For Adam

To: Adam Lambert

FROM: America

RE: Your Shtick

Dear Adam,

Like a shiny new toy at Christmas we couldn’t wait to wind you up and watch you go. Time after time, week after week, you didn’t disappoint. Amazing really. Thank you for that. Highly entertaining.

If anyone in the country is in need of casting a rock opera, you, sir, will be the first one called. I promise. If we’re putting together a legends of rock tribute band to tour the country, again, you’ve got the nod. If we simply want to amaze our friends by watching you hit high notes and shatter glass, you’re the man.

But like too much of Aunt Mildred’s divinity candy, or 15 seconds of Rush Limbaugh and Keith Olbermann, I believe a change is in order lest we all start to vomit uncontrollably. Not certain we as a nation can handle a CD with 13 tracks of your incredible screeching and howling.

So, as a nation, we implore you to show a little depth, a different side to your amazing talent. Stand still, sing from somewhere other than the prancing rocker buried within you, and promise to never, ever wear a white suit again. Ever.

Signed,

An increasingly bored, but jealous of your talent nation

P.S. We weren’t kidding about the white suit. Never again.

Hype

Got a call today from a friend. She works in a medical supply business. She told me that she acted early, bought masks in bulk, and still has a case or two if we need them here. She'll sell them to me at cost.

Masks for swine flu protection.

Local pharmacies are running out, medical stores can't get them fast enough, some are price gouging. The sky is apparently falling.

The end is nigh upon us. Stockpile food, load your guns, board your windows, write your wills.

As if...

Vacation Update

On the list of jobs I'm glad I don't have right now, Mexico's Minister of Travel & Tourism would rank near the top. Kidnappings and Swine Flu have travel warnings coming in from everywhere. Seriously, can you imagine?

When asked in a recent interview about the state of Mexico's tourism economy, Minister of Travel and Tourism, Juan Jose Xtapa Maria Cordova Snoticus Venezuela Home Depotita Tegucigulpa Gonzales opined "Mexico is a fine, fine place to visit.  I feel safe anywhere in this beautiful country."

Although his use of a Class I Haz-Mat suit, a peasant from the hill country hired to constantly hose him down with Purel, his insistence that no reporter get within 25 feet from him and then speak to him only through an alcohol soaked cheese cloth, and his security detail composed of 63 mercenaries from Blackwell, two fully armed Apache gunships on loan from the Alabama Air National Guard, six bullet proof, heavily armored SUV's, a World War II vintage Russian T-72 tank, and the three steamer trunks full of bribe money, err I mean incentive funds, that two aides were busy passing out fist over fist to local hostiles might call the sincerity of his comments into question.

   

Potty Patrol

Our company is instituting a new drug policy. Everyone is subject to testing, not just new employees. Oh my. Nervous days for some around here.

“Um, what drugs are they testing for?”

“Brother, if you have to ask…..”

“When are they going to do the testing?”

“Brother, if you have to ask….”

Pretty sure we’ll have to explain to a couple of boys that this isn’t like their senior year of high school when they weren’t allowed back on school grounds cause of some continuing court order issues. They can’t take this test on-line.

Personally, I welcome the testing. Post my results on the big board out in the shop for all I care.

“Subject 03241’s pee is full of joy and happiness with trace amounts of respectability. When placed on the slide prior to going under the scope, the sample instantaneously formed into the shape of a smiley face. Remarkable.”

Maybe I’ll have a Talladega Nights moment: “Subject 03241’s pee was collected in the morning and subsequently found to be full of excellence.”

That’s right. Unless they’re testing for Reese’s peanut butter cups, Doritos, or diet Dr. Pepper, ain’t no shame in my game.

Just Above The Knees

Knees…they’re a death row inmate getting the allotted one hour of yard time, stepping out of the cell and into the sun.

Ankles…confused and happy by the whoosh, the slobbery dog half out the window of a speeding car.

Babies run away, mothers scream, grown men weep openly, sirens wail.

Yes people, I am in the short pants today.

Meaness Quotient

Seven kids at soccer practice. Before the hour is over, four end up crying.

One because a young man was told three times to "quit that and pay attention." I used a rather emphatic tone and clear, concise dialog on the fourth time that yielded tears. Buckets of them.

The other three to injuries: one kicked foot, one tweaked ankle, and one ball to the face.

That's a 57% cry ratio, and it's not like we were scrimmaging the Missouri Department of Correction's varsity squad or anything. It's just practice.

That's my best work to date. Really proud.

Breaking the 60% mark was my goal and we're pretty early in the season. I can smell the Coach's Hall of Fame from here. Better get started on my acceptance speech.

Avoidance & Resistance Training

It's simply not OK for you to go to your spin class, swim laps, or to hit the weights and let your elementary age kids run amok in the fitness center. It's not OK.

There were at least ten little ones dorking around on the track last night. One of them thought it would be funny to race me on the straightaways. That was enjoyable.

