Vacation Adventure

We are never going back there again.

I just think that maybe, you’re overreacting.

That’s easy for you to say. I don’t recall you almost being lowered into a vat of acid.

Oh please. It’s not like it was boiling acid.

Acid doesn’t have to be hot you idiot, it’s acid. It can peel your skin off at room temperature.

I don’t think name calling is really appropriate.

Name calling isn’t appropriate but almost getting lowered into acid is just fine?

Listen you didn’t get lowered into acid after all did you? So the bottom line is that today, just like every day, you didn’t get lowered into acid. That’s really not so hard to deal with. In fact, I get not lowered into acid all the time. I’m being not lowered into acid this very minute actually, as are you. There’s really nothing to complain about.

I think you’re severely underestimating the impact of the threat of being lowered into acid.

Fine, whatever. I just wish you could at least pretend you enjoyed our safari vacation with an impromptu visit to an aboriginal headhunter village.

I want a divorce.

Austin Chronicle, pg 26: Missed Connections

me: male caucasian, mid forties, at Chuck E. Cheese on East Riverside Saturday evening 5:00-close, standing next to the ball pit (whackin' those moles), white sleeveless "I'm a Pepper" t-shirt under a powder-blue J.C. Penny private label button-down oxford with collar popped (also sleeveless), burgundy Haggar cotton twill comfort slacks with relaxi-fit waistband, aviator sunglasses with matching Fossil belt and wallet set, cologne: Axe Dark Temptation, body spray: Axe Harmony mixed with mail-order pheromone, hair: touch of grey and parted on the left (your right), one ear bud with i-shuffle set to loop The Crash Test Dummies' grammy award winning God Shuffled His Feet and seminal effort The Ghosts that Haunt Me

you: female or male of slight build, wearing "Vote for Pedro" t-shirt over faded blue Rocky Mountain jeans, blond or brunette (possibly a redhead), sitting near the Jasper T. Jowls side of the keyboard stage left

We locked eyes for what I felt was a longer than average time in between Mr. Munch's drum break and Pasquale's solo.  Connection?  If you agree or just want to see where this ride might take us, I'll be at the Bass Concert Hall every night this week during Broadway Across America's almost tony nomination  considered production of Ditch McGarnicle's bluesy one man show: A Summer Evening with Ditch.  Check the balcony first, but sometimes I move down to orchestra level if any seats are open after intermission.

Track me down!

Somewhere in Hollywood

Julian, the big-shot Hollywood producer, sits in his office talking to his top screenwriter, Carl. Julian is wearing white linen pants with expensive sandals, a blue dress shirt and a white sport coat. His hair is slicked back, you can tell he uses an expensive pomade that smells like sandalwood, and although he is inside he continues to wear sunglasses. 

Carl is much more blue-collar but Hollywood-blue collar so I guess picture an upper-middle-class on the weekend type outfit.

Carl: Listen Julian, I know you said that you didn’t want to see anymore drafts of buddy-cop movies and, to be frank, I don’t know how to write any other kind of movie so I tweaked the latest one I’ve been working on. Here’s a quick run-down of the key scenes. What do you think?

Julian: Well let’s take a look. Let me put down my large cigar that I was casually smoking indoors, in today’s day and age no less.

Scene opens in a small office in the corner of the bullpen. Chief, at his desk, talks to the new recruit, Evans:

Alright Evans, have a seat. Your sweep scores were great and you passed every chemical cleaner test with flying colors. But you’ve got a real attitude. I’m reluctant to do this but I think you’re ready. You’re going out in the field today so congratulations. Don’t prove me wrong.

Your partner is gonna be Ditch McGarnicle. He’s got 30 years on the force and you could learn a thing or two from him. Now grab your standard issue mop, bucket, off-brand glass cleaner and get out there.

Evans meets his new partner, Ditch, who wastes no time in showing him the ropes:

Listen to me you little punk. You may think you’re hot crap but I’ll show you hot crap. Stall three- get to work.

Several weeks in, Ditch continues to ride the young cadet:

Hurry-up kid, we got a hot mess on the fourth floor. Some sorry copy-jockey horked all over his desk, his co-worker’s desk and his supervisor. You got enough sawdust to take care of that disaster? What does your fancy Custodial Engineer Handbook say to do now rookie?

As the story unfolds, their relationship begins to deepen:

You know why I’m hard on you, do you? It’s because I know you can be the best. And because I love you dammit. You’re my son and I love you. Aw, you look just like your mother. She had eyes that looked like old mop water after cleaning a dive bar bathroom. Her hair smelled like the best urinal cake you can imagine. She was beautiful kid and I miss her every time I look at you. Come here son and hug your old man.

Finally, in the climatic bathroom show-down Ditch is gravely wounded:

Go on without me kid. I’m not gonna make it. Just promise me one thing- clean up the mess I’m about to leave right here at the foot of this old urinal…clean it good kid.

Julian: Carl, you magnificent bastard. You just made us millionaires! Again! Well me at least, you’ll probably continue to be upper-middle class or so.

Album Release Announcement

Bro Country Records is excited to announce the release of the debut album from our newest artist, Rodney Greg!

The record includes the title track, 'It's Beer-30 Where I'm From' and nine other new songs.

The full track listing is as follows:

1. Old Party Truck
2. It's Beer-30 Where I'm From
3. Drinkin' Boots
4. The Tailgate Works Just Fine
5. I Know A Country Girl When I See One
6. Budweiser and Church (with Connor Steve from Jade Diamond)
7. Hotter On the River
8. Them Girls
9. Gotta Be the Party (featuring Nelly)
10. I'll Probably Regret This Later

Tour dates across the Carolinas and Georgia will be announced later this month.

Mr. Greg is buying everyone back at Joe's bar a beer and a whiskey in celebration.

Try me...I'll make you famous.

The title of this entry is borrowed from a good friend of mine.  Maybe you've heard of him.  His name is The Undertaker.  That's right, four time WWE Heavyweight Champion.  The Deadman.  The Phenom.  The American Badass.

And I don't think he would mind my borrowing his phrase to make a point, as I am somewhat of a man to be reckoned with myself.  What's a little plagiarism among friends.  Heck, maybe even best friends.  Why does our society have to label everything?  Anyway, my point is as follows:

It all started in the summer of my second senior year in college, while on a trip home to solicit more money for tuition related expenses.  I was meeting my dad in my hometown's most upscale tavern and bowling alley, and arrived a few minutes prior to said pater familias.  I walked in wearing my new Hobie Cat t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and my best Sunday jorts.  After assuring the server I did not need access to the receiving dock in the alley behind the building, I was shown to a table located delightfully near to the mensroom.  I ordered a High Life that arrived from under the counter at almost one degree cooler than room temperature.  A moment later, my dad walked in, sneered at my choice of tables, and held up an index finger to the waitress.  She promptly nodded and ducked into the kitchen only to return a minute later with an identical High Life to mine, except for the bits of ice clinging to the cap, frosted label, and unexpired expiration date.

That was a real 'Tony Robbins" moment for me.  That was the day I decided to stop being a slapnuts.  I started grabbing life by the coin purse and shaking until I got every last bit of loose change and respect I deserved.

Oh, I still wear shirts with cut off sleeves into restaurants, but now those sleeves are hemmed and they have a little something extra in the form of a logo on the chest. Like a Polo insignia or a "C" for Champion, which is what I am.  Oh, and those jorts?  Let's just say the ladies like them creased, light starch.

Take it easy, brothers.