GETTING OLD BLOWS

My 50^th birthday is about a year and half away…looming out there on the horizon like a giant turd.  Most of the time I don’t feel my age, but at this particular moment, I happen to feel every 412,000 hours of it.

The weather here was beautiful today so I decided to power-wash the house in preparation for painting it. I was carrying the power-washer up an extension ladder from the lower deck to our upstairs deck, and was just climbing over the deck railing when the ladder slipped out from under me and I fell about 15 feet to the deck below…with the power washer on top of me and the ladder underneath me.

I did a number on my left ankle. It currently looks the way my Grandmother’s ankles used to look…you know, no ankle – the leg just goes straight into the foot. I also landed on the ladder hard enough to actually put a major dent in it with my ass. From this point forward my ladder will forever have an ass-shaped dent in it. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I have several other cuts and bruises and I can’t walk but that’s the worst of it. Currently, I’ve taken two prescription Motrin and had about six glasses of wine, so I’m not feeling any pain at the moment…in fact, I can’t even feel my face. I’ve had to run spell check on this 25 times already just to type this far.

What I’m worried about is what inevitably awaits me tomorrow morning when I attempt to get out of bed. I can tell right now that it ain’t gonna be pretty, and that’s what sucks about getting older; you just don’t bounce back as quick from these little mishaps. When I was a punk kid I would have shaken this off and made plans to go bungee jumping in the morning. The only plan I currently have for tomorrow morning is shooting myself.

Thank God I have a laptop with a wireless connection to keep me occupied while I’m recuperating upstairs in my bedroom. There’s only one problem…I have no friggin idea how I’m going to get there.

It’s good to be married to someone who keeps you grounded…

…and my wife can ground me like the Hindenburg.

An exchange that took place Sunday morning between my wife and a woman at our church is a perfect example of her ability to keep me grounded. I’m the interim music director at our little church and I actually start our worship services by doing three to five minutes of stand-up based on whatever the theme is for the morning’s service.  In fact, the little piece I wrote on time a couple of posts back was the opener to a service. Religion has a tendency to be a sour affair at times, and I figure any service that’s starts with laughter can’t be a total waste of time.  

The theme Sunday morning was about smiling through adversity and I told a story about an ill-fated church ski trip in which all manner of hilarity ensued. After church, a little old lady stopped my wife in the hall and said, “Your husband is so funny. Is he that funny at home?”

In a perfect deadpan my wife replied; “Yes he is, and sometimes it’s as annoying as hell.”

My wife…keeping me humble on a daily basis since 2002.

There are a zillion different quizzes on line that get passed around from email to email and blog to blog. These quizes take up valuable time and seriously impact American productivity. And since I’m all about wasting valuable time on Xanga, I’ve decided to create…

THE OFFICIAL XANGA QUIZ:

• How much time a day do you spend on Xanga?

• Do you ever fear that you might be addicted to Xanga?

• If not, why did you copy and paste this stupid quiz?

• Have you ever Xanga’d naked?

• If you could “do” anyone on Xanga, who would that be and why? (Please give explicit details)

• Whose Xanga do you read first?

• Whose Xanga makes you want to put a bullet in your head?

• Have you ever left a comment on someone else’s Xanga and wished you could go back and erase it?  Really?  What was the comment?

• Does the fact that Dan the Theologian gets two million hits a day for doing nothing more than asking questions irk you as much as it irks me?

• Do you ever feel that your Xanga friends are more “real” than your “real” friends?

• If so, have you ever thought about getting out more?

• Do you ever secretly wish that all of the waif-thin Xangians on Featured Content that post about nothing but their Anorexia battles and how they have subsisted for the last three days on two glasses of water and a corn chip, would just go ahead and friggin starve to death?

• Have you ever feared that you are being stalked by a fellow Xangian?

• If so, does it bother you that I sit in your front yard and type on my laptop?

• Are you a comment whore?

• Yeah, me too.

• Have you ever taken a picture of yourself in a mirror to post online like all of those people on My Space?

• Did you wipe the toothpaste off the mirror first?

You must answer all of these questions and then tag 200 people to participate in this quiz within the next five minutes. If you do this, the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstake people will show up immediately at your door and present you with a giant cardboard check for a million dollars.

If you don’t do this, you will die.

Happy quiz taking!