Although, it was quite a workout jogging while dodging kids every thirty seconds or so. It added a little different twist to the normal cardiovascular routine. It was a mental exercise as well. After a while, it took all of my mental energy to resist the temptation to play linebacker and start running through the knuckleheads in my way versus running around them.

People, mind your babies and keep them out of the fat, angry guy's way.

Circa 1934 (Chicago Tribune)

Gentle readers, only the names change.

Darn the Darning

This morning, rather unexpectedly, I took part in an archaeological find that I believe to be historically significant. We're still gathering evidence, but this find immediately calls into question the long held belief that socks disappear in the dryer.

Leading a search and rescue party desperately looking for the stuffed iguana that had escaped the bed over night, I stumbled upon a nest of unknown origin deep under box springs of the littlest member of the household. After careful examination, I determined that the nest was actually a gathering of sorts. This, gentle readers, was where socks go to die.

Like the mysterious elephant graveyards in Africa where aged elephants make their final stop, socks of all types seem to have congregated in this spot to never be seen again. This site, however, was notably different in it's variety. There were no-snow ankle types, long tube socks, dark dress socks, and warm and fuzzy slipper socks with cute little pandas on them. The one unifying factor was that these socks had long since been forgotten.

I counted 10, but the amount of dust, cobwebs, and nasty cling, made the identification process difficult. I anticipate a higher number once the lot is cleaned and tagged. Assessing a commercial value will be a challenge. However, we can now safely remove the unwarranted suspicions that the dryer has had to endure for decades.

Further exploration under the bed should be undertaken immediately. Trace evidence uncovered during the sock excavation leads this intrepid explorer to believe that near the sock graveyard lies the richest deposit of Hot Wheels the Northern hemisphere has ever witnessed...

RPMs

Stuck behind a slow mover, waiting on a light to change, counting cars on a seemingly never ending train-all good times. When I was younger, there would be a horn honk, a frustrated exhale, maybe even a bad word or two at my bad luck.  Now, I call someone I haven't spoken to in a while, turn up the radio and sing, or simply breath a little deeper and chill.  Better, but still not totally effective at beating the stress that builds any time something gets in between point A and B.

That's my writing gentle readers.  It feels as if I am stuck in city traffic, stops and starts, bursts of speed followed by slogging and sputtering to a near stand still.   I'm using a lot of gas and it's not so good on the engine.  A lyric here, a verse there, maybe a melody thread once and a while, structurally better, feeling more confident.  I'd love to put the hammer down, but just can't seem to open her up for long.  

I'm telling you people, I've got a shiny machine, low mileage, with a tiger in the tank.  I think.  I think.  But for now, I'm just the annoying punk on the weekend that cruises by slow, revs the engine making sure you hear it, but never, ever gets it out of first.

In a Word

I got punk’d by my six year old last night.

He’s climbing into bed, I lean down to give him a little kiss, mom is behind us, off to the side with the usual bedtime book at the ready.

“Dad, let’s play a quick game. I’ll say the first part of a word, you say the rest, OK?”

“OK, make it quick.”

“OK. The word is happiness. I’ll say the first part, you say the rest.”

“OK”

“HAP”

“PINESS”

He puts both hands up to his mouth and begins to cackle, rolling around on the bed and snorting in laughter.

Takes me a second to realize what just happened. Breathing deep, trying not to smile, I begin to parent a little. “Very funny kiddo, but that’s not a very good word to say. That’s never OK at school, do you….”

From behind me I hear a half snort, the kind that only comes from someone trying hard to suppress the onslaught of an inevitable laugh.

I continue, “Listen kiddo that was a funny joke, but…”

More pained restraint from behind me, she’s losing the battle.

Still I press on, “look bub, I hope you and your friends aren’t telling anyone else that joke. Penis isn’t…”

…And now we’re done. Now both of them are cackling, howling actually. Little guy on the bed, mom with her head buried in the book and shoulders heaving with laughter.

Parenting moment gone. Today I’m waiting for the call from the school telling me my little Chris Rock is in the principal’s office

The Finger

Dusty late model Chevy of some sort, head barely above the wheel, hands at ten and two.  Slowing down now, more slowing, still slowing, and now we're stopped.  

No one around.  No oncoming traffic.  No farm animals in the road.  No tell-tale sign of car trouble.  We're just stopped.  If we were any further outside the city limits, a tumbleweed would have drifted across the lonely stretch of road we were currently on.  Still stopped.

As I'm about to put the truck in park and get out to see if maybe there's something wrong with the car, or driver, ahead of me, a full 5 count after we stopped mind you, I see the break lights come off and a slow roll begin.  Up comes a old, craggy back of a hand with an index finger extended giving me a little waggle.  A wave of sorts.

OK, so the finger must have meant "oops,  sorry about stopping in the middle of the highway at a cross street with no lights or stop signs.  My bad."

Wait, maybe it meant "oops, sorry about that young feller.  Had myself a very senior moment there."

Then again, I wonder if it was a cautionary finger saying, "don't pity me young one for you too will one day not be able to trust a fart, maybe take the blue pill and forget if it was Viagra or a sleeping pill...and not care either way, maybe you'll stop on a lonely stretch of road for no apparent reason someday and just be fine with telling the world that you'll make a four way stop anywhere you dad-gum please thank you very much!

