"Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through life trying to save."
Sunday, February 27, 2005
I haven't had my usual time to commit to my blog this week - and next week I'm in Nashville for important meetings. (and by meetings, of course I mean "drinking" appointments) It's time for the annual Country Radio Seminar, a time when radio types get together, talk about their year, discuss the future and... drink. Alot.
Side note: Country Radio Seminar is normally shortened to CRS. Which by the end of the week, usually stands for Can't Remember Shit.
During the course of the week there will be country artists roaming around the bar, you'll see people like Toby Keith, Hank Jr., a ton of start-up artists... and record companies whose job it is to see that their songs get played on your radio station. Those efforts include buying drinks and cigars for radio people at a pace reminiscent of a long-tailed cat covering up shit in a room full of rocking chairs.
Fortunately I'm not in charge of music at any radio station, those days are over. Now I attend the seminar simply for the opportunity to see clients and tell lies. Er, I mean share ideas. I will have my laptop and internet service, so chances are I'll have interesting stories to blog about. And probably compromising pictures, so "stay tuned."
Now it's time for our lovely Sunday morning ritual. I've made coffee, and in minutes my wife and I will sit and enjoy a cup. Right before she puts on her coat and heads out the door to show property and do an "open house."
Ahhhh, Sunday mornings with a realtor.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Well, to be honest I am a fairly emotional person. I resent it when I'm wronged and I'm protective of my family. But the honest truth is, it's just a blog.
The other day I had a couple of hours free and decided to go to a little Irish pub in our neighborhood. This guy at the bar was drunk and getting loud... and he wouldn't leave me alone. He kept asking me about my nationality and mocking the shirt I was wearing. Finally I had had enough, got up, spun him around and slugged him hard, square in the gut. He doubled over, and when he did I elbowed him on the back. At nearly the same time, the bartender came across the bar and subdued the guy... and we were both escorted from the bar. A guy shouldn't insult another man's nationality or his clothing - and frankly it pissed me off the point that I exploded!
That was a lie. Many times in the world of fictional writing, both professional and blog, we embellish a story to elicit a reaction. I get bored and feel the need to shake things up.
I should tell you I DID go to Frailey's and DID have a discussion with a guy at the bar about my shirt and where I was from. He WASN'T drunk, we DIDN'T fight, it was friendly and brief. But the story was better in it's embellished form.
I don't enhance all my entries - most of them are dead on. But don't get the wrong idea, my blog is an outlet for creativity as much as a release for me.
Besides, I'd rather get pissed off and write it down... than take it out on a poor guy at the bar.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Jon Stewart did a piece recently on blogging that I found VERY funny. If you have a high speed connection, click the link. It might not be advised for slow connections.
Here it is.
Stewart is funny. His style is right up my alley and I'm a big fan.
And that DOESN'T make me gay.
We all know the Pope is not in good health. Now, he's been hospitalized again and given a tracheotomy.
Look, as harsh as it may sound, I figure it's only a matter of time. God bless him, he's 84. He has pneumonia. But I hope he stays with us a little while longer for a really selfish reason. I have a morning show to do tomorrow, filling in for a guy on vacation... and I don't want to have to spend the morning talking about it. No disrespect, I just wouldn't know what to say. I'm not Catholic. I'd be finished after... oh, 15 seconds. But they would WANT me to spend the whole show talking about it and taking calls.
So John Paul, hang in there man. Kick this thing to the curb and get back to work. It's what we ALL want.
For our own reasons.
Side note: Today is Abe Vigoda's birthday. He's 84 also. I don't know what that has to do with anything, but... now you know.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Back in the 70s, when I was an over-the-top perfect kid, my Aunt Laura and Uncle Ronnie worked for Warner Brothers Pictures in Hollywood. Since there weren't many 9-year-olds who got to wander around that famous lot and see the sets where movies are made, it was awesome to hang out with them. And, that made it ultra-sweet when my Mom asked if I'd like to live with Laura and Ronnie. (she was doing some over-the-road driving, and that's no life for a kid)
They lived in a condo in the Hollywood hills, and were textbook Californians... vegetarians, drove a little fuel efficient Honda Civic, loved Rod McKuen... they lived the lifestyle. Aunt Laura was an office worker and an occasional extra for movies, Uncle Ronnie was the studly actor type.
