So, I’m driving down the road watching people in my rear-view mirror and I realized that people really do some ridiculous stuff in their cars. The lady behind me was squinting like a far-sighted fat man at a strip club as the sun shone in her windshield. She had the visor down. Had she flipped the visor up, she would have found her sunglasses. I laughed at that for about 8 miles.
As the novelty of that wore off I started flipping through radio stations. It must be a guy thing – TVs, radios, it doesn’t matter because we’re just not satisfied with whatever station the thing is on. Anyway, I’m pushing 'seek' like a madman desperate to find something in English that doesn’t feature roosters crowing and I hear a familiar bass-line from what I think is a Queen song.
No such luck. It turns out to be Vanilla Ice’s, “Ice Ice Baby” from 1989 or whatever. My first instinct, as is often the correct response, is to turn it off in favor of something less obnoxious like Tony Basil’s “Oh, Mickey” but there just aren’t that many stations on the dial.
And here’s the thing – I left it on and Vanilla Ice turned out to be therapeutic in its own vapid fashion. The song is now funny in a feel-good way – much the same as Wall of Voodoo’s “Mexican Radio.” It appears that 20 years and a heavy dose of nostalgia have the ability to make old rappers into Smurf-like characters. Who knew?
I always used to think Vanilla Ice was sad and a bit pathetic and so, on the verge of feeling a little sympathy for him, I looked him up under “where are they now?” and it turns out that Ice has a new album which debuted Feb. 1 and apparently is laugh-out-loud awful. The title: “WTF-Wisdom, Tenacity & Focus.” I’d give you a run-down of the song list but my curiosity only compels me to go so far.
Among the many things I never thought I’d hear in my lifetime, Vanilla Ice in the same sentence as wisdom, tenacity and focus, may be the most far removed. I even fancy that I thought I’d hear “congratulations Mr. Bushey, you’ve won the lottery” before I heard Vanilla Ice and wisdom together. I mean, consider some of the lyrics to his ’89 offering:
Take heed 'cause I'm a lyrical poet
Miami's on the scene just in case you didn't know it
My town that created all the bass sound
Enough to shake and kick holes in the ground
'Cause my style's like a chemical spill
Feasible rhymes that you can vision and feel
Well, as I was “checking out the hook as his DJ revolved it” I looked in the mirror again – just in time to watch another woman (while driving mind you) take out a deodorant stick and rub it under her nose. I couldn’t make this up with a gun pointed at my head.
She wasn’t sniffing it – she was rubbing it under her nose. I was trying to think what could be so bad that it would lead to someone doing this when I thought better of it and just let it go.
There are some things in life we’re better off just not knowing – like the fact VI has a new album.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Saturday, April 9, 2011
25th Class Reunion – It's all my friends' fault
This summer is my 25th high school reunion and I believe that the people you go to high school with have a lot to do with who you are as you grow up. It will be an interesting reunion to be sure, because I think the Shadow will be interested to meet those to blame.
Some people have never attended a reunion because they think it will be a ‘glory days’-fest or a launching point for their mid-life crisis or perhaps just because they don’t want to hear Flock of Seagulls again. I’ve never attended one because I’ve never been able to. 5th year – stationed in England; 10th year – stationed in the Azores; 15th year – England again; 20th – literally days away from the Shadow giving birth to our daughter. Technically, I could have gone to that one but it really wouldn’t have been a prudent thing to do.
So, as the countdown to summer and this little shindig begins, I’m wondering what happens at these things because a lot of high school is kind of a blur. I remember a guy in my first period study hall drinking a huge blue vodka-Slurpy every morning at 8 a.m. (I think he works in law enforcement now); I remember, on really nice days, getting up in the morning and turning on the shower until I heard my mom leave for work and then going back to bed or calling some friends and going to Canada for R&R; I remember being a freshman and hating it and being a senior and loving it; I remember doing homework five minutes before class started; I remember graduating and people saying they’d keep in touch forever; and I remember never hearing from many of them again.
Largely though, I remember the parties. For my town we had a spot called, quite simply, “the pond.” I’m sure most small towns have such a place. The pond had a real name, but no one ever used it. Party at the pond was enough to ensure someone would bring firewood and something to drink. Through our graduation, the drinking age was 18, so it wasn’t difficult to procure adult beverages. I think the vodka slurpy guy attests to that.