ONCE UPON A TIME

I’ve been thinking a lot about time lately. I never seem to have enough time to do everything I want to do and I bet you feel the same way. Sometimes I wish time would just stand still. It’s easy to obsess about time;

after all…

We can spend time, make time, take time, kill time, manage time, waste time, or save time. We can have a good time, a bad time, quality time, or have no time at all. We can be pressed for time, loose track of time, keep up with the times, or arrive somewhere just in the nick of time.

The world uses Greenwich Mean Time to set time. And don’t forget to observe Daylight Savings Time in the springtime. For some reason that no one has time to explain, we stop observing Daylight Savings Time in the wintertime, but that’s ok, because by that time, it’s Christmas time.

We can spend lots of time at jobs that are either part time or full time, and then get home just in time for dinner time while we watch primetime. Some primetime shows like “24″ are even scripted in real time. 

Sometimes people get to the end of a long hard day and proclaim that it’s Miller Time!

We can read about someone’s life and times in the New York Times or the Los Angeles Times. But whatever newspaper we read, it doesn’t really matter because it’s probably owned my Time Warner.

Everyone remembers their first time.

Football has time outs and half time. But the officials that keep time obviously don’t understand time or a game wouldn’t last for another hour and a half after the two minute warning.

Some of you might want to travel through time in a time machine, or at least bury a time capsule so that those who follow us later in time can see how we spent our time. That’s because once upon a time we lived in better times but really, there’s no time like the present time.

Prisoners serve hard time, most guys in bars are just looking for a good time, and the rest of us are simply trying to take life one day at a time.

We can even spend time singing about time. For example, there’s “Time is on my Side,” “One Moment in Time,” “Time in a Bottle,” and that all time favorite; “Get Me to the Church on Time.”

Musically inclined chefs like to cook with parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

In conclusion, I want to note that time marches on and we all need to spend time setting priorities on our timeline before old man time catches up with us and we are forever out of time.

Well, that’s all the time I have for now.

See you next time.

What’s really frightening is that 30 years ago I looked pretty much just like this minus several pounds and a lot of wrinkles.

I hope you had a happy Halloween!

THE BIG GRAY ELEPHANT AND THE HOMOGENIZATION OF AMERICA

I actually heard the following car advertisement on the radio here in Tulsa this morning: “Come to Nelson Nissan-Mazda. We have the new retractable hard top Miata. This is a truly unique, one-of-a-kind automobile, and we have hundreds to choose from!”

I laughed so hard my diet Mountain Dew came out of my nose.

I think the copy writer is on to something, though. The more things attempt to be unique the more they seem the same. This is especially true when it comes to major cities across the U.S…they are all identical. 

I know of what I speak. Here is the short list of cities I have visited on business over the last few years:

Oklahoma City, Dallas, Austin, Houston, Little Rock, Memphis, Nashville, Louisville, Birmingham, Atlanta, Indianapolis, Cleveland, Milwaukee, Chicago, New York, Baltimore, Washington D.C., Greenville, Charlotte, Orlando, Miami, Denver, Phoenix, San Diego, San Francisco, Buffalo, Portland, Des Moines, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, Amarillo, St. Louis, Springfield, Philadelphia, Lincoln, Cincinnati, New Orleans, and Salt Lake City….every single one of them is EXACTLY the same.

If you happen to live in one of those cities I can hear you screaming; “MY CITY is unique. MY CITY is different.”  No it’s not…at least it doesn’t appear that way from the drivers seat of my rental car.

The carpet may be a different color in your airport, but when I get off the plane I pick up a copy of Newsweek at the Hudson News Stand, a cup of coffee at the Starbucks, and walk down to talk to the bleary-eyed lady that’s at every Thrifty rental car counter. She rents me the same damn white Dodge Stratus that I swear to God they move from city to city just ahead of me so I get it every time. I pull out of the rental car lot and drive past the big box shopping center with a Super Walmart/Lowes/AMC Theater on my way to check in at the Best Western/Holiday Inn/Red Roof/Radisson/Ramada/Comfort Inn motel. After I check in I go to my meeting and then go out to eat at the nearest Denny’s/Outback/Applebee’s/Chili’s/Red Lobster restaurant. When I get back to the motel, I pull the hideous flowered bedspread off the bed, the little white paper cap off the drinking glass, and the “sanitized for your protection” paper strip off the toilet, before taking a piss and scratching my lily white ass on the way over to turn on the TV with the cigarette burns on the top and plump the flimsy pillows on the too-hard bed in a vain attempt to get comfortable while I watch the coifed-clones on the local news engage in witty banter while they put on their frowny faces to talk about the latest city councilman to be indicted.

