DUDE.

“Dude.”

NEW YEAR’S WAS AWESOME.  I DON’T REMEMBER A THING.

“You played Guitar Hero World Tour on the Wii.  Turns out, you’re color-blind, so you kinda sucked.”

REALLY?

“That last beer didn’t help, either.”

DUDE.

“Dude.”

Is it difficult to erase stone?

I was but a wee one in ’86, back when Lionel was ruling the charts with “Say You, Say Me” (naturally), so when the otherwise awesome flyboy action of Top Gun was momentarily interrupted by a silly bar room seduction scene, I didn’t recognize what the hell Tom Cruise was singing as he tried to get into Kelly McGillis’s panties.  Blame me not, I was ten years old and more into Huey Lewis than I was the Righteous Brothers.  Scientology’s (poor) rendition of You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ sounded foreign to me, and I couldn’t wait for him to finish singing and jump back into a jet where he belonged.

Still, it was only now, twenty-two years later, this morning, an hour ago, when I realized I no longer associate that song with Top Gun.  That is, when I hear it, I think, “Righetous Brothers”, not Maverick and Ice Man (who had their own love story to work out), and even though I was already familiar with Queen’s Greatest Hits by the time Wayne made his way into the world, it took me years to stop associating Bohemian Rhapsody with Mike Meyers and Dana Carvey.

I’m finally growing up.  Or my brain cells are dying and my memories are kaputing.

I voted today.

“But, Skippy,” you say, “didn’t it hurt? The big kids, the ones who stand behind the school and smoke cigarettes, they say it’s painful.”

It ain’t painful, baby, it’s nice. And exciting. And in some places, a little warm and moist. You might be frightened the first time you do it; you might be scared and try to pull away at the last moment, but don’t worry. The fear only lasts the first few seconds, and soon after–your face flushed with excitement–you’re enjoying the pushing, the pointing, the tell-tale signs of pleasure as you pick and prefer, almost grunting in delight as the screen glows and responds to your skillful touch; a seductive yes to this, a demur no to that, an initiative, a referendum, a recall, a representative, a pres-e-dent; and then, just as you feel you can’t enjoy one more sheer ounce of it, where you’ve reached the apex, the peek, the golly gee whiz end-all muthafuggingcrescendo of a quaking, shivering poke and prod of the Cast Ballot button–

–it’s over. You even sigh a little.

“I wanna do it again!” you insist. “I betcha I can even make it last longer.”

No doubt, no doubt. But, don’t be greedy, let others grab a piece. There’ll be another time, I promise. In the meantime, talk to your pals, your buddies, your comrades; see if they’ve voted, and if not, entice them with your own story. After all, sometimes it can be more fun in groups.

I had a larger post planned out, but after chewing my pencil and tip-tapping the keys over and over again, I figured my one political post doesn’t need to be eloquent, smarmy or overlong.  All I can really need to say is that while a lot of the usual political issues have and continue to contribute to my decision, I’m voting this year mainly for social issues.  Specifically, I think we’re on the cusp of finally righting the inexcusable wrong of denying same-sex marriages.

As an independent, I don’t particularly care for either major political party; I think it’s wise to cast a skeptical eye at any person who yearns for and embraces power (very few will wield it justly, or compassionately), and I have few illusions that politicians are looking out for anyone but their perceived voter base.

That said, this year I’m planning on voting Democratic because I feel they have the best chance of creating and feeding the political environment that will help same-sex marriage become a recognized partnership both nationally and in every state.  I’m tired of the bigotry, weary of the injection of religious fundamentalism into our secular government, and just plain sick of the disingenuous, whiny melodramatics given voice by unsupported and patently ridiculous protests such as “It’ll destroy the insitution of marriage!”  Since same-sex marriage has been legal in Massachusettes and California, it has destroyed nothing, is destroying nothing and will continue to destroy nothing.  What will destroy a marriage?  The two people involved. (Also, aliens.  Sometimes, vampires.)

So, while I don’t think Obama is the best choice (his election year willingness to back down over the telecoms and the government spying on Americans still annoys me), I do think he’s a step in the right direction.  And I’ll illustrate my decision by marking a giant “X” next to his name tomorrow morning.

… well, I’ll push a button next to his name.  Stupid electronic voting.