And I was an experiment for them. They were fairly sure they wanted children, but it was a tough decision because Uncle Ronnie had quite a career going. Well, it turned out my presence cemented their resolve... and once they had decided, it was near-constant "doing the dirty." I remember some Saturdays they would lock themselves in the bedroom for hours on end, so I would walk to the park and play with friends. It was alright with me - I had fun, they had fun! I was almost 10 at the time, so I was hip to the "ins and outs" of life.
Being a vegetarian wasn't easy to adjust to. Aunt Laura would send lunch to school with me every day, consisting of half a peanut butter sandwich, half a head of lettuce, some carrots, an apple and juice. I spent a big part of the first two weeks in the bathroom - I hadn't seen that much roughage since I mistakenly ingested a half-dozen railroad ties while sleepwalking at age 6 when we lived in Vallejo.
School was a weird thing in Hollywood... I walked nearly a mile each way, and we'd start the day by gathering in the breezeway, lining up and singing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home." It was 1974 - heck, Johnny was already home. I never understood that.
Living with Laura and Ronnie, the walk to school, the hills, the sun, their attention... I miss it. It was truly a high point in my life. And I remember the day it - quite literally - all came crashing down.
I woke up the morning of March 14, 1974 to the sound of my Aunt crying in the living room. I went in to see what was wrong, and through violent sobs she told me of the news report she had just seen on television.
For about a week, Uncle Ronnie had been on a shoot for an ABC television series called "Primal Man." They had flown up into the White Mountains for the location shooting, and were flying home late on the night of March 13. Just after take-off, the plane crashed into the mountain side, killing all 36 aboard. She had learned of the crash on the morning news. The police arrived at our house a couple of hours later... my Uncle Ronnie was gone. I could only imagine how she felt, they were inseparable. I had never seen a couple more in love... and all I could do was sit and hold Aunt Laura and pat her shoulder.
Ronnie and Laura were such a positive force in my life. I'll never forget the time we shared and how they made me feel important and needed. They wanted a child so much... and it turned out I would be the only child they would ever have. Shame, they would have made amazing parents. They were instrumental in making me realize my own potential - and through them I found a self-confidence I never knew I had.
I will always be grateful to them.
And really glad the whole vegetarian thing didn't stick.
I have nothing meaningful to contribute to society this day - I hope you understand. I feel like I'm letting... oh, could be 4 or 5 people... down. Great. More guilt.
I was annoyed by the alarm clock at 4 am, showered in my sleep and did the morning show on our local country station today. I don't think I pissed anyone off, I avoided most controversial subjects except Paris Hilton's blackberry. (get your mind out of the gutter, I mean her electronic organizer) Even THAT subject felt flat to me, I just didn't have the energy to be my usual sarcastic prick-of-a-self.
I came home at 9 am, Tawnya had breakfast ready, then I took a short nap. I feel much better now, although not creative at ALL. I need to find some intellectual stimulation. And this is clearly not where I'll find it. So I'm off...
Monday, February 21, 2005
Hunter S. Thompson -- journalist, gun-collector, enemy of the state -- committed suicide on Sunday at the age of 65. Most famous for his book about a road-trip/drug orgy through the Nevada desert, "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," he single-handedly invented "gonzo" journalism.
My friend Russ just emailed to remind me of a quote from Hunter - I had forgotten it was he who said it... and it's obvious he knew what the radio business is like:
"The radio business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs. There's also a negative side."
Sunday, February 20, 2005
A blonde woman was speeding down the road in her little red sports car and was pulled over by a woman police officer who was also blonde. The blonde cop asked to see the blonde driver's license. She dug through her purse and was getting progressively more agitated."What does it look like?" she finally asked.
