Asia is practicing a blue’s scale. Why does Asia have the blues?
- Scraped-up on arms and knees from wiping out on her bike. She recently became a cyclist after her dad declared, “Our Vermont vacation will be all jacked up if Asia can’t ride a bike.”
- Sales are flat at Asia’s “Ooo La La Dress Shop”. Note the mannequin sporting an “in progress” Asia Neill original.
- Asia’s soccer season is over, thus cutting off a fat revenue stream. Mom gave her $1 for every goal she scored. After her team won the championship, Mom and Asia celebrated by “going out for tea”.
My kids watch the Marx Brothers, Tom & Jerry, and Top Chef with equal enthusiasm. In their world, Groucho Marx and Gail Simmons are interchangeable in stature and relevance, causing me to wonder at what age their sense of historical context will kick in. Case in point:
Today I voted against this guy:
I don’t know anything about the guy, other than that I find his brother, the mayor of Pittsburgh, to be boob-ish.
Zach: Did you vote for Curly?
Me: No.
Asia: (Whispering with a serious look on her face) But Dad, I thought you liked that show.
Me: I do.
Asia: Then why didn’t you vote for Curly?
Me: The mayor’s brother isn’t the real Curly.
Asia: So he’s not a Stooge?
Me: Well…no.
A few weeks ago I stood in my driveway, minding my own business. I was pouring old gas out of my lawnmower, if you must know. My enjoyment of the fumes was interrupted by a pothead wearing a sweet jean jacket. Walking up my driveway with an excited look on his face, he blurted, “John, is this your house?”. It’s a small town, so yeah, he knew my name. “You’ll never guess who grew up in your house”, he raved. Then pausing for emphasis, he slowly enunciated, “Vincent Waller”. Disappointed by the blank expression on my face he explained, “Vincent Waller is the creative director, sometimes technical director, and writer of SpongeBob SquarePants!”. The potman went on to explain that he used to play in a jug band with Mr. Waller, etc, etc, etc, etc.
So there’s that. Every day I breathe trace amounts of SpongeBob’s DNA. ****Update**** Apparently Mr. Waller was born and raised in Texas. Random potheads walking down the street are poor sources of information.
When I hear a song I like, I listen to it 30-40 times in a row until I’m sick of it. As a result, I have a large collection of mp3’s that I never want to hear again. The last two days I’ve listened only to this song. I imagine that I’m sitting around a campfire with my friends. We’ve all brought guitars, and we’re taking turns playing and singing. It’s my turn, and I’m playing this one.
There are a few issues with this scenario:
- I only have a couple of friends.
- The don’t play guitar.
- They’re not really into camping.
About a 100 years ago, my grandfather sat in a park in St. Louis, reading a newspaper. He would have been in his 20’s, working as a commercial artist. A frazzled man running at full speed came into view. Spotting Gramps, he stopped short. Out of breath and with a wild look in his eyes, he asked “Wanna buy a gun?” “No”, Gramps calmly replied. “Real cheap…ah…25 cents”, the man blurted. Relieved of his murder weapon, the man ran off with a shiny quarter in his pocket.
So there’s that.
I own just one item related to my Grandfather, a pen & ink advertisement, probably around the time of his arms dealing:
In the lower left, built into the shading is his sig: TJNeill
Ah, check this out. Me in my 20’s, lookin all 1910:
Yep, I invented retro.
- 18 years ago, my bass player took me to a VIP room in some bar. The mission was to pick up an effects pedal or something from someone. Unsure of the ways of the world, I sat for 5 minutes, observing the goings-on. The room hosted 10 zombie-like blank-faced patrons. Never before had I witnessed such boring people. Exiting the bar, I shared my observations with Mr. Bass. “Most people are like that”, he replied, “They’re incredibly boring until you’re had a few drinks. A few drinks loosens everyone up.” Suddenly, the world of alcohol made a lot more sense.
- As you may be aware, I have big plans. One plan is to take my kids for a drive around the United States of America in a van while listening to countless episodes of This American Life. In preparation, I’ve downloaded all 405 episodes. Every day I listen to archives, sorting the wheat from the chaff. Last week, while listening to a random episode, I heard a mentally handicapped dude singing about California. Sure it’s borderline exploitative, but I urge you to listen to the full 95 second clip. Even if you’re at work, you’ll have a hard time not singing along with the chorus. The dude’s total lack of inhibition is startling. I’m pretty sure I could write equally fantastic music if I could stifle my inhibitions. Is there a boozeless solution to this? I’m too old to get mixed up with booze.
