A Dirtier moniker

After nearly a third of a sesquicentennial of living and irritating other people’s spider senses, I have decided that I need a gritty nickname. Yes, before I make that final belly-flop into a shallow worm-ridden mulchy grave, I need some kind of hip ‘callsign’ and an icy-hot image.I think having a ‘too cool drug mule’ moniker is a necessity if I ever end up in a 6 X 9 foot cell with other amoebae, compare scars with Topless Gun pilots, or become a rap music star with a toothy, gold grill!

You see, I got kind of jealous recently when I sour-noted a concert line-up of noisy music dudes named ‘N. E. Yo, Pitbull, and T. Pain” performing for a morning TV show. Not a plain vanilla, Anglo-Saxon grunt name to be shared among them. So obviously to be ‘phatter’ than I already am I’ll need to combine some USDA choice meaty nouns with at least one initial. So where do I go to register a sheik hipster image like those music guys and what government agency is responsible for taxing society’s patience?

Are there any official pre-requisites for my new responsibilities and image as a self-involved ‘blogga’-gangsta’ idol? Maybe I need The Donald’s whispy locks, Mickey’s oversized ear buds, or a Hitler ‘half-stash’ to dress up the rebel ‘tude? I was hoping the warehouse-mirror sunglasses, ‘finger thickin’ good’ gold chains, and beltless n’ baggy pants were good enough to make a splash in today's modern blue gene pool?

Now admittedly I am kind of a ‘dough-so-soft’ wimp, so for my new image I should probably shy away from the calloused and brawny, testosterone belching, smelly-man ‘nom de fumes’. I was however thinking that I do happen to know my way around buckets of butter pretty well, so maybe a catchy caloric name like “I.M. Greezy.” or “Tubb E.” would fit the BILL? No rush though; I still have time to hone my future edgy, bad-dog, blogging moniker. I am lucky since I have a few years stock of my current library bookplates and the laundry labels my Mom used to sew in my CAMPground skivvies – ‘Der T. Drawers’!

Seeing Red

Unfortunately, since I have found myself staring at a lot of car rear-ends lately I am getting feverish, frustrated, and a serious case of ‘metal-envy’. No I’ve not gone mad for stop-light ‘BOOTy’ or even got all that angry actually; it’s probably just the bloodshot eyes that are making me delightfully whiney and seeing red. Yes, the allure of driving was fun 30 years ago when I had a one- track mind, but these days piloting a motor car seems to be just a distraction from all the stuff that I am really good at. Given my work history, sadly that must mean I am an excellent and attentive driver.

Unlike humans, automobiles born today essentially all look, smell and behave much the same. Cars may all be branded, colored, and sized differently but just like sugary candy and cough-drops, too much has got to be a BAD thing. I bet if I look underneath all of the stupid modern cars, next to their ‘Fruit of the Loomies’ they will actually have ‘Jelly Belly’-button logos imprinted on them. Whatever happened to cars with real angled metal parts, beltless seats, chrome, and oh I don’t know just for fun - some personality? I don’t need no ‘steenking’ safety stuff – the only airbag in my car should be ME - after a jumbo burrito brunch.

Maybe it is the four rubber wheel thing that is throwing me off? Would it be so bad to mount a ‘lazy susan’ or two under a car or at least a pair of tank treads to try ANYTHING different? Even fish happily embrace a little diversity just to break up the boring bubbles every now and then. How else could you explain the Marty Feldman good looks of the hammerhead shark or those ‘suckers’ of the sea – the octopus.

Hey it’s not like I’m asking for much. I know cars won’t grow fins, swim, or sprout wings to fly anytime soon. I’m no dummy – according to that minty fresh Scope’s trial, stuff like that might take ions to evolve. But before turning hopelessly pruney, I would like for once to sit in traffic and stare at something other than a monotone boring box adorned in RED lights. Oops, sorry – I apparently got distracted AGAIN by my oversized in-dash radio and ‘heavy metal’ 8-track player.

AIRBAGS should be un-seen and un-heard

Well no doubt I will offend some of you today. Given the fact that even my family thinks of me as a big ol’ bag of wind, you might be surprised to know that I am not a fan of bagpipes or accordions. Who wants to sit around and listen to an instrument that sounds like it is wheezing all the time?If I wanted to embrace the melodic respiration of heavy breathing, I would simply run up and down the stairs a couple of times or call the counter girl at Dunkin Donuts with my regular sensuous phone order.

Yes the only good thing ‘bellows’ are good for is stoking forest fires or making an urgent plea for Walrus mates at the zoo, but nobody should have ever attached them to pipes and reeds.Now don’t whine to me about how much skill these instruments take to play. Don’t you think everyone in the world already knows that? The reason bagpipes and accordions are so difficult to learn, is the world decided long ago that we collectively DO NOT WANT people to master these ‘honkers’ quickly, so get a clue!

Nobody EVER gets wistful for the throaty sound of a New Year’s Eve party horn mixed with a kazoo and that squeezebag, Bea Arthur’s bark. Even if you do - forget the hot ‘air bags’! You can get the same odious results by simply running out to any lake and fervently squeezing geese until your ears bleed, or one of you lays a rotten egg.