The policewoman replied, "It's square and it has your picture on it."
The driver finally found a square mirror in her purse, looked at it and handed it to the policewoman. "Here it is," she said.
The blonde officer looked at the mirror, then handed it back. "Okay, you can go. I didn't realize you were a cop."
A blind man walks into a biker babe joint, sits at the bar and orders a beer. He says loudly, to whomever was within earshot, "Anyone want to hear a great blonde joke?"
A woman next to him, hoping to spare him the embarrassment, said "I can see you're blind, so I feel it's only right I tell you, I am blonde. The bartender is 6'1" and blonde, the woman to your right is a blonde body builder and the woman behind you is a blonde karate black-belt. So do you want to reconsider telling that joke?"
He thought for a second. "You're right, forget it. I don't feel like explaining it 4 times."
Saturday, February 19, 2005
So the van was moving in and out of traffic with no concern for any vehicle that might be in the way. If he wanted to change lanes, he did... regardless. Move if you don't wanna get hit. And he didn't use his turn signal.
Side note: Ever daydream that you have the ability to blow up a vehicle with special gamma ray vision? Just look at it, get that expression on your face (the one of extreme concentration, sort of like Condoleeza Rice looks all the time) and the car goes boom. I am still dealing with the guilt which comes with those daydreams. But that's another story.So finally I have the chance to pass Mr. Asshole mini-van driver and take the opportunity to glare at him. What I see is priceless.
The people are praying. The driver has one hand in the air, the passenger has both hands in the air - and they are both looking up and... chanting. In unison. I nearly ran off the road.
I wonder, do people really believe they can conduct themselves in whatever manner they wish and God will keep them safe?
Except for the fact they had survived this long, (they looked to be in their 40s) I'd say they were NUTS. I don't think God has much to say about changing lanes.
But I'll bet he has a LOT to say about misuse of gamma ray vision.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Can a skeptic be skeptical about real evidence? Sure, but those aren't true skeptics. True skeptics are leery about non-evidence-based theory. Those who dispute real evidence are... well, they're wackos. Example: the moon landings were faked. It's a preposterous notion when you consider factual evidence.
The conspiracy theorists who perpetuate the idea that 9/11 was staged by our government for it's own gain are just such wackos. To these people, out-of-context quotes, shadowy pictures and black helicopters ARE their evidence. So Popular Mechanics decided to put some experts to work to "test" the facts and evidence of 9/11. I thought the article was fascinating - read for yourself.
Unless you're a wacko.
9/11: Debunking The Myths
Thursday, February 17, 2005
(I will have to ask though, that certain activities, like your phone calls to your Mother and the donation you made to tsunami victims STOP immediately. It is muddying up your approval process.)
You’re one lucky sinner! You’ve earning the "A level package!" A 3 story, 25-thousand square foot mansion is awaiting you, nestled on the banks of the Styx river. (you have a dock, but you still need to earn a boat – I suggest forgetting your wife’s birthday again… that should do it)
You will have a small weekend cottage by the lake of fire JUST for how you treated that bartender last night. Priceless... especially the insult about his brain size… something about shoving it in a gnat’s ass being similar to a bee-bee in a freight car? You’re quickly adding up bonus points, which can be redeemed for things like loneliness, pestilence and self loathing upon your arrival.
And that email you sent your friend, Dr. Mike. What did that say again? Oh yes.
Dear ass munch:Strictly from the pen of pure evil, my friend!
You lazy bastard. Will you take 10 minutes away from masturbating, eating, or berating the innocent... and WRITE IN YOUR FUCKING BLOG? I'm sick of looking at your last entry, an ill-conceived doctored up picture… probably a product of a late night absinthe-induced photo-editing software purchase you made to see if you could give that nude snapshot of yourself a bigger dick.
In closing, I guess I’ll see you soon. Your recent activities have not only accelerated your arrival time (you should receive an ETA from old “grimmy” soon) but I’m also happy to announce you’ll be whisked away in true VIP fashion aboard the Hell Express.
