Monthly Archives: February 2010

Today’s Lesson

I guess it’s not good to have your nipper think I’m part of his school work. Yeah, pretty much that’s all I can see with this tale.

It’s happened before, parents bring their school neonate to me to ask questions. Now I don’t mind if you ask me first and it’s something I know about (two things that limit the chances I’ll ever be asked) but it never seems to work out like that.

It’s usually an ambush and way out of my field of expertise. And, for whatever reason (reason: I’m pretty much an asshole), I don’t act in a manner most would consider proper.

Not that I think it’s bad, I never expose the tyke to anything that’ll harm their delicate psyche. It’s just my way of teaching the parent to think their actions all the way through.

“Ask Chris.” The father prodded his squirt. “Go ahead.” The father looks at me and smiles. I do not offer an in kind.

It’s explained to me that the bairn has to ask people who their favorite Indians are. Oh, this should be pretty easy.

“Rocky Colavito.” I respond. Nothing. They’re both blank as a fart. I didn’t even get anything when I offered up Bob Feller.


The urchin begins to tell me what the project is, but I don’t care. He goes on about what he has to accomplish, I care even less. He tells me he’s having trouble because it seems everyone he asks is offering pretty much the same names. Okay, this gets my interest.

“Do you have any?” The anklebiter asks. I smile at him, nod to his father and begin.

“I have three I’ve always admired. There was the warrior Running Fever; Chief Sitting Shiva; and the notable squaw Smells Like Fishes.”

Thick Skin

I’ve said as a writer you need thick skin. Trust me, more people are going to hate you than like you. That said, sometimes it’s just so damn fun to have them hate you.

Case in point. A guy, an earnest, folk singing man, asked my advice about adding some levity to his act. His problem isn’t that he’s not fun to be around, he can’t get the funny to work in his writing.

He asked if I’d help. He told stories about being on the road, doing one night stands and a stupid (I now know) idea popped into my head so I wrote down this set of lyrics:

I’ve been doing one night stands
For a couple decades now
Traipsing down from town to town
Where there’s a bar and friendly boudoir

I’ll admit I’ve forgotten shows
Before the night through
But I never forget the ones who stay
Long after it’s last call

But that’s because I rhyme ’em
It’s a little trick I pull
I pick a town then pick a girl
If they both sound out the same

It started at my first show
At a Main street bluesy bar
When Janice from Hyannis
Took me to the submarine races

There was Lorilee from Kissimmee
And Myrna from down in Smyrna
Two bouncy twins from Abilene
One named Abby the other Colleen

Becky from Tribeca
Judy from Port Moody
It got a little rough in Council Bluff
With a biker chick named Syl

Patty from Paducah
Winona from Wihona
Terry from Roxbury
And Minnie from McMinnville

I’ll admit to being hazy
On just one of my gals
A little cutie from Tuckahoe
who sure did like to. . .Flo!

Is her name so my lists complete
But I wasn’t always got lucky
There’s a city I’ll never play again
The one in New Jersey called Orange

Okay, there ya go. Stupid, trifling do nothing set of lyrics.

Well, that’s what you think.

He showed it to his wife and she was thisclose to divorcing him because she thought it was a song about his on the road assignations.

He tried to explain that I, noted wise ass, was in fact the lyricist with the potentially puerile past. But she didn’t buy it.

At first.

She called me and I told pretty much the same story. It took her awhile but she came around. I mean, he didn’t even know where Wihona was!

It took her only a minute, a short little breath, for her to rear back and call me every name in the book and even a few in the Bible.

I am the most loathsome, horrible man ever and, as if that attack on my personal person wasn’t enough, she has forbidden her husband from ever associating with me.


Someone sure needs to get laid.

Curling Rocks!

No matter what my ex friend, More Than An Electrician, says!

Yes, it’s true, my name is Chris (“Hi, Chris!”) and I’m a curling fan. I know you may find it an odd and, well, let’s just stick with odd sport and you have a point. But there is something utterly compelling about the movement and strategy.

But then look who’s saying that?

I’m not here to convert you, I’m here to show you that curling fans, yes, with their silly hats and chants, are among some of the coolest fans around with some of the best senses of humor.

And here are ten songs about curling to show off those facts.

Always remember we’re out there and we’re plentiful! To quote Bowser And Blue in their awesome song, The Curling Song, more people curl than hock.

