Confucius Say Bird Not Make Nest In Bare Tree

Ok, so I’m having lunch with a couple of guys from out of town. This is a business lunch. I’m supposed to be on my game, working, but I can’t stop staring at one of the guys across the table from me. Kids, he had the bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen. I’m talking of pair of Wilford brimley mustaches above both eyes.

Concentration was a problem. Every time he would take a bite, all I could do was picture a family of swallows nesting in his thickets popping their heads out and picking the fork clean before he could get it in his mouth. I bet if I reached up in there, I’d pull out a lost baggage claim check from his first flight back in ought seven. I giggled at one point envisioning his brows as Wonder Twins, joining forces to stamp out evil in and around this dude’s face-shape of an angry yeti, form of two yippy Lassa Apsas.

On the subject of hair and aging, everything has a purpose, something in the engineering, the grand design. If so, then why, pray tell, do males become grotesquely hairy as they get older? Does is go back to cave man days, changes in body chemistry, sheer entertainment value for others around? I’d like to know.

But maybe after lunch…

Nature! Get It Off Me.

Defusing bombs, piloting a jet, sucking the venom out of a bite, all man skills I do not possess. Add to that, backing a trailer.

We recently purchased a pop-up camper. Eight foot box, two slide outs expandable to twelve foot, a mere two hundred and fifty pounds of tongue weight, and approximately 1,850 pounds of GVW. Yeah, I don’t know what that stuff means either.

I do know that with the optional air conditioner, the addition of a small microwave and coffee maker, and plenty of on board plug-ins for cell phone chargers, hand held games, and mini-DVD players, roughing it never has been this much fun. After a series of small overnight test runs over the last few months, the family loaded up and traveled some three hours south to Branson for the weekend.

First off, to the City of Branson, I apologize for running over a Baldknobber. But with his silly hat, dorky tie, and decades old acoustic guitar in hand, I’d say he had it coming. Anyone who has ever endured one of the multitude of “shows” in Branson right now is shaking their head in agreement, silently saying “I’m not saying it’s right, just that I understand.”

Secondly, backing up a trailer, even a small one, sucks. Did I say backing a trailer sucks? Try it with neighbors on both sides and a truck waiting behind you to pass through. That is a whole new level of suck, a category heretofore not known unto man. This, gentle readers, is why truckers drink. I’m sure of it.

Lastly, to the makers of the tenting and canvas components of Viking Campers, I say kudos to you my friends. Reeling from the trauma of nearly wiping out half the campground, dealing badly with the stress of the “first the jet pilot thing and now this” look in my wife’s eyes, and with the laughter of the other campers nearby who survived still ringing in my ears, rains came. I mean rain. So hard you couldn’t hear yourself scream. Thunder so close, it actually made your body rumble. More than a few times during the rampage I began to consider the aerodynamics of the camper, certain we were going to achieve lift in the winds blowing us back to front and left to right. The storm was impressive by anyone’s standards. It rained and stormed, stormed and rained, rained and stormed for the next five hours solid. The rains continued for about twelve hours after the thunder and lightning gave up harassing us. Good times, people. Good times. Not a drop in the camper. High and dry, we were, the entire time.

Just the three of us: The little guy entertaining himself in the spirit of all things wooly and pioneer like by multi-tasking between the Chipmunks DVD, his Leapster, and the Gameboy. Mommy way over on her side of the pull out bed, no doubt asking herself what’s happened to the Marlboro men of the world, and me determining what speed I would need to make in order to ram through the back of the garage at home, making it a pull through. Cause, there will be no more backing up. Ever.

Behind the Scenes at CNN

Anderson Cooper: With that we’ll take a short commercial break and be right back with more from the Google/Monster.com/Poweraide/Countrywide Mortgage/ESPN Deportes/TGI Friday's debate.