First class, mon frere.
B. L. Z. Bubb, a.k.a. Lucy Furr
The Prince Of Darkness (P.O.D.)
PS - I'm going to have to ask you to stop occasionally helping your wife with dinner.
It is no secret how the rich get rich. Shrewd thinking, strategic investments. And, sometimes on the backs of unsuspecting blokes. Or blokettes.
Real estate is a tough business. And, sometimes I just need to keep my over-opinionated mouth shut about my wife's transactions. Now is not one of those times.
About 8 months ago, she listed a house that had been on the market for well over a year. The previous TWO agents who had taken a shot couldn't find a buyer. The housing market was worse then, there were problems with the house... a myriad of reasons the home hadn't sold. But during that time my wife had listed and sold 2 other houses on the same street, and when the owner saw her success, he immediately enlisted her to do her magic.
Quick history... the owner is a retired CEO. He had purchased the house 3 years ago, not for himself, but for his daughter. She has since moved elsewhere and now he's selling it. He owes nothing on it, he paid cash. HE lives in a 700 thousand dollar home right now - and is having a 1.5 million dollar, 11-thousand square foot home built. Needless to say, he has plenty of money.
Anyway, my wife found a buyer for the house and it will close soon. Mr. Rich Seller will make a pretty good profit on it, especially considering he hasn't put a dime into improvements of any kind. I'm talking about 50 grand here.
So during the repair work negotiations for the transaction, the buyers asked that the Masonite siding settlement claim (long story, but worth probably 8 grand) be transferred to the them... it is, after all, they who will need to make the repairs. He balked! He wanted to keep settlement money for siding on a house he didn't even own.
Secondly, the buyers asked that a sump pump be installed.
And that was IT. They asked for two things - one should have been automatic (settlement claim) and the other costs 300 bucks.
Well, my wife was finally able to talk the seller into the sensible thing, letting the buyer take the settlement for the siding. But the rich, gluttonous PRICK made my WIFE pay for the sump pump out of her own commission. She had busted her ass for this guy, found a way to sell a house nobody else could sell - and he makes her pay for HIS fucking (pardon) pump.
Come on, Dave, it's a small thing. It's only 300 bucks.
Screw him! When she told me this, I nearly SHIT myself! (that's right, SHIT is italicized - which means, well... SHIT) If it were me, I would have, in no incertain terms, told him where he could shove his house - and how far in it should go - and allowed his deal to fall through. Then I would have withdrawn the listing and sent him back to square-one with another agent.
But she is more patient than me - and apparently a better big-picture person. Had she done that, it would mean she had performed all the work for nothing - losing her investment of time, and about 9 grand.
And besides, now I've calmed down and I guess I can see her point. I reluctantly... agree. With. Her............
No. You know what? SCREW HIM. I've become pissed off ALL OVER AGAIN just by telling the story. If there were any justice, that prick should right now be out shopping for a 40 gallon drum of petroleum jelly for his insertion procedure.
I'm headed to my therapist to find xanadu for a little while.
So you tell me, how would you have reacted? Don't be shy, leave a comment. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Chain emails are annoying, especially the ones that require you to fill in blanks and forward them so your friends know more about you. I've received requests for top 10 CD lists, the old "deserted island" question, links to RATE-THE-MUSIC sites... ugh.
Having said that...
We have two vehicles at the Morris compound. They appropriately reflect the diversity of the personalities of my wife and me. A BMW 745Li, and a GMC Sierra crew cab pickup. Depending on what mood we're in... that's the vehicle we'll drive that day.
So what music will you find in the CD players in the vehicles:
I'm not sure what the open slot in the truck CD player says about us. Nor am I certain what it means that we own two copies of the Buffett CD. I try not to overanalyze things.
BMW - (6-CD changer) The Essential Heart "Greatest Hits", Firefall "Greatest Hits", Alanis Morrissette "Jagged Little Pill", Jimmy Buffett "License to Chill", Sons of the Desert "Whatever Comes First", and Counting Crows "Hard Candy."