Remember when Michael Jackson was the bestest best-selling artist of all time and smashed all types of barriers (financial and racial); remember when he was a red leather jacket-wearing trend setter who singularly propped up the zipper industry for most of the early ’80s; and remember when the scariest thing about him was his habit of wearing white socks with dark shoes, thereby hinting to us that he was more like our grandparents than either of them truly suspected?

Yeah, me, too.

On the other hand, the zombie arm falling off is still pretty damn funny:

Not much to say today, but here’s a Big Damn Picture of Auggy’s first time on the swing:

We’ve all done it: we’ve been happily jamming to a tune at high volume in our car, windows down, when we roll up to a red light and find a bunch of people staring at us.  Apparently, not everyone is convinced Barry Manilow’s Can’t Smile Without You is a rip-roaring song worthy of blast-level sound.  To some, this is an embrassing reveal of our souls, to others–espeically those of us in  high school way back in the mid-’90s–it was a great opportunity to pull up next to a hapless red light victim and start blasting away the first few lyrics of this song:

Ah… Lion.  You were like Dokken wannabes.  And those in the cars next to us (for yes, I had cohorts) were okay with the heavy metal-ish chords which started off the song.  But when Lion sang “Transformers!” it ain’t nothing but a baleful gaze they sent our way.

Anyway, speaking of  youth, there are some world events where the announcements of such blaze a marker in your mind so deep and so permanent that you know exactly where you were when you heard, say, about JFK’s death (not me; I wasn’t even daddy’s little squirt or mama’s little egg bunch at the time), or the Challenger explosion (walking the hall at my elementary school when someone shouted that news bit out–I thought they were joking).  Perhaps the tragedy that loomed the largest in my pre-pubescent days wasn’t a political event, or a space shuttle kaboom.

No, it was the announcement of this scene:

Poor, poor Optimus Prime.  Hasbro, in a cynical attempt to sell new toys, actually created an entire movie (Orson Welle’s last flick, by the way) to showcase the death of its old line.  Numerous familiar robots were slain to make room for the newer, sleeker generation, and it caught all of us Transformer fans by surprise.  Expecting a rocking movie of bent and burnt metal, we were forced to face the reality that, yes, even Optimus Prime is expendable when corporate greed comes a-knockin’.

So, where was I?  In my classroom, a victim of a loud-mouth spoiler who rushed in to tell everyone Prime had passed.  I didn’t want to see the movie–I had to see the movie–I hated the movie–I own the movie.

Now, where were you when Optimus Prime died?

He's either going to be a knight...

Or a jester...

Or, a mermaid.

You can see why I’m rooting for one of the first two.

The phone rang just past 1:00 this morning.  I grabbed at it, hoping to catch it in time before it woke up the Insta-Princess and our wee one.

“Hello?”

HI.

“God?”

HE-HEEE.

“God, is that you?  It’s almost 1:15, what are you doing?”

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

“God, are you–are you drunk?”

NO.  NOOOOOOOOOOooooOOOOOOOOoooOOOOoOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

MAYBE.

“Dude, you can’t be calling this late.  You’ll wake the baby.”

BUT I LOOOOVE YOU!  I L-O-V-E EVERYONE!

“That’s great–really–but I have to get to work in the morning.  Plus, like I said, there’s the baby to think about.”

I CAN ALWAYS TAKE AWAY HIS HEARING.  IT DIDN’T SEEM TO HURT MOZART.

“You mean Beethoven?”

YEAH, HIM.

“No, leave Auggy’s hearing; just don’t call so late, that’s all.”

BUT I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE MY BEST PAL, MY BUD.

“Need a ride home, huh?”

THAT JERK GANESHA HOOKED UP WITH SOME STUPID TRAMP AND LEFT ME ALONE. HE’S GOT A FRIGGIN’ ELEPHANT HEAD AND HE STILL GETS AN UNHOLY AMOUNT OF PLAY!  IS IT THE TUSKS?  THE TRUNK?  I CREATED THE FUCKING RAINBOW AND HE GETS NOOKIE!

“Well, yeah, sure, but the rainbow… it’s kinda seen as a gay thing.”

REALLY?

“Pretty much.”

OH.  THAT HELPS EXPLAIN THE BATHROOM ATTENDANT TONIGHT.