But the party I remember most was probably the only one I ever hosted. My parents thoughtfully took a cruise and left me pretty much to myself for a couple weeks. Now, I’m the youngest of 7 kids and by the time your 7th kid makes it to high school, as a parent you’re pretty much shot. The feeling at this point is, ‘if he’s made it this far, he’ll be fine.’
So, I invited about 15 of my friends and no fewer than 40 showed up – I’m sure I didn’t know some of them. But I wasn’t bothered because I was under the care of a doctor at that point – Dr. McGillicuddy to be specific. Dr. M. was a magician because he made menthol-mint schnapps that got you drunk while at the same time making you feel like you’d just brushed your teeth.
One of the side effects of the good doctor’s concoction, however, is that it gave one superpowers. Or, specifically, it made me actually squeeze a highball glass to the point of it breaking in my hand. Several seconds of extreme clarity manifested themselves at that point: first, I remember saying, “huh…” and watching as my friend Eric said, “fuck…” and then pretty much lose his mind. The glass did no significant damage but it did puncture one finger and the blood was pretty thin at that point.
Now, Eric used to be an Air Force cop and a few posts ago I told you that AF cops are good folks to have around in a bind. Eric went above and beyond. He tried to stop the bleeding with direct pressure; he raised my hand above the level of my heart to try to stem the flow of blood; he rinsed it out in the sink; he held my bleeding finger as I went to the bathroom – if I live to be a hundred I will never be able to say that about another human being. Ever.
Eric is also not a medic. While holding my hand under the tap he says to me, “turn your head, this may sting.” So I did. After about 20 seconds I said, “So, are you going to do anything?”
He said, “turn around.”
I looked as he was pouring rubbing alcohol over my still bleeding finger. “You don’t even feel that do you?”
“Um…nope.”
“Good grief, you’re fucked up.” (Eric swore quite liberally even then)
So at this point it’s determined that maybe the hospital would be a good venue, because, let’s face it, this bleeding is not going to stop. The blood is bright and red and smells a little like mouthwash. So enter another friend, D.
D was everyone’s designated driver and was possibly the best sport about this ever. The money she could have made on blackmail alone would have put her through college. Fortunately, and I can’t over-emphasize this, this was pre-cell phone, pre-digital picture and, most thankfully, pre-facebook. If what we did then happened today, none of us would have jobs.
So, at the hospital I’m fortunate again in that I know one of the local cops who is there with some guy who’d been in a bar fight. As me and this crazy old man (who was probably about as old as I am now) talked our gutter drawl, the cop signed me in to the emergency room and gave me that laugh that simply said, “you’re such a dumb-ass.”
An hour or so later, I’m back home and… and this is the great part … my friends have chucked everyone out, cleaned the house and even went so far as to sort the bottles into returnables and recyclables. What a great group of caring, thoughtful and relatively tidy friends.
Looking back at 25 years, I like to think that perhaps I owe my friends a big thank you for not screwing me up too badly. The Shadow just wonders why more of what made them so excellent didn’t rub off on me.
Some people have never attended a reunion because they think it will be a ‘glory days’-fest or a launching point for their mid-life crisis or perhaps just because they don’t want to hear Flock of Seagulls again. I’ve never attended one because I’ve never been able to. 5th year – stationed in England; 10th year – stationed in the Azores; 15th year – England again; 20th – literally days away from the Shadow giving birth to our daughter. Technically, I could have gone to that one but it really wouldn’t have been a prudent thing to do.
So, as the countdown to summer and this little shindig begins, I’m wondering what happens at these things because a lot of high school is kind of a blur. I remember a guy in my first period study hall drinking a huge blue vodka-Slurpy every morning at 8 a.m. (I think he works in law enforcement now); I remember, on really nice days, getting up in the morning and turning on the shower until I heard my mom leave for work and then going back to bed or calling some friends and going to Canada for R&R; I remember being a freshman and hating it and being a senior and loving it; I remember doing homework five minutes before class started; I remember graduating and people saying they’d keep in touch forever; and I remember never hearing from many of them again.
Largely though, I remember the parties. For my town we had a spot called, quite simply, “the pond.” I’m sure most small towns have such a place. The pond had a real name, but no one ever used it. Party at the pond was enough to ensure someone would bring firewood and something to drink. Through our graduation, the drinking age was 18, so it wasn’t difficult to procure adult beverages. I think the vodka slurpy guy attests to that.