Pickup - (6-CD changer) Joe Diffie "Greatest Hits", Gretchen Wilson "Redneck Woman", Jimmy Buffett "License to Chill", Shawn Mullins "Soul's Core", and the Forrest Gump Soundtrack.
As I was sitting on the couch with my wife tonight surfing the net, I stumbled across something I have to pass along to you. He is a self-proclaimed oldtimer who calls himself Hoss... not really all that old (74 he says) but with a delightfully healthy level of immaturity.
Hoss, for whatever reason, has come to take up residence in what he calls a "Golden Oldie Home of False Teeth and Hips" - an assisted living retirement home somewhere in Oregon. I don't know the story of his life, where his children might be (if he has any) or how content he is with his current status quo. I do know that he appears to be having a blast. The diary he writes about life in the slow lane (and the oddball but society-mirroring cast of characters he shares his home with) made me smile. As I was scanning his site, I realized that his humor and positive perspective was totally disarming. Reading the stories actually gave me a feeling of relief - that growing old might not be so bad after all. There's a funny line here, something about grizzled gaiety - but I digress.
Check out his blog if you have a minute. It's called Old Horsetail Snake.
I can only hope to be as fun, interesting - and graceful - as Hoss when I am 74. If life throws you high inside fastballs, it's recommended that you lean back a little and take your best swing.*
* I'm sick of the lemons/lemonade metaphor
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
And to think I was just looking for a hobby.
I'm talking about the BLOG. Not to be confused with the kitschy horror film from the 50s, "The Blob."
Okay, maybe a bit of a let-down, considering I made it sound more like the building of the Roman Empire. But it's interesting how journalism is undergoing a massive global redistribution of power... taken from the hands of a few large, powerful media companies (many for whom I work) and given to the fingers of individuals from Warsaw Missouri to Warsaw Poland.
Looking back, I've always wanted to be a columnist, sharing my twisted view of things with an audience of readers. Well... here I am. I didn't have to apply for a job with a newspaper... I didn't have to attend journalism school... heck, I didn't even have to leave the house. And the fact that you're reading this is a clear indication that - well, maybe that you have no life. I don't know.
The internet has long been expected to be instrumental in the shift from centralized control. It is only now beginning to see it's true potential. When you can click a mouse in Russia and turn your kitchen lights on in Chicago... or better yet, click a button on your cell phone and publish your autobiography for the world to read... you see how truly large the concept could become. People are using blogs for a myriad of purposes... showing off baby pictures, keeping a journal, group study... and it's free.
When a blogger can bring down an institution such as Dan Rather, (the memogate scandal) it's a flashing, buzzing, annoying light that says THE WORLD IS CHANGING. Will this new instant access to publishing mean the demise of the MSM (mainstream media)? Probably not - at least not in the short term. Billions of people still have no idea what a blog is. But it is certainly holding the media's feet to the fire, ready to shine a big bright spotlight on anything that appears counterfactual.
There is a danger, too. Unfortunately, we're depending on the honor system here... there are no rules or codes of ethic governing what can be written, other than the yet-to-be-defined outline of a world-wide morality. That's scary. For instance, I can hit a few buttons and publish in deadly detail the story of a friend's rather nasty case of rectal warts.
I'm just giving you a few seconds to let that sink in - and then exorcise the visual from your mind.
You can see what a dangerous, yet exciting precipice we're on. We will each have to decide how we will react to it. But one thing is clear. While spending billions of dollars trying to find life on Mars or Titan, we're discovering there is life on Earth. Individual people we didn't even know existed. And now we can know their opinions! How great is that?!?
Hmmm. On second thought...
Monday, February 14, 2005
On this Valentine’s Day, to Tawnya, I’d like to say thank you.
The past several years have been exactly what I needed. It’s no small accomplishment that our relationship survived and thrived in such a world as this, and under these circumstances. I’ve had the opportunity to experience how life really should be since you took the bold and brave step of making me your husband. It requires character and fortitude to risk one’s personal treasure for a man who has yet to prove his marital prowess. Just the idea you’d take that chance gives me pause.