“Listen, you’re God, you don’t need a ride home.  You can just snap your holy fingers and you’re there.  What do you need me for?”

DON’T DRINK AND DIVINE, THAT’S MY MOTTO.

“Okay, where are you?”

THE HURRICANE, OVER IN WESTPORT.  LOTS OF HOTTEES TONIGHT.

“Fine, I’m on my way.”

WHAT ARE YOU DRIVING? IT SHOULD BE SOMETHING FLASHY SO THE BABES ARE IMPRESSED.

“The Civic.”

TRICKED-OUT?

“No, just the way I bought it six years ago.  Doors open the regular way, it runs quietly, and the same stereo system with which it rolled off the lot.”

GOOD TUNES?

“Bee-Gees.”

NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  BAM!  THERE, YOUR CIVIC IS NOW A MERCEDES.

“Really?  That’s awesome!  That’s frickin’ sweet!  That’s–”

HAW HAW!  JUST KIDDING!

“You’re a douche, God.”

AND PEACE BE WITH YOU.

When the Insta-Princess and I tell our tale of love, we mention chirping birds, bouts of red-hot passion, bells ringing, waves parting, sunny skies, stock market successes, and strangers stopping us on the street and telling us how wonderful we are.  That’s all true. (I still get stopped on the street, daily.  And sometimes it’s not because a gaunt, heroin honey wants to offer discounted booty.)  What we rarely mention, however, what we just don’t bring up in decent company is that the Insta-Princess almost dropped me two seconds into the relationship.

Because of a few books.

“Books?” you ask.  “Really?  They must have been horrible, filled with rituals on how to prepare and devour babies.  Or, how to get into the Starbucks franchise business.  You know, the usual tools of Satan.”

No, not that.  They weren’t even anything as evil as John Grisham books.  No, beyond that, even; books so profoundly disturbing to her that she almost gave up this delicious hunk of man meat.  They were, in order of appearance, the Trixie Belden series of books, and Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

“Tween girl books?”  Now you’re stunned.  But, hear me out: I was a voracious reader as a kid; I read everything I could find, and when one of my daycare “teachers” (a luscious dame on whom I had a huge crush) gave me fourteen books of various sizes and flavors, I attacked that stack of good reads with my usual desire to keep on reading, and the wont to impress her.   Amidst the other books, the ones about Mushroom Planets and a sand-fairy known as Psammead, were a set of the first four books about a red-headed chick and her school-aged detective group known as the “Bob-Whites of the Glen”.

Yeah.

But, see, as kid with burgeoning hormones, I admitted to being a wee bit jealous that one of the characters in Trixie Belden, Jim, was not only rich, but he was living with the best-looking gal of the series (as a newly-adopted sibling) and was kinda-sorta-not really hooking up with the main gal.  Frankly, the kid had it going on.  Plus, did I mention I was trying to impress my daycare teacher?  The first woman whom I had ever seen in a bikini–up close and personal on one of our daycare’s weekly trips to the city pool?  We’re talking hot stuff, kiddos.

As for Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.: C’mon, I was suckered in.  It’s not my fault Judy Blume wrote boy-friendly books like Freckle Juice, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and Superfudge.  I had no idea she also wrote books where the protagonist and her buddies got together in a group and steadily chanted, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.”  Although the idea of boobies appealed to me, I’m not sure I was ready to learn about one pubescent girl’s troubles with her first menstruation.

On the other hand, I learned that Jews and Christians could marry one another, so put an X in the column for diversity and tolerance.

By the time I was well into my adulthood I had accepted my history with these books; I even finished reading the Trixie Belden series (never leave a series unfinished, especially if you’re just trying to figure out if Lucky Jim ever really got some), and managed to keep copies of that and Judy Blume’s  adolescent trap book.  So, when the Insta-Princess mentioned having read the Trixie Belden series, and how she wanted to peruse a couple of them again, I braved the waters and admitted I had those books, and boyohboyohboy would she like me to bring them up to her like right now?

I was thinking I was going to get some McLovin’, and she thought I was odd.  Still, even that wasn’t quite the straw and fragile camel’s back scenario–not until I saw her copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. sitting on her shelf.  “I’ve read that!”

Uh-oh.