Director on Set: Ok, we’re clear:
Obama: What the heck was that answer?
McCain: You talking to me sonny?
Obama: POW crap again?
McCain: Shut up Skippy.
Anderson Cooper: Gentlemen, please.
Obama: Hey John, how ‘bout we head to Carlos’ Tavern after this? They make a great Metamucil High-Ball.
McCain: Pastor Wright called. Wanted to know if the poker game was still on for Tuesday?
Obama: Old Fart!
McCain: Poser!
Anderson Cooper: Both of you shut up for the love of all things holy.
Obama: Your wife’s a cougar?
McCain: Jealous much??
Anderson Cooper: I will kick both your…
Director: We’re back in three, two, one...

Eggample #1 Why I'll Never Model Swimwear

Gentle readers, I had quite possibly the world’s most unhealthy sandwich today. It should have come with its own Surgeon General’s warning label.

2 eggs over easy on buttery wheat bread, slathered in sour cream and topped with bacon slices. The menu called it an Irish Egg Sandwich. I call it, simply, a masterpiece.

I am ashamed I ate it, yet proud I finished. I’ll need to add about 45 additional minutes of treadmill work tonight in order to correctly compensate for the internal damage wrought by this cardiovascular terminator.

Never have triglycerides, fat, cholesterol, and calories come together in such a stunning display of gluttony and nutritional blasphemy.

I won’t eat tonight out of respect for the now departed and thoroughly enjoyed legend, and the fact that I have now reached maximum density…

Wow!

Hush

Little guy had Ninja class at the community center last night. So, I took the opportunity to get back on the treadmill. Been about a week.

Keep in mind that I firmly believe running is a wholly unnatural act that should occur only under three circumstances: securing a good spot at the buffet line, any time my mother in law asks for a “little” help around the house, and from security at Jennifer Gardner’s estate. Yet there I was huffing and heaving, and that’s just at the thought of it. I hadn’t turned the stupid thing on yet.

Talking on the cell phone, reading a magazine, chatting with my neighbor, are never, never activities I undertake while on the treadmill. Must focus power, grasshopper. Look straight ahead, concentrate on my breathing, and try not to die. I’ve said it before, but that’s really it.

Tuesday must have been bring your teenage daughter to the gym night. Row after row of pony tails on the machines. All of them in some form of communication with each other. There was a lot of gum snacking and cell phone chatter.

I understand that I am old and out of shape, but the least they could do is make it appear as if the treadmill required a little effort. One chick was making bubble gum strings with her finger as she was talking with the 13 year old beside her.

Look, I need the old sweaty guy cardio room, not the one for Ms. Carson’s Girl Scout Troop #11 or the 8th grade track team.

Rest(less)ness

Can’t explain it lately. I’ve got a story half baked on the computer I need to finish, two or three song ideas underway, and some audio blog work that’s screaming to be tried. Yet, by 9:00 pm I can’t think of anything better to do than lay down. It’s a mistake to sit or stop moving anytime after dinner.

Here’s the kicker, even though I’m so tired, I wake up wide eyed at about 5:00 am and can’t seem to get back to sleep.

If you’re keeping score at home, that means I’m going to bed earlier and waking up earlier. Medically there is a term for this.

Oldfartitis!

You Play Your Thing, I'll Play Mine

I filled in today for the vacationing worship leader at our smaller, satellite campus in a nearby town. Had to stop at our main campus on the way up to grab up some music. Before heading out I caught the tail end of the worship team’s practice session.

Since I wasn’t going to be there today, they found a drummer to fill in. A talented young man, capable of playing just about anything. Really gifted. Still a student at a local conservatory I think.

Sat in the back and watched him change every tom position, flop the ride and the crash at the processor, change where the high hat sits, adjust the pre-sets and tinker with just about every nut, bolt, allen key and screw on the set. That meant, of course, that I would have to find some time during the week, or come in extra early next Sunday, to change it all back. Not sure why, but it bothered me. I didn’t pay for the set, and just because my bottom typically occupies the bench behind them on Sundays doesn’t make them mine.

I listened to them play through a couple of songs. Kept noticing the drums. Man that kid was banging the cymbals like he was mad at them. Frankly, just from the way he was whacking it, the sheer aggression, I’d say the crash owed him twenty bucks. He hooked up the double bass pedals too. Gentle readers, this is just my opinion, but the double bass in a worship setting is about as useful as athlete’s foot fungus. Well, unless Pantera or Anthrax decides to do some Tomlin covers that is. Then I laughed at myself. Not only was I sounding like an old fart, I was sounding like a know it all old fart.