Yep…every single one of them…exactly the same.

But I also know that’s not really true. Sure, they all look the same on the surface, but I also know that if I’m in Memphis I can drive down to Beale Street and hear the blues played the way it was meant to be played or go watch the ducks ride the elevator at the Peabody. When I’m in Louisville I know I can wait until it gets dark and drive back over the Ohio River from the Indiana side and have my breath taken away by how gorgeous the downtown lights look reflected on the water. I know that when I’m in Philadelphia I can go take a walk down Museum row and that no matter how many times I go I’ll never see everything there is to see. And I also know that when I visit New Orleans I can go down to the French Quarter, have a beignet at the Café Du Monde, some chicory coffee, and picture the scene from “Runaway Jury” with Dustin Hoffman that was filmed there.

The differences are there, you just have to be able to appreciate them.

So, what’s my point? I’m not really sure since this set-up has taken so long, but I think I was going to say that I’ve been thinking about the partisan divide in America with the mid-term elections upon us, and I think the major problem with the GOP is that they want America to look like it does through the windshield of my rental car. They want America to be a white bread, middle class, Christian nation that practices family values, speaks English, and sees the world completely in black and white. This is because diversity is messy; it’s uncomfortable at times, and it makes you think too much. Homogenization is where it’s at.

But a homogenized America is really boring, and really unrealistic. Of course, the major problem with us Democrats is that we are such a diverse group that we can’t build a coherent platform to save our little commie-pinko asses.

Regardless, I prefer the way America looks when I get OUT of my rental car.

…in the immortal words of Monty Python “and now for something completely different.”

I’m going to take a break today from my role of late as the world’s cheesiest noir writer to talk about a subject near and dear to my heart: Mega-Churches.

Tulsa is not a major metropolis. There are less than 500,000 people living in Tulsa and the surrounding area, and yet, per capita, Tulsa has to be the Mega-Church capital of the world. There are at least a half dozen congregations in Tulsa that average over 5000 in attendance and scores more in the 1000 to 2000 range.

These churches are high-tech, high-profile, high-visibility, and tend to have larger than life personalities behind the pulpit. They are competitive; spending scads of money on advertising, and which one you belong too is as much a matter of loyalty as whether you are a University of Oklahoma, or Oklahoma State sports fan.

And then there’s the little church I go too…

We are congregation of around 200 very unassuming people. We don’t broadcast on TV, our pastor doesn’t have big hair or wear Armani suits, and we don’t tow the religious-right/Republican-doctrine line that is completely woven into the fabric of everyday life in Tulsa. In fact, we don’t tow anyone’s line because we believe firmly in the idea of separation of church and state. We dont even sing patriotic hymns on the 4^th of July.

But I am proud of something we do.

About four months ago a family in our church had a neighbor that had lost their job and was having trouble putting food in front of their children. This couple decided to fix a simple dinner in the church kitchen on a Monday night for their neighbor and open it up to anyone else who might need a free meal. They also put together some clothes for their neighbor’s kids. They decided to call it “Bread and Jam” and put a sign up on the marquee and waited to see if anyone would show up. On the first night, four people came.

That was four months ago…

Last night we fed over 200 people, mostly families with small children. These are families from every conceivable background and ethnic origin.  We had piles of clothes filling the foyer and children were happily pulling t-shirts and sweaters over their heads. We don’t require that they listen to a sermon while they are there. We don’t pass out literature, and proselytizing is strictly off limits. The people show up, get a free meal and free clothes, and that’s it.

I know that there are thousands of churches all over America doing the same thing and what we are doing is nothing special. But when I see a $250,000.00 air conditioned coach from one of the mega-churches drive by with their pastor’s face painted on the side, I smile and I am proud of this small thing we do.

MY AFTERNOON – PART DUEX

She stood to walk away and tossed a wink over her shoulder like she was throwing pennies in a fountain for luck. I was pretty sure, though, that it was my luck that was about to change.

I was so anxious to finish my set that I launched into the Minute Waltz and played it in only 45 seconds. If I had played it any faster, the tempo police would have shown up and given me a speeding ticket.

