Archive for the 'Life Happens' Category

The Anger Displacement Hotline

“Hello. You have reached the anger displacement hotline. Our records indicate you have a misplaced anger transaction due today. Please listen carefully to the following menu options.

Should you wish to be the recipient of a misplaced anger and aggression message, please press ‘1′ to be connected to an authorized and infuriated representative who will maniacally rant and viciously unload upon you, blaming you for the political unrest in the middle east, the Nazi invasion, global warming, any number of natural calamities, and of course, their own personal problems - none of which are actually your fault.

Should you need to deposit any misplaced anger, please press ‘2′, and you will be instantly connected with a person who pressed ‘1′.

Should this service not be of interest to you today, please accept our good tidings and pass this hotline number to an interested party. Thank you.”

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I Win!

Aaaaron Dietz, fine and noted blogger of Myspace and Pointlessbanter, is now a published author. Aaaaaron recently posted a contest, awarding a signed copy of his book, ‘Reserved for Emperors’, to the first readers to post a review of his book on Lulu.com and/or Amazon.com. I was fortunate to have the fastest fingers and the quickest wit. My winning review can be read at Lulu.com.

A hearty ‘Thank You’ goes out to Aaaaaron - and as for the rest of you, check out Aaaaaron’s book, ‘Reserved for Emperors’!

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The Adventures of Sam and Rocketman - #2

Toys-R-Us never saw us coming, but they sure knew when we arrived.

Superman first had to make a break for the action figures to see if he had any new available likenesses. Sam Jackson and I perused GI Joe and Transformer reissues. Praises and critiques of the newest version of Snake Eyes or the smaller scale of Optimus Prime were made. Sam had, at the time, an affinity for He-Man toys, so these were observed and discussed as well. In short, having exhausted all immediately available options upon which to focus our collective ADD, more entertainment was required.

It began with a ball. (You know how guys like to play with their balls, right?) Tossing a stray medium-sized ball up and down isles was hardly challenging enough for the superior intellect of our party, so this soon graduated to playing catch between moving objects such as skateboards or scooters. Passes down the length of open isles became blind tosses over display racks. This continued until the moment Sam discovered the Holy Grail.

A child-sized Hot Wheels scooter beckoned Sam like a Siren from across the aisle.

Sam, unable to resist the glittering mischief suggested by the coquettish scooter, mounted it without hesitation and was immediately consumed with a gleeful and devilish pleasure. Giddy with the experience, Sam careened around the open spaces and slithered through the narrow ones with an eager gleam in his eye.

After the second or third pass, we spied the launch ramps.

These particular ramps were of the variety of corrugated, molded plastic designed to facilitate the hurling of small children on skateboards into oncoming traffic, down flights of stairs, or into painted metal railings. We made haste in positioning one of these in the widest possible aisle.

Word of our spectacle was quickly spread throughout toyland, and a small crowd soon gathered to watch Sam make a buffoon of himself. As the audience encircled him, Sam made a few precautionary passes as a precursor to the actual event. When sufficient audience support had been mustered, Sam made his approach.

After a mere three kicks, the Hot Wheels scooter had reached an alarming rate of speed. As the front wheel made contact with the ramp, it became immediately apparent that the apparatus had no non-skid application.  The ramp skidded unceremoniously from beneath the scooter. Sam lost control but avoided certain disaster by clowning his way out of a near-collision with an adjacent end–cap display. Undaunted by this initial failed attempt, the ramp was repositioned and The Rocketman was employed to hold it in place for the second run. Again the crowd was rallied. Again, three swift kicks translated to blistering Hot Wheels speed. To this day, I swear a shockwave was heard as the sound barrier was ruptured.

Sam made contact with the ramp, and this time the integrity of its position was maintained. Sam became airborne. An unfortunate balance miscalculation caused Sam to abandon the scooter prior to hitting the ground, though he was able to maintain control of the vehicle by the handlebars, land gracefully upon his feet, and bring the scooter to an uneventful and intact landing as well.

The cheers of the crowd had by this time attracted the attention of store personnel.

As we scanned the crowd for a means of inconspicuous escape, the ever benevolent Sam spied a young girl amongst the throng. She was wearing the biggest smile any of us had ever seen . . . and she was in a wheelchair. As Sam walked to the girl, she seemed overcome with excitement. She enthusiastically praised his efforts. In the midst of the hilarity, it was touching. It was also likely the only reason we were not ceremoniously ousted from the store.

As with the mall security from earlier in the afternoon, we took the hint of lingering Toys-R-Us employees as a sign to leave.

All told, and in the hindsight of a five-year friendship, I would say this made for an excellent introduction and first day out with my newfound compatriot in calamity.

The day was over, but the legacy of tomfoolery had just begun.

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The Boobinator

This is a blog about a boob. That’s right, just one. But first, a bit of backstory.

In nearly nineteen years of performing live music, I have never encountered a real, live “Show me your boobs!” girl. No spontaneous and generous flashes from the front row, no offers of a little eye candy to get backstage, nothing. (And no, I’m not soliciting.) However, as of September 19th of 2006, something similar yet immeasurably less appealing and infinitely more disturbing has.