And never forget this fact, as pointed out by the great David Letterman, curling is the #1 broom related sport!

But, really, why would you take my word for it? Take this guys.

Happy Birthday, TB!

Hey everybody! Look who’s older than a sackful of Bea Arthur’s titties?

It’s our very own Taoist Biker who’s a whopping 26 again today!

Wow! What can I say about a man who brings a bit of joy to me every time I venture on over to his world?

Well, I can say he has the biggest collection of English schoolgirl spanking porn in the continental United States which he writes about quite elegantly on his blog. You should check it out!

But, because he doesn’t want to draw undue attention to his proclivity, he uses a euphemism when writing about it. So check out his posts on ‘MotoGP‘ to get a glimpse of the real TB!

All right, enough balderdash. Hey! TB! Thanks for giving me a place to hang out and have some fun. You’re a great guy and I appreciate your efforts in so many categories.

Thanks and happy birthday, TB.

Old Friend

Some months ago a blast from the past got in touch. No, it wasn’t an 18 year old child looking for back support. It was someone I played amateur tennis with. He was okay but a very nice guy and we got along well.

His family, on the other hand, hated me on sight. You see, they were very Brahmin in their stock, whereas I am not.

I know these people (you couldn’t be around tennis in this area without) and became friends with many. As a matter of fact, two great friends of mine (one a highfalutin flautist, the other a. . .well. . .the less spoken of him the better) argue about whose family arrived first. I mean they’re way past year, month, even week. We’re talking it’s down to Tuesday or Wednesday.

But this family hated me. The mother especially. She was right regal with her disdain. I’d been in her house dozens of times but the only time I was invited to sit (in a room with a proper name) was when we brought dates.

We’re sitting there wondering why we’re sitting there when she comes back in all June Cleavered up. Change of clothes, apron, iced tea on a silver platter.

We stifled laughter accepting the beverage. This is where my axiom, it’s not what is, it’s what is not springs to life.

As is proper, she served the girls first. Then, in something somewhat improper, served herself long before offering me the last beverage.

I accepted it but didn’t wait long before saying,

“Give me yours,” to my friend. He was taken aback until I explained the lack of Emily Post his mother had shown so I was questioning the, ah, purity of the beverage. Although he thought me quite paranoid and I don’t know how much the enticement of my beating him to death with a wingback chair had to do with it but I got my way.

Later, although not conclusively proving me right, he did say he felt a tad queasy later in the evening.

We’d been out of touch for decades and, after he’d spent some time catching up on my writing, brought me up to speed.

“I’m dying.”

He wanted to check in with people from his past one last time. After some back and forth I said I’d meet with him.

I go to his home and am greeted, warmly, by his wife and kids. We go to the bedroom where I see him lying on the bed withering away.

As we approach the room I saw deeper into the room. I wanted to ask his wife, who I was meeting for the first time, why there was no warning.

“I’ve been living with them for twenty years. Suck it up.”

I like her! I thought as I walked into the bedroom to the rolling eyes of his entire family including the doyenne.

I look at my friend and have a thought (or, as many call them, sick thoughts). I can take this in two directions. I can politely offer a few words and beat a hasty and respectful retreat or, well, be me.

“Dude?” I said as all head toggle to take me in. “What is that on your head? A merkin?”

He’s laughing. I step in for a handshake. His mother is gasping. Family members are wondering what to do. He tells me I’d better go before she recovers. And thanks me for the laugh.

And, yes, I’m available for funerals and brit milahs.

Phone Etiquette

I know it’s a dead art. I’m not silly, you know. But, boy, I’d like people to do this one little thing:

When dialing the phone, do not be in the middle of another conversation. Finish that one then begin the next.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask, do you?

I find it incredibly annoying to pick up the phone and hear the middle of someone else’s conversation. When that happens (and it happens often enough for me to have a procedure) I listen for a moment, sussing that I am not a party to the conversation, then gently hang up.

The phone will ring moments later and the person will tell me they just called but must have been disconnected.

“No.” I will respond. “You were talking to someone else so I figured you’d rather be talking to them so hung up on you.”

I continually go through my life being told how rude I am so, I guess, it must be true.

How’d Ya Meet?