But the party I remember most was probably the only one I ever hosted. My parents thoughtfully took a cruise and left me pretty much to myself for a couple weeks. Now, I’m the youngest of 7 kids and by the time your 7th kid makes it to high school, as a parent you’re pretty much shot. The feeling at this point is, ‘if he’s made it this far, he’ll be fine.’
So, I invited about 15 of my friends and no fewer than 40 showed up – I’m sure I didn’t know some of them. But I wasn’t bothered because I was under the care of a doctor at that point – Dr. McGillicuddy to be specific. Dr. M. was a magician because he made menthol-mint schnapps that got you drunk while at the same time making you feel like you’d just brushed your teeth.
One of the side effects of the good doctor’s concoction, however, is that it gave one superpowers. Or, specifically, it made me actually squeeze a highball glass to the point of it breaking in my hand. Several seconds of extreme clarity manifested themselves at that point: first, I remember saying, “huh…” and watching as my friend Eric said, “fuck…” and then pretty much lose his mind. The glass did no significant damage but it did puncture one finger and the blood was pretty thin at that point.
Now, Eric used to be an Air Force cop and a few posts ago I told you that AF cops are good folks to have around in a bind. Eric went above and beyond. He tried to stop the bleeding with direct pressure; he raised my hand above the level of my heart to try to stem the flow of blood; he rinsed it out in the sink; he held my bleeding finger as I went to the bathroom – if I live to be a hundred I will never be able to say that about another human being. Ever.
Eric is also not a medic. While holding my hand under the tap he says to me, “turn your head, this may sting.” So I did. After about 20 seconds I said, “So, are you going to do anything?”
He said, “turn around.”
I looked as he was pouring rubbing alcohol over my still bleeding finger. “You don’t even feel that do you?”
“Um…nope.”
“Good grief, you’re fucked up.” (Eric swore quite liberally even then)
So at this point it’s determined that maybe the hospital would be a good venue, because, let’s face it, this bleeding is not going to stop. The blood is bright and red and smells a little like mouthwash. So enter another friend, D.
D was everyone’s designated driver and was possibly the best sport about this ever. The money she could have made on blackmail alone would have put her through college. Fortunately, and I can’t over-emphasize this, this was pre-cell phone, pre-digital picture and, most thankfully, pre-facebook. If what we did then happened today, none of us would have jobs.
So, at the hospital I’m fortunate again in that I know one of the local cops who is there with some guy who’d been in a bar fight. As me and this crazy old man (who was probably about as old as I am now) talked our gutter drawl, the cop signed me in to the emergency room and gave me that laugh that simply said, “you’re such a dumb-ass.”
An hour or so later, I’m back home and… and this is the great part … my friends have chucked everyone out, cleaned the house and even went so far as to sort the bottles into returnables and recyclables. What a great group of caring, thoughtful and relatively tidy friends.
Looking back at 25 years, I like to think that perhaps I owe my friends a big thank you for not screwing me up too badly. The Shadow just wonders why more of what made them so excellent didn’t rub off on me.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
My Epiphany
Have you ever had one of those moments where something happened to make you feel much, much better about yourself? Some people call them epiphanies – a blinding flash, often of the obvious, that resets your life gyros so everything becomes, if not necessarily better, at least clearer.
About a week ago, a good friend of mine related to me the following story – in his words, approximately…
“So, the other day was my wife’s birthday and she opened her gift and stared. Now, let’s go back in time to two weeks previously. My daughter and I had a list of items my wife wanted for her birthday. This was a pre-approved list with colors, sizes, brands – in short, everything a husband of many years would need not to screw it up.
“While ordering the item, my daughter and I were like two lieutenants in a missile silo running a pre-launch checklist – item, check; color, check; size, check; size, double-check; brand, check; anything missing, check…or credit card” (his daughter has a very quick wit for a teenager, apparently) “So, we have the pre-approved list, we’ve run the checklist, it’s got two sets of eyes to verify the command sequence before the key is turned and the item purchased. Had any of these things not happened, I’m sure one of us would have had to shoot the other. But it all worked as advertised. So, now, let’s go back – she opens the gift, stares and says, “this is the wrong one.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Yes, it is. I’ll just exchange it…”
“No, you won’t. … Daughter….”
“No, it’s the right one, mom”
“Had I not had my daughter with me to verify this, I’m sure I would be blamed for this being the wrong item. In fact, I might have begun to second guess myself.”
