Glen Miller, Now That's Music

My mom hates the kids music. We were talking the other day about my nephew and his mom going to see 'Fall Down Boy', and mom seemed perplexed by just the name. That's nothing new, forty-five years ago she said the same thing about my music, and even mocked a Lovin Spoonful song I was listening to on the radio. "What kind of song is that? Singing about a dirty neck, that's just nasty.”

Every generation thinks their music was the best and has nothing but scorn for the "crap" that the youngsters are listening to now. I myself hate, no, despise, most of the junk that passes for pop music today. It seems that every few months a new Disney discovery is foisted upon us, and we have to listen to some squeaky clean suburban girl or boy sing about their tortured emotions, accompanied by fake electronic music.

The funny thing is that the older I get the more I agree with mom. Forty-five years ago, you couldn't have convinced me that anything that was ever to come out of my mouth would sound anything like my mom or dad. Today I found myself screaming at Mark about not air-conditioning the entire neighborhood. The words I used were very similar to what my dad used to scream at me, although my dad's rant would have been more along the lines of, "I'm not heating the entire fucking neighborhood, close that goddamned door!". In my version, the word 'heating' wasn't used. Another thing my dad used to scream about was my choice of music. It was usually when he got in the car after I had used it, and the radio would be on my station, "Turn that crap off!! NOW!!. I was reminded of this the other day when I got in the car and Mark had some horrible radio station on. My response was almost verbatim what my dad used to say. The only difference was that I inserted the word 'rap' before the word 'crap'.

Coconut, and Vanilla, But I Can't Quite Put My Finger On That Other Scent?

I know I shouldn't compare my dog Chandler with his predecessor, Molly, but they are as different as night and day, and I never know what to expect next. One comparison is their bathroom habits. Molly would not only go poopies on command, but she would do it quickly, and in a nice neat pile. This made it much easier to sneak a load on a neighbor's lawn without having to pick it up. Chandler, on the other hand, finds the most manicured lawn, and takes his time circling the spot he intends to foul. When he has made enough passes, he finally starts pooping, but he doesn't stop walking in circles. This leaves me with a dotted line of dog crap, in a large arc, that I have to clean up.

This morning Chandler threw a new wrinkle into the process. I don't know if it is the coconut/vanilla shampoo I used on him, or if he is just nuts, but after doing his little poopy dance and dotted line of crap, Chandler nose dived into the grass and started rolling around in his own waste. In a panic, I started screaming, and tried to drag him out of it, but it was too late.

Chandlers usual routine after his morning walk, is to run into the bedroom, jump on the bed, and wake up Mark. I know what you are thinking, but No, I am not that cruel. After scurrying home, I gave Chandler a quick wash, and then I let him back into the house. He did his usual morning greeting to Mark, and Mark did ask why Chandler was so wet as he gave him a big hug. “Morning dew,“ I explained.

Photo Friday

I saw this photo of a dogs ass on the internet, and the owner believed that the image of Jesus had appeared on it, with Jesus' face being the bunghole.

So I took a photo of Chandler's ass, and to my surprise, there it was on his butt also.


Although, the more I look at it, the more I think Chandler's ass looks like Yoda.

Video Thursday

Mark has been complaining because Chandler won't leave him alone while he's eating. This might be why.

Face Plant

As a child, I was never very athletic. If you threw a baseball to me, it would be just as likely to hit me in the forehead as land in my glove. I was never the fastest runner, not even when my dad was chasing me down to mete out punishment for my latest offense. My lack of physical prowess is most evident in my bowling game. At one time, I did have a pretty decent bowling average and was welcomed on any team, but since the decline of my vision and the aging of my body, I have joined the ranks of those who are chosen last. It is just like being in junior high school again. In my attempt to return to bowling, I have had one team reject me after bowling with them for some months, and now, as my new team wallows in last place I can feel the pressure to succeed or get the hell out of there. It's a little disappointing.

