris over the years, it’s this: Expect anything. Because it’s probably on the way. For Chris, the difficult is a breeze and the impossible merely difficult. So, if you’re reading this, drop the guy an e-mail. Not just because he’ll probably have some fascinating new adventure to impart, but also because he’s the kind of guy you want on your side. Trust me on this one.

J.S. - March, 2003