I hate that question. I don’t know why. I guess it’s one of those, ‘I don’t know what to say but if I don’t say something we’ll have that awkward silence that unnerves folks so’ questions.

Trust me, people who feel the need to have that thought while around me, if you think silence is awkward just wait until I speak.

I have a standard response, “Prison. I was a guard. They needed a favor. It paid off for the both of us.” But sometimes, I don’t know what it is, maybe my ass is in full hole that day, but sometimes I take it other places.

Such as last night. A group of people asked how I met my girlfriend. I think another reason I find this a stupid question is the answer is usually boring.

And ya’ll know me. I hate to bore.

“I was walking down the street one afternoon. It was pouring and cold. It was one of those days when your balls try to get promoted so they can live inside your body.”

Was how I chose to begin.

“Up ahead I could see a figure standing outside their car. From the sidewalk I couldn’t tell they had a flat but that became evident rapidly.

As I approached I noticed it was a rather attractive woman and she was sobbing. I asked if she was okay and she said she couldn’t get her tire changed. I figured I wasn’t going to get any wetter so I told her to go across the street to the restaurant and I’d come in when I was done.

At first she was reluctant, who wouldn’t be? But she really had no option so she ran into the restaurant. I started changing the tire and about twenty minutes later I went to the restaurant to give her the keys.

She was very appreciative. She got a towel and dried me off and, even better, bought me a beer. We sat there for a few hours talking. It was very enjoyable. We had a lot in common and a ton of laughs.”

I stopped and looked at the people. They were eating it up. I have to admit, it is a very nice story. I smiled, looked at my girlfriend, put my hand on her shoulder and said,

“Later that evening, I met her in a biker bar.”

Deep Thoughts

I know this comes as no shock, but I’m not that much of a deep thinker. I’ve done many cool things and had many shitty things happen in my days. It’s life. You roll with it and take it where it may.

What bugs me is when I’m with a group of people and they either have to get all deep and start talking serious tones.

About things they would have changed; want to do; or have a deep, satisfying glow from.

When I see conversation starting, to quoteth the poet, Clint Conley from Mission Of Burma,

“That’s when I reach for my revolver.”

It’s not that I don’t want to do things, wouldn’t like to better my life, can’t be a better person (hey, hey, hey! I didn’t ask for an amen from the peanut gallery!) it’s just that I’m not much of a sharer about such things.

It’s not because I mind telling stories (obviously) it’s because it always sounds so self-serving (‘I want to spend a year in the Congo teaching the minuet.’), self-aggrandizing (‘I want to end hunger and win a BET Lifetime Achievement Award.’), loopy (‘I want to corner the market in peanut butter then I’ll. . .I’m not going to tell you! I know your tricks! Aahahahahaha! I’ll be the king of easy spread! You’ll see! You’ll ALL see!’), or dour (‘I’d like to dig irrigation ditches where there are none and use my body as a living petri dish to grow skin and give it to those less skinny than I.’)

I’m sorry. I am what I am. Life is what it is. Roll with it or get rolled over by it.

But, every once in a while, I can’t escape. Damn social mores! The whiny and wonder winds toward me. I don’t get anxious about my upcoming share. That ain’t me.

I get pissed. Bored. I slowly become ultracrepidarian.

And we all know that’s never a good thing.

“I want to dedicate my life to curing blindness in the Astyanax fasciatus mexicanus.”

Oh, polite murmurs abound.

‘Yeah!’ I think. ‘You know why the Astyanax fasciatus mexicanus is blind? It evolved into that because it lives in caves you pretentious, fuc. . .’

“Chris, do you have anything you’d like to share.”

‘. . .king. . .’

“Ah, no.”

“Come on.” I am implored. “There must me something you’d like to do before you die.”

“Well, there is one thing. But it’s silly.”

“Noting that fills your heart with need and passion is silly, Christopher.”

“Well, I’d like to see someone actually die laughing.”

He he he. These people sure don’t seem to know me, huh?

Over the growing murmur I continue.

“I’ve seen a guy have a heart attack but I had nothing to do with that. It was pretty cool though. I have made people spit thing out of their mouths and noses, fall out of chairs, bang their heads, laugh at inappropriate times, but die, ah, that would be one for the ages.”

I don’t know why, but it seems whenever I’m in a discussion such as this, I’m always the last to go.