At any given moment, your door is open and all sorts of people walk in. Each wants something different from you… many times, it’s advice. Some want money. Some ask for your time. Some I’m sure wish for other things… your attention and love, perhaps. I find it fascinating that, of all people who would or could deserve it, you’ve chosen me. I try comprehending it, but frankly I’m just not capable.
For reasons too numerous to relate here, (and many I don’t even know) I’ve spent many years with a closed heart. Fear and apprehension have hidden my deepest self from those who have loved me. How on Earth you’ve removed so many barriers and lowered so many defenses is beyond me. Maybe it was your willingness to wait. Patience is a virtue of which I know little… and you seem to possess an endless surplus. Maybe it is your incredibly friendly nature, your positive aura or your smile. Who knows.
Trying to comprehend the intricate workings of your heart and mind… and attempting to discover what it is that has so completely disarmed me, would only leave me drowning in the mystery. So it shall suffice that I be thankful for you… look forward to grey hair with you… watch our children grow with you… anticipate age without fear or depression… and enjoy and be grateful for the footprints you’ve left on my heart.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Weekends are prime real estate time - and my wife is a realtor. Which makes times like these all the more fun. I'm sitting in the truck with Regis while my wife walks our old neighborhood saying hello and passing out valentine candy. She runs over to the truck when she needs more supplies, then it's back to hoofing it, shaking hands and kissing babies.
Real estate is a difficult business, especially when you're trying to build a clientele. She's doing so well she almost doesn't need to work it - but she's driven to succeed, and heck... it's extra money. She's been inspired by our friend Robin Williams, who is one of the best agents in St. Louis. Nice to have a mentor to help with motivation. I'm certainly not very motivational... know-it-alls seldom are.
Am I not a geek? I actually brought my laptop to take advantage of prime blogging time while Tawnya is out of the truck.
But I'm also a normal guy. Because I also brought beer.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Strange, the timing of his death. At almost the moment he died, last night while driving home, I was having a fit of self-doubt. The kind Miller's character Willy Loman experienced in the play.
Death of a Salesman embodies what most men go through at a time in their lives. That moment of self-awareness, that instant when a man looks back at his years and realizes that the book of his life he intended to write turned out differently. (I say most men because I'm sure some never go through it. I have... I am... and so I am not one of the lucky ones)
My regrets are not huge ones... I never went to college, and wish I had. I allowed people to walk on me a time or two, and wish I hadn't. I made some disastrous financial decisions early in life. I didn't get to know myself very well until recently, which could have spared me some personal expense...
The book of my life, or the one I intended, isn't exactly following the path I had hoped. My story was to be that of a big-time radio guy. A popular personality who always knew the right thing to say at the right time. He made his listeners' lives richer, and was respected in his industry. He was important and in demand. He never stumbled or faltered... and as he aged, he kept his edge. When he retired, people would still call him and ask his advice - and toward the end, he would write a book about his successes in radio and the people and places he'd seen.
You know, I'm not sure exactly where that story began to falter. I suppose somewhere toward the beginning, the part about being big-time. I reached a certain level of success in radio, but nothing near what I had dreamed. There were lots of restarts, retries and resets. When I lost my most recent job in 2000, I decided maybe my book had been miswritten.
So I reluctantly moved into a related business. It wasn't what I had envisioned for my life... it's a business rife with changing trends, and at any moment I could be yesterday's "flavor of the day." I hope that my flexibility and willingness to modify will prevent that from happening, but in those moments of self-doubt... well, you know.
The bottom line is, I am not the man I thought I would be.
But you know, those moments can be helpful if you let them. In a somewhat epiphanous way I have been reminded that what I DO... is not really who I AM. How I father... how I husband, how I handle friendships, is who I am. Conducting life day-to-day in a way that satisfies me and makes me proud... that's who I am.