Now, that story, as sad and emasculating as it is, would generally lead to think maybe this guy should give some serious consideration to gift certificates, but it isn’t an isolated case. To whit…
I’m walking in the base exchange at Lackland AFB, Texas today and I’m heading to the men’s room. About five paces in front of me are a couple who are also heading to their respective facilities. As the guy in front of me turns into the men’s room, he audibly mumbles, in that way that all men do, the following, “yes, mother!” I can’t prove it but I’m almost sure he was rolling his eyes.
Well, I did what anyone who had just witnessed such a scene would do – I laughed, out loud, and totally forgoing man-space rules and etiquette I took the station next to him and I was still chuckling. “Yeah, wait until you’re retired,” he said.
The man was, at most, in his early 50s so it’s not like he had 30 years on me or something. I have brothers older than this guy I’m sure.
“No, hey, it’s ok,” I said, “I’ve been married 20 years, I feel ya.” (which in retrospect is probably not the best choice of words in a men’s room, trousers down).
“You know what’s worse?” He says, “we’re living in a motor home now so I get to be with her all the time!”
I have no choice, I laugh again. As he turns to wash his hands he allows for a pause and says, “No, it’s all good. She’s really all right.”
Again, a good pause for effect.
“She lets me say that.” And he walked away.
I’ve never been so glad to be at a urinal because I would have wet myself.
Then, I realized, men are pretty much all the same and it’s not that we don’t care about what you want for your birthday or that we don’t listen to you.
We do listen. And what we hear is women changing their minds. So we don’t keep lists. Tell us what you want and that’s what you’ll get – because it’s just easier to shop for.
And there it was – my epiphany. Men aren’t whipped, we’re just lazy.
About a week ago, a good friend of mine related to me the following story – in his words, approximately…
“So, the other day was my wife’s birthday and she opened her gift and stared. Now, let’s go back in time to two weeks previously. My daughter and I had a list of items my wife wanted for her birthday. This was a pre-approved list with colors, sizes, brands – in short, everything a husband of many years would need not to screw it up.
“While ordering the item, my daughter and I were like two lieutenants in a missile silo running a pre-launch checklist – item, check; color, check; size, check; size, double-check; brand, check; anything missing, check…or credit card” (his daughter has a very quick wit for a teenager, apparently) “So, we have the pre-approved list, we’ve run the checklist, it’s got two sets of eyes to verify the command sequence before the key is turned and the item purchased. Had any of these things not happened, I’m sure one of us would have had to shoot the other. But it all worked as advertised. So, now, let’s go back – she opens the gift, stares and says, “this is the wrong one.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Yes, it is. I’ll just exchange it…”
“No, you won’t. … Daughter….”
“No, it’s the right one, mom”
“Had I not had my daughter with me to verify this, I’m sure I would be blamed for this being the wrong item. In fact, I might have begun to second guess myself.”
Now, that story, as sad and emasculating as it is, would generally lead to think maybe this guy should give some serious consideration to gift certificates, but it isn’t an isolated case. To whit…
I’m walking in the base exchange at Lackland AFB, Texas today and I’m heading to the men’s room. About five paces in front of me are a couple who are also heading to their respective facilities. As the guy in front of me turns into the men’s room, he audibly mumbles, in that way that all men do, the following, “yes, mother!” I can’t prove it but I’m almost sure he was rolling his eyes.
Well, I did what anyone who had just witnessed such a scene would do – I laughed, out loud, and totally forgoing man-space rules and etiquette I took the station next to him and I was still chuckling. “Yeah, wait until you’re retired,” he said.
The man was, at most, in his early 50s so it’s not like he had 30 years on me or something. I have brothers older than this guy I’m sure.
“No, hey, it’s ok,” I said, “I’ve been married 20 years, I feel ya.” (which in retrospect is probably not the best choice of words in a men’s room, trousers down).
“You know what’s worse?” He says, “we’re living in a motor home now so I get to be with her all the time!”
I have no choice, I laugh again. As he turns to wash his hands he allows for a pause and says, “No, it’s all good. She’s really all right.”
Again, a good pause for effect.
“She lets me say that.” And he walked away.
I’ve never been so glad to be at a urinal because I would have wet myself.
Then, I realized, men are pretty much all the same and it’s not that we don’t care about what you want for your birthday or that we don’t listen to you.
We do listen. And what we hear is women changing their minds. So we don’t keep lists. Tell us what you want and that’s what you’ll get – because it’s just easier to shop for.
And there it was – my epiphany. Men aren’t whipped, we’re just lazy.
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