I have been disappointed before with my lack of athleticism. Back in the seventies, I attempted to master the art of skateboarding. I was in my early twenties and still feeling the invulnerability of youth, so I went out and bought a nice little red skateboard. After some time learning the basics of it, and feeling secure in my abilities, I started to actually skateboard in public. I would carry the thing with me in my car, and if I saw a small hill or incline, I would stop and give it a try. Unfortunately I got cocky, and one day I spied a steeply inclined, paved path, that wound its way down to the banks of a river. While I flew down that path picking up speed, the realization that I wasn't of a sufficient skill level for what I was doing suddenly flashed through my mind. As my confidence waned, the board started to wobble, and at some point the board and I parted ways. I hit the pavement at around thirty miles per hour, face first, and skidded along leaving shreds of skin from my legs and hip imbedded in the tarmac behind me.

That evening I turned my skateboard over to my youngest sister, and the long descent into a sedentary lifestyle for me began. As for my bowling, I think I'll just have to find another, less stressful bowling league. I hear they have a bartender’s league on Monday afternoons. That sounds about right.

Pee Dream

I can sleep almost anywhere, and on anything. As a child, I slept on many different surfaces, from my crappy little bunk-bed, to the hard ground when camping out. I even once slept on two motel luggage stands, pushed together, while on vacation with my family. I wasn't to be trusted in one of the motel beds, because all too often in the past, the places I had slept in ended up wet. It wasn't until I realized that the dreams I was having of peeing in the bathroom weren't really dreams (At least not the peeing part) that I finally stopped the bed wetting. I still have those crazy dreams of going to the bathroom, but at least I know enough to wake up and finish the dream elsewhere besides my bed. The good thing is that I almost always find the bathroom, almost. There is one case, many years ago, where I got up out of bed in the middle of the night, and for some reason opened the linen closet door and finished the dream in there. I was horrified the next day when I opened the door to get something out of that closet.

I am now a fully developed adult, and I sleep in an adult queen sized bed, on an expensive adult mattress. The only unwanted thing that finds it's way into my bed anymore are the crumbs that Mark leaves in it from eating potato chips while watching hours and hours of Bravo shows in bed. In addition to sharing the bed with Mark and his multitude of pillows, is Chandler, who can't seem to curl up like other dogs, but spreads out perpendicular to me with his legs straight out. This is all topped out by Fat Kitty, who insists on sleeping above my head, on the pillow, and occasionally giving my hair a tongue bath while I sleep. The amazing thing about this is that I can sleep like a baby almost all night on the six inches at the edge of the mattress that is left for me. At least it makes it easier to roll out of the bed when I have that crazy dream where I'm peeing in Queen Elizabeth's linen closet.

Malted

I love chocolate malts. Not shakes, not that oozing plastic crap from McDonalds, but malts, and not just any chocolate malt but one made with vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, and powdered malt. I used to be able to get decent chocolate malts at Baskin-Robbins. It was always a perfect treat at a reasonable price, around three dollars. unfortunately over the last few years, Baskin-Robbins has been closing their free standing stores, and combining with Dunkin’ Donuts. The problem with that is if you go to Dunkin’ Donuts, and ask for a chocolate malt they look at you as if you had two carrots sticking out of your ears and had asked for their first born child on a stick. Dunkin’ Donuts doesn’t do malts. It’s just too much trouble for their skill challenged help to actually combine more than two ingredients.

Last week Mark and I were in the area of the last free standing Baskin’s here in Fort Lauderdale, and of course I insisted we stop for a malt. To my horror, when we pulled up we were greeted by a cheesy hand made sign that read, ‘Ice Cream Club’. No more Baskin Robbins, no more malts, just some ersatz ice cream store selling a product of questionable quality. I was devastated that I couldn’t get my malt, and with a shake of my fist and a few curses we drove off. Will I ever be able to enjoy a decent chocolate malt again? There is one possibility, I could make my own. I do have a blender, and I can get the ingredients..... but the more I think about it I realize that I really don’t want to be on the evening news, being pulled out of the house, through a window, on a forklift.