And you know what? I guess I do pretty good at what I do. As voice over guys go, I get plenty of respect. I have a place in the business and a dog in the hunt. My clients like what I give them and I enjoy giving it. I'm growing faster than I ever hoped. Sometimes I wonder if I deserve what I have, but mostly I think I do.
Am I the person I dreamed I would be? Not exactly.
But I like Anita Sharpe's quote - "Accepting your destiny sometimes means abandoning your dream."
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Now the medical world has acknowledged its effect on the human body. The symptoms are not contrived, nor imagined, they are real. Not irreparable, according to doctors, as a heart attack is. But every bit as painful.
I remember my first broken heart. I was 16. (transitional harp sound and picture goes fuzzy)
We'll call her Pam, (because that was her name) and she lived just down the street from where I worked. We met at school, and as we became better acquainted, found we were very much alike. She would call me after school, and some nights we'd talk for 4 or 5 hours. Finally I got up the courage to offer her my class ring. She said she was wondering what took me so long. Yippeeee! Life was good.
Pam always did the sweetest things... she'd bring lunch to me during my weekend on-air shifts. I remember finding cute little notes on my car window... I can still see clearly in my mind the way she'd make me tea, stir it with her finger and sit right next to me to watch TV. She's the first girl that I ever really kissed.
Her parents had dreamed of vacationing in Alaska for as long as I'd known them. Her brother was stationed in Anchorage, so finally they made their plans. I was excited for them, but dreaded the absence - it was a 2 week trip! So I offered to be their airport transportation. Honestly, It was just an excuse to get to hang out with Pam a little longer before they left. As I kissed her goodbye at the gate, she gave me an extra squeeze and promised she'd call.
She never did.
The first week, I thought about how she probably just couldn't find a phone. Or they were too busy taking tours... or visiting her brother. Or a glacier must have broken loose and severed the phone lines. Finally, since I didn't have a phone number, I sent a rose to her brother's address. A note was attached, "miss you, call me."
In the middle of week two, the phone rang. It was her Father's voice on the other end, he was calling to arrange the time to pick them up at the airport. We worked it out, then I asked to talk to Pam.
"She's... uh... out right now Dave." His voice was steady but a little stressed. I knew something was up.
"She hasn't called me, you guys must really be busy. Did she get the rose I sent?"
"Yeah, she got it." Long silence. "I don't know what to tell you son."
"Uh... well... okay. So... 7 o'clock - I'll meet you at the gate." We hung up and I knew it was over. Pam had met a guy on vacation and we were finished. When I picked them up at the gate, she didn't speak to me. Not a word. The ride back was uncomfortable... I dropped them off and went home.
I cried all night that night. I probably didn't sleep for 3 days. I told Mom I would never feel the same about another person... and how life as I knew it was over. My buddy Ken and I took a weekend road trip to Mizzou to see an Alabama concert, but even the gorgeous college girls couldn't take away the pain.
But as young love often does, it faded pretty fast. Between my school and work, my mind had plenty to do, and I found myself thinking about it less and less...
And within a month, I was dating Pam's cousin.
(transitional harp again, fuzzy memory segment over)
I'm not sure if my story has a moral, but I do know this. Broken hearts are real. I know exactly where the cracks are in mine. Evidence of physical irreparable damage? The experts say there's none.
I might have to disagree.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
That is my request. I don't understand the DNR. (do not resuscitate) What if there is a chance to live a normal life... why blow it by not allowing CPR or a defibulator? Duh.
Those who have DNRs have no imagination, no hunger for life. If you are truly looking that forward to being fertilizer, why wait?
Me? If I'm in a coma, at least I'm getting some good sleep. And who knows, maybe they'll cure comas in 5 years and I wake right up.
Imagine THAT breakfast!
Monday, February 07, 2005
Now it seems that's ALL we talk about. In fact, recently on a television talk show I heard all three covered in one kinky coversation about Pat Robertson's bedroom etiquette.