“I have be cool about this,” I thought, so I forced myself to bide some time by sketching the little skunk on the “are you an art school candidate?” advertisement printed on the inside of a discarded matchbook cover. My skunk stunk but I held onto it because I thought that if I was a good boy I might get to hang something on her refrigerator.

“That sexual euphemism was even worse than my drawing” I thought, as I headed for the elevator. I tapped lightly on her door jamb and said “room service” in a voice that I hoped conveyed what kind of service I was really thinking about. “I didn’t think you’d come” she said as she opened the door. “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue” I said, as I walked into the room.

I turned and began to slowly undress her with my eyes. I started at the top of her head and intended to work my way down to the floor, but my journey came to an abrupt halt when, in the bright light of the room, I encountered a prominent Adam’s apple only a few inches into the trip.

“Is there a problem?” she said, in a voice that suddenly seemed much huskier than it had in the bar.  “No problem at all” I said; my voice cracking like a 14 year old boy sucking helium. “But I just remembered that I have an appointment to get my teeth cleaned and I want to be early because I like the cleaning to be thorough… I, uh, really like things to be thorough,” I added redundantly. “Then I won’t be a disappointment” she said coyly.

I heard myself scream.

Somehow I found myself back in the bar behind my protective shield made of felt hammers, wound wire, and brass fittings.  As I began to play, I let the music wrap around me like a security blanket fresh from the dryer. If I could have played and sucked my thumb at the same time, I would have.

I was playing on instinct; paying no attention to what song was pouring out of my fingers. But when my head began to clear, I suddenly recognized the theme from “La Cage Aux Folles.”

I heard myself scream again.

MY AFTERNOON…

I was tickling the ivories in the back of the smoky lounge; riffing on Coltrane. My cigarette glowed in the darkness like a red-eyed Cyclops and finally burned itself out, leaving an ashen tail as it sat precariously on the edge of my single malt scotch.

I made eye contact with her as she sat at the bar. She stood and walked toward me, her image splitting into a thousand fragments as it was reflected in the chrome and the glass. Her perfume cut through the heavy smell of desperation that hung in the air and she smiled as she slid onto the bench next to me.

She leaned her head back, exposing a perfect neck as she shook out her long red hair. “Do you know any Brubeck?” she asked, in a voice that any 900 number service would kill for. I segued effortlessly into “The Duke” without saying a word.

She closed her eyes and swayed gently as I picked up the theme to “In Your Own Sweet Way.”  “I like your style” she said as she wrapped her hotel room key in a wrinkled five and tossed it into my tip jar.

Luckily, I was almost finished with my set.

Ok..Ok.. what really happened is that I was sitting at the piano in a church auditorium playing the theme from the Peanuts cartoons when an 80 year old woman walked in and asked if I knew “Harbor Lights.”

She did slip me her hotel room key though…

   THEY SAY IT’S MY BIRTHDAY

It’s happened. As of today I am officially 48 years old. And as the old joke goes; if I’d known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself.

So, what have I learned in 48 years on this planet? Probably much less than other people my age, but I’ll share a few things I’ve learned along the way:

• Sitting on the tailgate of a pickup truck when it’s going 70 mph is a lot of fun, but it ceases to be fun if you fall off. Trust me on this one.

• You should never feed a cat bubble gum.

• You should always try to do the right thing, because I’ve discovered that doing the wrong thing is actually a whole hell of a lot more work, and it’s never as much fun as you thought it was going to be.

• Following a quart sized container of Buttery Nipples with shots of Jägermeister is a really, really, BAD idea.

• You can’t bullshit your children. You can try, but they see right through it. So just give up and be yourself.

• Never wear red underwear with white linen slacks.

• No matter what it is, if you sacrifice a relationship for it, it’s not worth it.

That’s pretty much it…the sum total of all that I’ve learned. So now it’s time to take stock of my life:

Well…I’m married to this hottie who also happens to be the world’s coolest person:

My brilliant son is happily married to the perfect woman and is teaching at Baylor:

My beautiful step-daughter is happily married and is teaching elementary school music in Indiana:

And having Jamie, the wonderful new addition in our home, is keeping me young:

So what can I tell you after taking stock of my life?

…I don’t think it gets any better than this.

EDIT: My son is much, much too kind