I did get a finger.  Just not sure what it meant.

Well Played

85 years. Newly wed, she came of age during World War II while her husband was navigating a B-24 over Indochina and the South Pacific. Stayed married for over 65 years to the same gallant gentleman. Raised a son. Retired from the phone company. Doted on her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Played the organ at church. Never met a dinner she couldn't cook. Truth be told, she was a skilled domino and card player who would beat you, but smile and then offer you pie.

Not feeling well, this grand lady decided to rock a little while in her bedroom. She went to sleep in her chair and just never woke up. Peaceful, private and without fanfare, elegant in a way, exactly how a true lady, proper and polite, would want it.

I never knew my great grandparents. Married into knowing her. I'm so proud that my son had many an adventure with Grandma Ruth-picking tomatoes, taking walks, swinging in the yard, playing games, riding in parades in the classic T-Bird, and with out a doubt, having two desserts at every meal. He's better for having known her, as we all are.

Currently, I imagine, she whipping the saints behinds in dominos drawing doubles that play every time, blotting freshly applied lip stick, and about ready to pull yet another confection from the oven...

I Am My Father

Have you noticed? News wires, ISPs, networks, cable news, all of them.

I lack to the tools to properly track it, but I'd lay a month's wages on gun related stories in the news rising by 50% over the last three months. A rise that "coincidentally" seems to track along with the election of a anti-gun president.

Don't get me wrong, the news was already saturated, but the frequency lately is suspicious.

Yes, I know this reads rather conspiratorial. However, before you dismiss me as another angry, bitter, middle-class white man clinging to the Bible and the gun, just watch and listen.

Don't shake your head and pity me as a crackpot. Not yet anyway. That time will come surely enough. No, just watch and listen.

Common Sense Law Enforcement

Yes sir, Mr. Robinson, I remember the Black Crows very well and I do not have an issue with your stand on the legalization of hemp, not at all why I’m preventing your entry into London today. You see Sir, anyone that looks like you and is dumb enough to divorce Kate Hudson should be consdiered a threat to society and themselves. I going to have to ask you to surrender your passport and return to the States immediately.

Drum Bummed

No worship team duty.  Been a little while.  Experienced church from the front today. 

I asked a few people sitting around me as we were getting ready to leave if they noticed that pretty regularly you heard the rubbery "thwock" of the drum pad as it was struck and not the drum sound it was supposed to generate.  

"Oh yes.  It happens a lot", came one reply.

"Absolutely, especially during the slow songs", came another.

Mostly people just nodded.

Great. That's great.  

Night Owl

Pretty sure we covered this already. Sorry for the repeat.

Sleep has apparently forsaken me. I've angered it, abused it in someway perhaps, not certain. What is certain, however, is that it's not my friend.

What's worse is that these early morning wake up sessions are occurring with such regularity that I can accurately tell what time it is without consulting the clock. Hear the paper flop on the sidewalk-4:15. See the first blush of pink out the east windows, birds at medium chirping-6:oo (ish). Dead of night, no birds, train going by, doubled hosed because it's only 2:00 and I'm not going back to sleep anytime soon.

Seriously, people, this is starting to affect my kwan.

(Editor's Note: Any resemblance of bill's nose to that of the of the owl's beak is purely coincidental. The Eye brows, however, area dead freaking ringer...)

Even Columbus Would Have Turned Back For Home

 Many different artists, many different flavors can be found on my iPod, but basically it still boils down to country, Christian, pop, rock, and some early R&B.  

When you stack that up against the almost infinite possibilities of music that's out there, it's a pretty narrow band width.  So, lets call the ball.  I have acceptance issues.  As I age, unlike other facets of my life, I find myself getting better, not being so set in my ways, when it comes to music. Cautiously optimistic that there's hope for me yet. 

 

Until tonight. 

Who, or better yet, what is Lady Gaga?  Did you see this train wreck on Idol?

Let me break it down for you:  Lady Gaga rhymes with Caca with starts with "C" and that stands for what the....

Let's put it another way.  I felt like I sailed to a new world, hit the beach and accidentally stumbled onto an exotic, ritualistic ceremony performed by oddly clad, unintelligible natives. Naturally, although mistakenly, I took what can only be Peyote induced spasms to be either a "we're about to sacrifice a virgin to the Gods" or "hey, lets eat the heart of the strangers and put their shrunken heads onto a totem" dance.  So out of self preservation, I instinctively pulled out my black powder flintlock,  put two rounds into my new 42" flat screen, told the assembled men from my landing party to bury the bodies, burn the huts, and never, ever speak of this day again. 

At one point during the performance, my wife let out a pitiful, pitiful gasp.  When I looked over she whimpered, "Hold me.  I'm scared....So cold" and began to suck her thumb as she curled into a fetal position.

What on earth did we witness there America?  Can someone translate for me?  If not, I may put two more rounds into it just to be safe.