So I decided to take my judgmental arrogance right up the road and do my own thing, reminding myself all the way there that there would be several people watching me wondering why I chose open E for that song, how come I can’t play a simple F sharp bar chord, and just what the heck is Dad-Gad tuning anyway.

(I also prayed for forgiveness in advance…cause I’m pretty sure the double bass pedal is going to wind up “lost” as soon as I get back. He-He)

Disco Salve

Grabbing up my keys on the way out the door this morning, I heard the boom-box crank up. Curious, I started up the stairs. My wife was on her way down, met me halfway with one of those “that is so your child” looks.

CD player in his bedroom was pegged at ten so he could hear it from the bathroom. He was in the shower singing at the top of his lungs. The musical selection this morning: The Chipmunks cover of Funky Town.

I stood there for a few seconds listening to him sing, digging his six year old warble.

Good medicine people. Good medicine.

Kiss Me, You Fool!!!

Little guy and I were driving around yesterday afternoon. Drove through a residential neighborhood, slowly, looking at the houses for sale. Caught an elderly gentlemen getting ready to leave a house, keys in hand. He grabbed up his significant other and gave her a kiss right there on the porch. Kids, not just a kiss, but a wrap his arm behind her, dip her a little, smack-a-rooney.

I laughed at the sight of it. Wanted to roll down the window and tell gramps to get a room. Giggled for about the next half mile.

Don’t know those two love birds, but the writer instinct took over. The mental picture in my head was a couple of empty nesters in their retired prime. He’s getting ready to leave out on a fishing trip. She’s having the ladies over for card game or two. That’s how they have said goodbye for the last 42 years. Heck, maybe he was going to Wal-Mart for a TV Guide and some pork rinds, the only occasion being that it was Wednesday, and they couldn’t say goodbye without a kiss. Don’t know. But, I dug it.

I came to a conclusion right there: Gentle readers, we don’t do enough kissing. Little pecks, top lip nudges, chin kisses, fish faces, cheek smootches, between the eyes, tip of the nose, loud obnoxious ones right on the ear, deep teeth bumpers, side to sides, straight on face mashers, passionate breath takers, not nearly enough kissing.

Not that you should need convincing, but the following article details some interesting and encouraging facts about kissing.

http://msn.match.com/msn/article.aspx?articleid=8952&TrackingID=516311&BannerID=544657&menuid=6&GT1=26000

The challenge today, your mission should you choose to accept it, is to go on a seven kiss minimum per day. Let’s call it a Week-In-A-Day plan. Seven kisses per day for the next month. Kiss your spouse, significant other, babies, your boss, the neighbor, don’t care. Recruit others. Start a club. I guarantee you we’re all going to feel better.

Somebody get me some Tic-Tacs and lip balm. Homey ain’t even playing…

I Don't, errr...I mean I do. I Do!

Somewhere today in the desert like wastelands of Western Oklahoma, there’s a lay minister performing a marriage ceremony. I think.

A lady here at the office was planning to marry at a Vegas-like drive thru chapel on the way back home from a week long vacation. His kids, her kids, a rental car, six days on the road, small motels, and all that good ole family time culminating in an exchange of vows.

Personally, I think they’re crazy, and not because they are getting married.

What are odds that after that many days on the road and in such close quarters they’re still on speaking terms, let alone in a hurry to tie the knot?

Yes, we’re going to get married, but only after we work together on installing a garage door opener. Absolutely, let’s get married, but first can we spend three days together at your mother’s house? I won’t even think about marrying you unless all your friends move in with us for at least a month.

Marriage is a marathon, not a sprint. No sense starting the run two miles behind the start line wearing concrete shoes…..

Wet Work

Ok, new rule. If you take your kid to the pool, you must enter said pool with the child for pool time merriment. It is no longer acceptable to snap the goggles on the little one and then throw them into the water so you can scurry to the nearest deck chair to read the paper, talk on the cell phone, or nap.