California, Oh here I come.mp3
I recently saw an 80’s metal cover band. Turns out, I’m the target demographic for this type of spectacle. For 20 years I’ve wondered what white people around my age did for fun. Apparently they get hammered at the local dive bar and watch a band named Glitz. Who knew?
What was I doing there? Simple. I only feel alive when I’m out of my element. Watching an 80’s metal band surrounded by drunk crackas filled that bill. Just last month I attended a VFW luau where a 75 year old DJ was spinning Lady Ga Ga. Beat that!
More? Last weekend I was in our nation’s “most average city”, Columbus, Ohio. Next to some decapitated housing projects, this sign caught my eye:
An El Salvadorian restaurant across the street from the projects probably isn’t where I should be hanging out. But my inner Anthony Bourdain thought otherwise. Examining my surroundings, I realized that just like J. Rob back in ‘47, I would be breaking the color barrier.
The food was good. And I felt alive.
In 10th grade I attended a bible camp. Holy friggin moley those were bad dudes. One kid brought a gun. During one miserable preachy session, dude pulled it out, pointed to the speaker, and whispered to me, “I’m gonna shoot that faggot”. I nervously talked him out of the act, though I don’t suppose he would have done the deed.
Next year Mom and Dad signed me up for more of the same. Thug-free, this group had a different vibe. The hippest dude kicked a little beanbag which he called a “hacky sack”. Oh my how the girls admired his talent. It occurred to me that I should invest in one of those devices. One afternoon I worked up the courage to talk to the hacky sack master. “How much does one of those bean bags cost?”, I asked. The sack master mumbled something about it costing “around $27″.
In retrospect, the hack master probably said “2 for $7″. Nevertheless, I was a victim of false sticker shock. With no hope of raising that kind of capital, I opted to design and sew my own cloth hacky sack, filling it with unpopped corn.
That spring, I broke my wrist playing basketball. Banished from regular gym class, I was placed in a “special” gym class. Not wanting to socialize with those weirdos, I practiced my hacky sack in the corner of the gym. By the time I had (physically) healed, I was a hacky sack champ!
Oh man, did that ever pay off. In church camp the following year, I actually made a friend or two.
Wait, I forgot where I was going with this. Nevermind.
I should mention that I am now a full blown cripple. That kitchen project broke me physically. The project is more or less finished, though unpainted. I’m considering surgery. When a man has to pee like a German, he must consider these options. Sciatica is no fun. Luckily my kids are not too cool to play with their handicap father.
He drove a long way.
The man in front of me grew impatient. “Every two minutes you step away to help someone else”, he growled. “I drove many miles to get here, and I’m not going home without a kitchen.”
“Sir”, she replied, “I’m doing my best to help you. You didn’t make an appointment for a design consultation, so I’m working with you and trying to help other customers at the same time. I’ve called for help, but no one else is available.” He offered no response beyond the boiling hatred in his eyes.
Valiantly fighting back tears, the flustered associate explained the situation to her manager. By the time she turned her attention to me, however, she had completely unraveled, with no stoppage of waterworks in sight. I stood awkwardly paralyzed, aware of her intense humiliation, desperately wanting to give her a hug. But these things are not in my repertoire. My repertoire sucks.
Inch after inch falls down. Every year I resolve not to shovel for the duration of the season. And why should I? Our solitary stair user is the mailman with his stack of paper spam. Long gone are the Bohemian days of Chicago, hosting daily/nightly social events. In our new life, we average ONE visitor per quarter. And they can trudge through the snow for all I care. Harumph.
December 18th,2009 |
3 Comments
How to have fun while mudder is away:
1. Move all the dining room/kitchen stuff into the living room.
2. Throw a sparkling grape juice/tea party.
Seated clockwise: Asia, Horsie, Big Brown Bear, Scooby-Doo, 'Lil Dawg, and Zach.
3. Play basketball!
Full court press!
Monday I sand the floor. Tuesday and Wednesday I poly the floor. That should smell awesome.