Yesterday's Super Bowl broadcast has been called "boring." Yes, because of the lack of booty-shaking hip gyrations, crotch grabbing and near-nudity, it somehow failed to keep the attention of the American public. (ratings were down 4 percent from last year's game) And because of a lack of "equine digestive venting" (last year's fart-lighting clydesdale) and sex-edgy subject matter, even the commercials this year have been labeled monotonous.
Add to that puzzling reality, the current fare of network programming. There's an apparent need to watch fellow humans consume vile things such as boiled jackyl balls or fat-guy ass lint on that great example of American television, Fear Factor.
I just don't get it. Soon we'll grow so accustomed to these new social and entertainment lows, "reality" shows may actually become reality. Quenching our entertainment thirst will become nearly impossible. Already, keeping my kids away from the mindless swill on television and the internet is as difficult as keeping Kirstie Alley out of Baskin Robbins.
And even she is starting a new diet.
I'm as progressive as the next guy. I like T&A - I'm a red blooded male. We lead a fairly liberal lifestyle (within reason) but there are things best discussed and experienced alone. In private. Do I want someone WATCHING while I'm gyrating about wildly in a g-string or consuming a snack of jackyl balls?
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Note to friends: I know what you are thinking. Screw you.
I am the pickiest male I know regarding cleanliness. It's almost obsessive. If the kitchen sink has anything in it, I break a bead of sweat. My wife has a habit of soaking things. Casserole dishes, the blender caraffe... and all I can think of is, what if a family of mosquitos set up household in there?!?
I'm also a couch-cushion nazi... they need to be in a certain order and straight. What if we have company, for chrissake??
My yard needs to be tidy. (although I haven't picked up Regis' "debris field" in a while) I don't like newspapers in the yard. I don't like leaves or other organic refuse tainting the hedgerow.
And then there are the vehicles. We're on a road trip right now to Jefferson City to my brothers for Super Bowl weekend. My wife has been driving our pickup all week - and may I say one of my pet peeves is when people just throw spare change into the cup holder and it gets mixed in with dust, soda and straw papers. Then lipstick, pens, a gillion post-it-notes with outdated messages, CDs, McDonalds cups, coffee mugs, etc. collect in the floor of the passenger seat.
Whew. I needed that.
So I cleaned out the truck and we're on the road. I'm connected via wireless through Cingular's EDGE network. Pretty cool. I'll check in later. I need to tidy up my computer bag.
Friday, February 04, 2005
Thursday, February 03, 2005
At only 19,999.95, it looks like I can afford to buy one for each of my friends... Gary, Mike, Rick, Ron, John, Billy, Roger and Dave. I plan to purchase a plot of land upon which we can operate the "Badonkadonks." For an hour we can play tag in them. The next hour will be a cross-country coyote hunt-n-shave, then a little time for demolition derby.
At the end of the night, we'll build a fire, drink Milwaukee's Best Light and scratch ourselves. The coyotes will huddle close to the fire, shivering. Then we'll polish our body armour, floss and drift off to a restless sleep.
The next morning it's IHOP for salisbury steak and whipped cream.
Gosh, I can't wait. I think I'll sharpen my hedge trimmers.
As boxing legend Don King said, "You don't get nothing from sleep but a dream."
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
I'm sorry if I offend the elderly, but I don't feel my tax dollars are well spent giving Elmer a woody. The way I see it, if I'm not getting sex at 40, I don't feel like paying for the coital fix of someone twice my age.
Maybe I'm being a prick. Oh well.
But I AM offended by this. Give me a break, are there no new ideas in television? Do we really need another Apprentice-type show?
I can see it now. The BigFatRealWorldQueerEyeObnoxious-ApprenticeNannySurvivorBachelorIdolFactor911.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
But if science somehow ground to a halt today and we discovered no more cures - how old would YOU live to be? Here's my score:
Take the test if you want, it only takes a few minutes. Ironically, you won't know if you can really AFFORD those few minutes until after you've taken the test. Hmmm.
By the way, this test was developed prior to the release of Hardee's Monster Thick Burger. Take one year off your results for every thick burger you've consumed.