No smoochies for Skip that night, huh-uh.  While my love for Chicago didn’t help my case, now I was directly in the sights of her devastating gaydar.  Of course, farces being what they are, I didn’t know any of this until later–much later–after she had been to my house, seen my lack of decorating and other clichéd heterosexual male sensabilities, decided her gaydar was malfunctioning. and laid a hotty-totty smackeroo right where it counted.  So, all worked out well.

Still, even though you’re endlessly stuck in the pages of your 1950s-era surroundings and are forever at the mercy of unconsumated relations with the gals of Sleepyside-on-Hudson, I salute you, Jim of Trixie Belden.  I mean, really, you have two chicks…

I walked out of the gallery, puzzled, unsure of the world.  Like the previous time I’d felt this way, I turned to the one person who had always been there for me.  “God?”

GO AWAY.  I’M BUSY.

“This is important.”

BUGGER OFF.

“No, really.”

FINE, BUT I’M RANDOMLY CHOOSING WHICH OF MY MORE VOCAL FOLLOWERS GETS CAUGHT WITH HIS PANTS DOWN.  HYPOCRISY IS A SWEET, SWEET GLAZE ON TOP OF LIFE.  OH, LOOK: ANOTHER REPUBLICAN.

“Yeah, but both sides–”

AND PAUL MORRISON.

“–yep, that’ll do it.”

NOW, GET ON WITH IT.  I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY, YOU KNOW.

“But, you’re God.  You can make the day last forever.”

NOT WEDNESDAYS.  I HATE WEDNESDAYS.

“Okay.  Hey, I’m doing my best to figure out life on my own, but there are some things that I just can’t work out, no matter how much thought I put into them.”

LIKE PEANUT BUTTER CUPS?  I STILL CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW THEY WRAP DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE AROUND SMOOTH PEANUT BUTTER.  IT’S SINFUL.

“No, not candy.  More like Thomas Kinkade.”

OH.

“Maybe he’s a good man, possibly even a saint, but his paintings, his life’s work, his art, they… well, they kill a little piece of my soul each time I see one.  I look into the shiny lights and instead of seeing a reassuring source of warmth, I feel all of my energy being sucked into a bright white blight, threatening to take the world with it.  I don’t get him.”

HE’S SATAN.

“Really?”

YES.  FOOLED ME, TOO.  I ALMOST PUT ONE OF HIS COTTAGE PAINTINGS ON LAYAWAY UNTIL I TOOK A CLOSER LOOK AND SAW

I SHALL DEVOUR THEE AND MAKE YON CHILDREN WAIL AND CRY AND BLEED AND TAKE MATH TESTS AND RAKE LEAVES

HIDDEN IN THE PAINT STROKES.

“That’s horrible!”

I KNOW.  MATH TESTS.  MAKES ME SHUDDER.

“But so many people think he paints in glory of you!”

LOTS OF PEOPLE TUNE INTO THE 700 CLUB, TOO.  THE WORLD AIN’T A BRIGHT PLACE.  IF PEOPLE WANT MUNDANE, IF THEY CHOOSE TO CELEBRATE MEDIOCRITY AND TO WORSHIP PAINT-BY-NUMBER , KINKADE IS THEIR GOLDEN CALF.

“But, but, can’t you do something?”

I CAN PUT MENTOS IN A DIET PEPSI BOTTLE.  IT’S AWESOME.

“No, about Kinkade!  Beelzebub!  The Lord of the Flies!”

DO?  I’VE DONE IT.  I PURCHASED STOCK IN HIS COMPANY.  WITH ALL OF THOSE POOR CHINESE KIDS HE USES IN HIS FACTORIES OVER THERE TO ‘TOUCH UP’ HIS PRINTS, THEY’RE CHURNING OUT MILLIONS EACH YEAR.  MY 401K IS MAXED OUT, AND I HAVE MORE MONEY THAN, WELL… ME.

“That’s–really?”

YEP.

“You’re still a bastard.”

YEP.

“But now you’re buying lunch.”

AMEN.

(From left-to-right: Henry, Ma Kettle, Lollipop Guild, Cleophus)

Softee’s, like, famous!

When the members of Softee walked into the room, I immediately played my hand and tried to join the band by offering up my almost magical harmonica skills.