Especially in the case of bagpipes, I completely understand how this instrument has become associated with funerals and death. What is really ‘AMAZING’ to me is how the dearly departed have the ‘GRACE’ to stay in the grave when all the caterwauling starts. Here in Missouri, on occasion an accordion will play a graveside service as well. Believe me, I try to behave, but by the third painful stanza if you ‘REED’ my body language, it is obvious that I am trying mightily to refrain from ‘POLKA da fingers in my ears!’


Ok enough musical discontent – we’ll let the rappers do THAT heavy lifting from now on. It is clear that I must pay penance for this horrible, mean-spirited post against bagpipes and accordions. Like all the sensitive yet great men that have walked before me, such as Napoleon, Mel Gibson, and Richard Simmons, I intend to go into self-imposed isolation for the next week. Since maybe two and a half people ‘religiously’ read this blog, who am I to stand in the way of warped personal beliefs? Therefore I have conscripted the mighty pen of my dutiful substitute (and clearly unemployed) friend, code named ‘RAKER’, to fill-in during my rehabilitation. I am trusting you to be gracious and generous little blogophiles in my absence, and treat Raker with the same respect that Michael Vick treats his dogs. So play nice, have fun, and I’ll haunt you all next week! W.C.C.

The hair and music bond

When I was in 8th grade I was honored with a very prestigious award. No I didn’t run faster, or jump higher than my peers – I simply unfurled my Rapunzel length hair – ON MY LEGS! Yes eat your heart out people, while so many of you spend hours on end trying to reign in the mane , I got rewarded for my ‘preceding’ leggy hairline.

Don’t worry, this was not some odd-ball ‘Hairy’ Potter private school full of nerdy outcasts – it was a summer camp full of musicians obviously battling fatigue and a bit of healthy pre-teen follicle fascination. Somehow I was ‘volunteered’ to enter this competition and with ruler in hand the arbiters of 'all things furry' sampled my curly leg locks. When pulled taut, at nearly an inch long, the hair on my calf outdistanced all comers by at least a 1/8 inch. I received a bottle of Nair and a handsome certificate suitable for framing.

Now it is hard to imagine that this was my first experience away from home. As an only child, my favorite companion ordinarily was ‘Privacy’. I was none too happy to be dropped off in the woods by my parents to face hundreds of these weirdo, kinetic ‘music geeks’. Most musicians (excluding myself of course) are already a bit maladjusted, so a genuine ‘Deliverance-induced’, chill ran down my spine, at the thought of being abandoned in the woods without silver bullets, garlic, or even a kazoo. However after my camp-mates shared gruel, chores, and our passion for music; inevitable friendships formed, and soon I was willing to whip my unshaven leg out and show anyone who dared a gander.

So the next time you prepare to use a machete to hack back all of your precious peach fuzz, you may want to think twice. You never know when that Amazon jungle on your legs may come in handy to help you bond and win some well-deserved recognition among your peers. Of course for the full effect, you may want to hire a couple of toothless musicians to play ‘Dueling Banjos’ to set the mood. That’s sure to ‘win friends and influence people’, or at the very least, raise those teensy ‘little hairs’ on the back of your neck!

Redneck Games Reunion

Once again I somehow missed the Summer Redneck Games in E. Dublin, Georgia on Saturday. This is that spoof (sort-of) alternative Olympics started down South when the real five ring Olympics stopped by in Atlanta awhile back. Although the event takes a lot of ribbing in the national media, it actually collects quite a bit of dough for charity, while having a lot of fun.

I’m not so sure what the big deal is though about throwing toilet seats as horseshoes? In Missouri we just throw the whole toilet out in the yard. Actually my nephew used a sledgehammer to break-up an old toilet of mine and we ended up burying the pieces in the backyard. The irony was the toilet rubble was buried to help with WATER control and erosion! Gee I thought that was what diapers were for?

Yeah those Georgian’s down at the Redneck Games have nothing on us Missourians. When we ceremoniously light our BBQ grills here, usually at least one random rodent and a flurry of insects vacate the thing quick. We are not big on Porky pigs feet here, but as I’ve mentioned before just across the ‘Big Muddy’ is a joint that people flock to for Pig snout sandwiches and love ‘em.

So to get in the mood and ready for next year’s Redneck games, I’m thinking of getting one of those mullet haircuts sewn right into a truckers cap. I’ll have to dig around and see if I can find my cut-off jeans made out of the Confederate flag. Though it has been quite a few pounds ago since I wore them, there is nothing quite so nice as resting your sweaty rump on the Confederate flag. Gee I had better be extra careful with those flag pants seams if I bend over though – NOBODY wants to see those Confederates split from the Union again!

Traumatized idols

With the exit of Simon Cowell on American Idol last night and the end of the television program LOST, this has no doubt been a traumatic week for many serially addicted TV watchers. I have not reviewed the actual market share numbers of these finales but no doubt the numbers will be big for their respective time slots and the broadcast networks who screened them.