There must have been 10 kids in the pool when I showed up with my little guy. No adults in the water. As soon as I dipped a toe in it was like a tiny-tikes feeding frenzy: “throw me”, “take me down the slide”, “I can touch nose with my tongue”, do you have more goggles?”, “How old are you?”-on and on and on. I came to play with my son, not baby sit town folk.

You there, yes you with your head buried in a Sue Grafton book, this is your son currently jumping on my back. I will pick him up by the foot and begin dunking him like a chip in salsa if you don’t perhaps say a word or two.

Excuse me sir, while I can appreciate the need for a cathartic nap, kindly explain to your daughter that spitting water through the gap in her front teeth, albeit cute, gets annoying after, oh I don’t know, maybe the fifth time.

People, get in the water. It’s not going to kill you. I don’t care what you look like in a bathing suit, no one does. Get over it.

Batter Up!

"Our goal is to be published songwriters, with a cut on the radio, by the time we are 40. 1,541 days to go."-orignally posted August 8, 2006

Baseball is rife with quirky superstitions. Rally caps, locking up arms during an important at bat, holding up the number two to your caps when there is two outs and a count of two and two. There was a story this weekend during the College World Series of a kid who puts his old wrist bands from high school in his pockets for every game. Then there is the lonely one: The pitcher sitting all alone at the end of the dugout while he’s working on a no hitter.

Wouldn’t want to upset the cosmic balance of things and be the one who puts the jinx on, now would we?

Since I’m not one for convention and have issues knowing when to keep my trap shut, let me slide down to where the pitcher is sitting in the late innings of a perfect game. Let me go ahead a wash my underwear in the middle of a seven game win streak.

I’ve been loosely chronicling our little songwriting escapades against the backdrop of a ticking clock. A cut on the radio by the time I’m forty. That’s the goal. Who knows, the posts could be a neat success story some day, or a bitter cautionary tale. We’ll see.

We took step in the right direction late last week gentle readers. Another step forward. We heard from a co-writer that an artist put a song of ours on hold. That’s our first hold. In the grand scheme of things, getting a hold is a neat thing, but yet it’s light years away from actually making the CD, Pluto distance from being a cut.

I’ll stop short of rally caps and refusing to wash undergarments, but I won’t talk about this particular hold from here on out. Don’t know how the game is going to end, but it sure is fun playing.

Miles and miles to go. 863 days.

Pie & Par

What a day kids.

New Hawaiian shirt. Wife made blueberry pie. Little guy’s first time at the driving range.

Picture perfect.

Blessings rain down even with clear skies and 90 degrees…

Feed Me

(From sgm blogger (ret): Just an FYI, but ever since June third those of us who subscribe to you via rss only get a "Follow the link gentle readers. Making the changover soon. Soon as I figure a way to transfer my archives that is." message everytime you make a new post. Mind you, I think your site is quite lovely, but the convenience of using your rss feed keeps me from missing any pearls of brilliance you craft. Thank you, kind sir.)

Pearls of brilliance indeed.

As a blogger of some note, clearly I know exactly what SGM Blogger (Ret) is referring to. However, some of you out there in the blogospehere may not be on the cutting edge like SGM Blogger and I happen to be. You, yourself, may be saying “What?” and “Come again?” and “RSS whobewhattie?”

TO SGM Blogger (ret): Clearly you have good taste in blogs. Having the ability to judge blogs so well, most likely you are also extremely attractive and ridiculously successful in all that you do. I wonder, dear friend, if you could take just a moment and explain to the extensive Blah network exactly what you are referring to? In addition, just for my readership of course, because I certainly already know the answer, being as tech savvy as I am, could your courtesy extend to perhaps detailing a fix to the dilemma you so expertly have described in your comments? Again, for the benefit of my readers…really.

Anniversary

15 years today people. That's 105 in dog years......

Ah Nuts!

He was in his mid 40’s, Caucasian, about 5’8”, and skinny. Animated, he was having issues with someone on the other end of his Blue Tooth. Not in a hurry, not creeping, just occupying space, he sort of plodded down the middle of the airport corridor seemingly talking to no one, loudly.