I was driving home from work, relishing the thirty-five minute respite from a difficult day of brainstorming about things more important than the relatively mindless and trivial responsibilities of my ’shameful real job’. During one particular stretch of interstate there were relatively few cars. It was on this stretch of highway I happened to glance up into my rearview mirror and notice a maroon-colored minivan. In the driver’s seat of said minivan sat perched a brunette woman. Normally this would be a plus, but not yesterday.

If it is possible to dance using only one’s head, this woman had mastered the art. With her mid length brown locks whipping and flowing aginst the shoulders of her black business attire, her dark lipstick mouthing the words to some song obviously laden with attitude, she managed to fully express her enjoyment of the rockin’ tunes using only her cranium. ONLY her cranium. The remainder of her body remaind stock still. It was strange, but humorous and moderately cute from a distance. The oddity provided enough entertainment that I may have gazed a bit too long . . . even for a rearview mirror stare.

Brunette eventually pulled to the right, presumably to exit, but instead of leaving the interstate she accelerated to meet me side-by-side.  At this point, the hope of ‘cute’ dissolved in a blink.

Let me state here that many a woman in her forties can still catch the eye of many a young man; however, their appeal is quite different than that of a college co-ed simply by nature of time and poise. A good portion of that appeal lies in knowing the difference in their appeal and flaunting those differences rather than attempting to regain or mimic the appeal of a 22-year-old Spanish dancer who has had a bit too much to drink. That said . . .

Brunette in said minivan looked to be in her early to mid forties. She was wearing a variety of two-shades-too-light pancake makeup that the military is currently testing for use in stopping high-caliber jacketed hollow-point rounds at point-blank range. Apparently the the substance is also viable as a spackle alternative given that the various creases and folds of her face had been filled and smoothed with the stuff. Also adorning her visage were a pair of dark oversized Hollywood sunglasses from the FIRST time the fad was popular.

As I glanced over at Brunette, in one skillful, quick motion (and an obviously oft-rehearsed one) she lifted her top and exposed her left breast (apparently she was wearing no bra beneath the business attire) - while driving - then turned at the waist and cupped her nakedness against the window. Accompanying her display was an “Oh YEAH BABY!” nod, complete with the sort of sneeringly gleeful hard-rockin’ smile one would expect from a a girl on the front row at a Motley Crue concert.

I looked away and used laughter to repress the gag reflex. Her offering was the sad caricature of a stereotypical boob of a forty-year-old. I am quite certain even after only my cursory examination that the mammary in question would have been gratreful for some support other than the temporary relief offered by being held against a cold pane of glass to taunt the writer of this tale. I intentionally made the effort turn away as quickly as possibble, but unfortunately those shocked microseconds of visual were enough to brand the concentric ovals of her spider-webbed, age-creased, gravity-molded womanhood directly into my grey matter.

Suffice it to say, it was not an arousing or enjoyable experience, and I will never again laugh at a ‘Show me your boobs!’ joke.

My days of being a musician may be over. Certainly writers don’t face these risks . . .

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B&E In The Local Area Code

If I am a criminal mastermind, then security is obviously not the first priority of condominium contractors.

I discovered this on Monday morning after having spent Sunday night at my assistant’s condo. We had watched The Blue Man Group DVD ‘The Complex’, and afterward I was unable to leave due to extenuating circumstances; the circumstances being that my car became abruptly plagued by a rare and exotic brake disease.

(As a preemptive strike against those among you who would read too much into this, be advised that my friends and Miss Marin’s brothers - Alderweis and The Deal - were also in attendance as they temporarily share the same living space. Also of note are Pete and Dan - Miss Marin’s youngest and oldest brothers respectively - whom do NOT share her living space, but the inclusion of their names allows me to execute Nepotist Blog Movement #437 - Mentioning the Entire Clan in a Single Installment.)

The most practical use of scheduling made Miss Marin the logical candidate to deliver me to the oft-mentioned ’shameful real job’ on Monday morning. As the appointed time arrived for our departure, Miss Marin helped me schlep my guitar and other meager belongings down the stairs and to her vehicle, only upon arriving to discover her keys had been locked in the condo. In her haste to be an exceptional assistant, she had dropped her keys by the door as we made our exit.

It was at this point that I made two important discoveries.

#1 - it is exceedingly difficult - I daresay impossible - to scale a rain-soaked balcony without sustaining personal injury.

#2 - it is exceedingly simple to enter Miss Marin’s apartment by more conventional and less acrobatic means.

Apparently anyone carrying a department store gift card (in this instance, Wal-Mart was the proud sponsor) can enter through the front door of any condo in Miss Marin’s complex in less than 8 seconds. Miss Marin’s keys were retrieved, but her sense of security has been left in an understandable state of disrepair.

(note to self - give Miss Marin a deadbolt gift basket - hopefully I can remember this given that I can’t ask my assistant to make a note and remind me)

Miss Marin’s safety fears aside, I believe it is, in closing, most important to note that while I am NOT a criminal mastermind, I am smarter than most building contractors.

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