“I’m sorry,” Steph informed me.  “You have to be pretty to join.  Duh.”

“Also,” Mimi added, “–and please don’t take this personally, because you’ve got red hair, and red hair rocks the Casbah–you can’t actually play, you know, music.”

“I didn’t know it worked like that,” I said.  “I just thought that you all being talented with La Musica was a coincidence.  I thought it was about being on stage and having star power.  I thought it was…”

“Yes?” Sarah prompted.

“… being able to shine!”

Flora looked at me, pity filling her eyes.  “That’s not pity,” she protested.  “it’s just really dusty in here.”

With the realization that, at most, all I would ever be with Softee was a part-time roadie, I thought it best to soldier on with the interview.

“Thanks for coming by, ladies.  I know you’ve been busy with the music scene and having to go to the grocery store at midnight, hair swept up and giant, dark sunglasses hiding your face so you won’t be recognized and swamped by fans, so I appreciate the little time you carved out for me today.”

“You promised us twenty clams, each,” Steph reminded me.  I whimpered a bit.  Of all the Softee gals, Steph is the one you least want to tick off.  Do you recall Jim Croce’s cautionary tale of Jim?  Well, Slim came to town and pulled on Superman’s cape; he spit into the wind, he pulled the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and Steph is his child.  I once made the mistake of snickering at the torrid affair she had with Michael McDonald (of Sprint commercial fame… and, I hear he was in a band), but she heard me, sidled up next to me with nary a sound and whispered, “I’ll cut you.”  She shreds her guitar with effortless style, and one day I fear she will shred me.

“Twenty bucks.  Right.”

As Steph silently mouthed, ‘I’ll cut you’, I tried to move the conversation forward with a safe question.  “So, who are your influences?”

“Mostly Bruce,” Mimi said.

“Bruce?”

“Lee.”  Oh.  Long before Mimi sat behind the skins and kept the beat for the band, she extensively toured Europe and Asia on the Movie Karate Circuit. Unlike other martial arts competitions where such piddling things as physics help determine movements, the Movie Karate Circuit caters to those fighters who jump, twirl and dive through the air without annoying constraints such as gravity. Lithe and fearsome, Mimi ruled the circuit for years, dispatching each would-be challenger with impossible jumps, unbelievable runs across the surface of lakes and ponds, and a single chopstick as her only weapon.  She called her style, “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Valley”.  She once tried to lend her talents to Hollywood (you can see her considerable skills in action in that ’80s cinema classic, American Ninja, where she played the role of Michael Dudikoff playing the role of a ninja), but quickly grew weary of the fame and adoration and moved to the Midwest to escape her throng of fans and ninja assassins.

“Good choice,” I said.  “How about you, Flora?”

“Waldo.”

“As in Where Is?”

“Yes.”  At first thought this is a surprising answer, but after a few moments readers will likely remember the scandal-sheet sensation of a few years ago–brought to light after nosy paparazzi photographed Flora leaving Waldo’s house in the wee hours of a weekday morning.  The news and accompanying pictures devastated Waldo’s wife, Dora the Explorer (traveling at the time), who briefly went insane, confusing Flora with one of Dora’s constant traveling companions: “Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping!”

“I was set up!” Flora exclaimed. “Think about it.  How did the photographer even find Waldo’s place?”

“Where’s Waldo now?” I asked.

“Google Maps, I think.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

I understood.  Past relationships, man, they’re a drag.  “How about you, Sarah?  Who influenced you the most?”

Sarah looked at me with those piercing, glowing red eyes.  “Are you the Keymaster?”

“Not that I know of.  Hey, Sarah, what is it?  What happened?”

“I am Zuul.  I am the Gatekeeper.  We must prepare for the coming of Gozer.”

“Okay, I’ll help you.  Should we make some dip or something?”

“He is the Destructor.”

“Really?  Can’t wait to meet him.”

Luckily, I had my proton pack stashed behind my chair, so I grabbed it, fired it up and roasted all of the Softee girls (you can’t be too careful when it comes to interdimensional, god-like travelers–could have infected the whole group).  Don’t worry, though, they should be scrubbed clean and ready for their VIP playdate at Starlight on the 26th.

“Thanks for coming, ladies,” I told the sizzling containment box at my feet.  “We’ll have to do this again.”