I have never watched American Idol but I am well aware of Cowell’s acerbic persona and mop-haired ‘too cool for school’ image. I think I might like this show if they would get rid of the remaining judges, contestants, and the music, so I could be alone with my thoughts - now that’s GOOD TV. I have watched Lost a few times over the years but I cannot call myself a fan. Most of the time, the plot was so complex and the cast so large, I literally found myself, well … LOST whenever I tuned in.

It always seems the first few weeks and the last few weeks of a television show generate the most buzz and therefore the most viewers. So I have surmised that if I were a big shot television brain, I would come up with a new cable channel dedicated to screening ONLY pilot episodes and finales in my programming schedule. Think how much time my cable channel would save you if you only had to watch just the American Idol finalists named in one hour and then the winner crowned in the next?

And how about all those infomercials – who needs all the fluff and set-up when all we really want is answers to the big finish questions? Yeah, just tell us the payments, how many bonus gifts are included, and where in the recesses of my kitchen is there room for yet ONE more giant, un-used ‘griller spinner choppa choppa whiz bang’ gadget? Ok, since you’re now convinced that the finale of something is far better than the gooey nougat center, I had better cut this off before you get hooked. Yeah, if I wanted to traumatize all the readers who idolize me, I would simply SING … to myself!

What were you thinking?

One of my least favorite things to do is ‘talk-up’ a TV show or movie of my youth. It is not that people today don’t understand good entertainment, but it is the fact that those shows I used to love, just don’t always age that well. Oh sure there are a few classics that everyone from critics to the ordinary popcorn popping public seem to love. But for the most part, no matter what I once thought was captivating, now will probably disappoint me and leave modern younger viewers concerned for my lucidity.

Beyond the obvious changes in music styles, hair, and clothing, shows of just 20 years ago seem so dated in technology and raw production. Of course computers and cell phones are in short supply on screen, but sets, store-fronts and corporate logos look so different too. Synthesized soundtracks were so new then that they seem somewhat overused and artificial in the overall production. Where I remember witty, hip repartee in the good ol’ days, now the dialog seems long-winded and the sound is mushy and flat.

This is not to say that modern TV and movies have reached perfection, though I am sure everyone watching their weekly favorites thinks so. No, there is only so much one can take of long brooding looks and minimalist dialog too. Now, oh so edgy filming techniques, like shaking hand cameras, split screen views, and ultra-close-ups are the norm. In a few years, those loyal current viewers will scoff at the production follies of these modern shows just as I do, to the stuff that seemed so special in my youth.

So the moral of the story is ENJOY your favorite programs now, because you probably won’t later. In the future, excitedly you’ll screen your formerly super-hip shows to your kids and grandkids and show them how ‘cool’ you really were in the day. You’ll want those impressionable youngsters to see why the good old days were actually GREAT, and how lucky they are to know you since you experienced it firsthand, and are even willing to share. But don’t be surprised if after a few minutes, those curious whispers and fingers point in your direction with a solemn query “What were you thinking?”

PERFECT Mother’s Day Gift

Mother’s day is probably the most meaningful of the yearly ‘un-holidays’. I call them that mostly because they are ‘acknowledgement’ or ‘thank you’ greeting card days. That is not meant to disrespect the mothers, fathers, administrative professionals, or named benefactors of similar holidays. It is just that, while perfect presents are nice, these days also should really carry a hefty bag full of thanks and reflection, along with the Ex-Gratia and swag.

Now whether I am close or far away from the mothers in my life, I usually send some type of note or little gift even if I cannot always visit. I have been late in calling my Mom or Mother-in-law before, but like most Mom’s they always seem to understand and don’t spank me (usually) – it must be something in their DNA? I knew immediately though, I was in for other Mother trouble when my daughter was born however. That event magically transformed my wife into an instant Mother too. My kid was supposed to wait about three weeks before entering this world – long after Mother’s Day would have passed. Well just to spite me, the kid was born literally JUST HOURS before Mother’s Day. I was in a panic.

Not only was being a new Dad cause for fear enough, I was now on the verge of missing my wife’s VERY FIRST Mother’s Day. My mind was reeling. I had to leave the hospital and go shopping for a card and something – ANYTHING, that a new mother might want or need. I knew the day was coming – NEXT YEAR, but I never imagined that I would not have at least 11 months to prepare. Eventually I settled on a couple of baby ‘wake up / sleep time’ music CD’s from Disney. I don’t think we ever used them much, but at the time, they truly were ALMOST the perfect gift for a new Mom.

In fact though, I have since learned, that the first gift I gave to my wife that day, was not really all that important. The CD’s were nice and she knew that I appreciated her obvious physical sacrifice and truly honored her new status as a Mom. But indeed, FOREVER, there was no gift that I could ever give to match the one that my kid had already given her. Amazingly, my own mother, her mother, and generation upon generations before – they all universally have felt the same way. They already had received a precious, valuable, irreplaceable, and most PERFECT gift – the title of ‘MOM’.

Happy Mother’s Day!