Picture this: tennis shoes, white socks, khaki cargo shorts, pink polo with popped collar, blue blazer, and an orange ball cap with salt and pepper hair spilling out the back and sides. Of course, with the Blue Tooth appendage sticking out of one ear.

At the Detroit airport, between the A and C gates, there is a lighted corridor about three football fields long. The ceiling and walls are curved forming a half circle. Glass panels mounted along length of the walls and on the ceiling flash, strobe, and blink pastel colors that give off an aural feel. All the while sounds of the ocean and cosmos play on hidden speakers. As you traverse the hall on the moving walkway, you are subjected to a spectral, almost other worldly spectacle.

Halfway through the hall, not really seeing light from either end of the terminals, Blue Tooth man was looking around and turned his gaze on me. He was back lit by an explosion of lime, pink, and baby blues. Just happened to be close to a speaker at the time blasting out strange cosmic sounds. Right there, as the lights danced around him and the music invaded my head, my vision narrowed to a small bore and I lost by sense of direction, drawn into what I can only call a trance like state.

Then it hit me. Dear goodness, Northwest airlines put tainted mushrooms in the little bag of peanuts they gave me. I’m tripping. That just happened. I will fall down right here, eventually getting scooped up by TSA and thrown into the drunk tank in the dungeon like bottoms of the airport, sucking my thumb and mumbling about the blue finger coming out the strange man’s ear and the sparkly things on his head.

No momma, I don’t do drugs. I’m a good boy, I swear.

Wanna talk about crazy? 40 year old wearing a pink polo, rocking the popped collar? Come on.

I’m out for a few days gentle readers. Off to Richmond, VA.

On Wednesday I’ll be making a sales presentation to the largest company I’ve ever had the pleasure to pitch. Good times.

Be the ball. Be the ball. Na.na.na.na.na.na.na.

What am I Doing!?!

During my time on this planet, I’ve been involved in numerous public endeavors. Singing, leading worship, public speaking, campaigning for office, cold calls, face to face sales, you name it. I’m not going to tell you I don’t get nervous anymore, but the nerves come more out of a desire to execute well versus a confidence issue.

Except when I pick up the guitar and play a thread of a song idea to another couple writers in the room. I swear it feels like the first time, every time, no matter how many times I do it. Then there’s that 10 second pause at the end when they digest it.

You wait….wait….are they going to like it…wait….man I hope they do cause I got nothing else….wait…is that my spleen that hurts right now…wait…can you get yak out of a Taylor…wait…when did my eye start twitching like that….wait…anyone got the number to that truck driving school…note to self: two cups of coffee and a Mountain Dew should be a no-no before a session-safety tip…wait…

I’ve heard it said that being nervous means possessing a heightened sense of self-awareness, a feeling, an emotion, to harness and use constructively. I say who ever said that probably lives with his mother and wears head gear still to this day. No. Nervous means purposely making yourself uncomfortable. Purposely. There’s a certain amount of crazy in that.

Working

“Our goal is to be published songwriters, with a cut on the radio, by the time we are 40. 1,541 days to go.”-originally posted August 8, 2006……

We have a co-write set up this weekend. The ladies from Nashville West are gracing us with a few hours. We’re meeting in a more central location this time, a new spot. Hopefully the logistics aren’t an issue.

I’m really looking forward to Saturday, to getting back to work, and to visiting with a couple of good eggs for a while.

The bad news is that Gina and Lisa have only a few more months left on probation. When their community service hours are up, and they get out of the half way house, Chris and I will have to start paying them to come down.

Miles and miles to go. 873 days.

On Fruit

This morning my boss caught a customer of ours in a lie. Not unusual. This guy is just plain sleazy. What makes this morning unique is that he used me in his lie, tried to throw me under the bus.

I’ve got the documentation, and thankfully, an ethical track record working on my side. Unraveling what really happened didn’t take long. Still…the stones some people have are amazing. Professionally and personally I’ve never encountered anything like it.

Now, gentle readers, what to do, what to do? I’d like to reply to the lovely e-mail I received this morning, attaching the evidence, and making it clear to all the ladies and gentlemen of the jury that this case is closed. The spleen vent would be well deserved and cathartic, to be certain. But at the end of the day, all I’d end up doing is alienating the general manager of our largest customer, potentially damaging our business and the 24 other employees here.

You like fruit? How do like them apples…

Behind the Scenes at the Filer Music Machine!!!

Me: You coming out to write tonight?
Chris: No, I’m having dinner with my manager tonight.
Me: Oh, nice of you to take the wife out on a Wednesday.
Chris: No, my manager.
Me: Manager?
Chris: Yes, my manager.
Me: You have a manager?
Chris: Ahhh, yes, I do.
Me: Doesn’t having a manager presume there’s a career there to manage?
Chris: I do so enjoy talking with you.
Me: So, we writing tonight or what?
Chris: Are you?
Me: What?
Chris: Writing?
Me: Yes
Chris: Actual writing?
Me: Yes, writing.
Chris: With real words and everything.
Me: Ahhh, yes. That’s what I said.
Chris: Doesn’t writing presume you having the ability to come up with a good idea?
Me: I do so enjoy talking with you…..

Bump In The Night

Night number two of good old fashioned, late springtime thunderstorms. Lots of noisy thunder rumbling around upstairs and plenty of lightning. Real crowd pleaser tonight.

I give it about three minutes until I have a sleepy-eyed, six year old junior weather man asking about the favorable conditions present for severe weather and the possibility of a parental unit slumber party in his room.

Ten years ago when the immediate threat of a Ben Franklin electricity experiment was past, my wife and I would find a porch or a deck and take advantage of the cool front that brought on the storm. Sit out in the cool air, just under the overhang to avoid the rain, and watch the light show, maybe even occupy the same deck chair and talk to each other.

Tonight…the weather and the accompanying percussion symphony means one, or both, of us will be up a bunch. Momma has an early meeting so she’s in bed. Can’t go on the deck because our 100 pound ferocious beast of a guard dog would most certainly be attempting to occupy the same space I’m in, cowering and whimpering at the thunder. Let me tell you, sitting with a wet Marmaduke in a deck chair just isn’t the same. I’ll make sure there are batteries in the weather radio and check the sump pump. Then end up in bed with the little guy doing my part to ward off the drop in barometric pressure.

Good times, people. Good times.

Frustrated

It’s late here in Missouri. Late. I’ve been sitting at the computer, guitar in hand, staring at a chorus for the last two and a half hours. Can I get a verse, for the love of Mike? A noun, verb, adjective, anything, please, give me something. I like the chorus too much to give up on it. It has legs and wants to walk. I know it. For now, it’s just lying there all gimpy and angry at me for treating a good idea that way. Gentle readers that’s no way to treat a hook. I should be ashamed. In fact, I should have my Wanna-Be-writer's card revoked.

If my grandmother were alive, she’d call the ball. “Son, you ain’t regular like you should be.” Metaphorically and literally she would be correct. I need a writer’s two pound bran muffin and a thirty two ounce jug of literary prune juice for I am STUCK I say unto thee!

Can you hear it? The chorus, it’s mocking me now. “Tony Wood would’ve had it cut by now. Avalon and Mark Harris would be in court fighting over the rights to the song.” “Sue Smith would have turned it into six musicals, three songs, two blogs, a choral piece, and a book deal, rookie.” I can hear Belinda say “Gang, I wouldn’t feed that to Pete.” Literally, it just told me Joel Lindsey would punch me in the mouth. That just happened.

Some would say I’ve gone completely crazy. I would argue the “completely” part. Obviously there are some significant things I’m missing. Like, oh I don’t know, the ability to finish…anything. I’m going to sit in the corner, slowly rock back and forth, and suck my thumb until I find my happy place.

I’m out!

Wii Bit of a Problem

Little guy scored a Wii from a grandma. Way too much for a birthday present. A good parent would have objected. I would have, but I’d hate to deprive my family of the joy of giving and this thing rocks!

Evan and I spent some good quality time together playing tennis, golf, and bowling.

I actually served so hard one time that I hurt my shoulder. Joker still hurts this morning. Yeah, I know……..