Oliver's

When I was a kid, I remember that the back pages of the T.V. Guide that came with the Dallas Morning News every Sunday is where you found all of the really cheeseball ads for a variety of low rent services. If you wanted a free estimate for vinyl siding for your house or a bottom of the barrel criminal defense attorney, the back of the T.V. guide was the place to look. But an ad I remember distictly was for Oliver's Hair Replacement Inc. Oliver's had a distinctive script logo. And his ad came complete with black and white picture of Oliver himself, before and after his wig was fitted. The mid-70's Oliver had a really low set of chops working and his faux hair was primed and pumped big as if he was bracing himself for a rollicking trip to the Vegas strip.

Once, when I was a kid, my Dad and I saw Oliver himself shopping at a discount store. You'd thought I'd spotted a celebrity.

"Hey Dad. That's Oliver, the hair guy!"

"So it is son. So it is."

This evening, I'm driving down lower Greenville Avenue, home to many of Dallas' swinging hard drinking bars. And I notice that Oliver's home operation is still there. He's still got a little shop wedged in between the Cavern Club and The Beagle. These pictures are the recent photos of the famous Oliver --- the same guy I saw in the discount store when I was eight years old.

As for the T.V. Guide ad class of 1977, I'd suspect that most of the vinyl siding businesses are long bankrupt because vinyl siding went out of fashion during Ronald Reagan's first term. And I'm sure most of the shady criminal defense lawyers whose mugs dotted the back of the T.V. guide have been disbarred.

But Oliver lives on. I'm sort of proud of him.

A Question For All 80's Goth Fans

Of all of these interrelated groups and performers, who would you most like to see live if you had the chance and why?

1. Bauhaus
2. Love & Rockets
3. Peter Murphy
4. Tones On Tail
5. The Jazz Butcher
6. Dali's Car
7. Daniel Ash
8. Kevin Haskins beating on a snare drum all alone in a corner.

I've seen the first three on the list. I probably enjoyed L&R the most, with Peter Murphy being an extremely close second. I'd pick 6. Dali's Car because they'd probably be impossible to see even when they were active ---- they didn't last long. And it would be cool to see Pete perform with the dude from Japan.

Fun With Mispronunciation

I cannot eat hot & sour soup at a Chinese restaurant without thinking of an ex-girlfriend's father. I'll call him "Rich" because that's his name.

Years ago, I accompanied ex-girlfriend and her parents to a favored divey Chinese place in East Dallas. We all ordered the hot & sour soup because it's really good. And for those who've never tried hot & sour soup, one of its main ingredients is chopped up tofu --- a rather bland cheese-like substance made from curdled soya milk.

Anyway, Rich gets his bowl of hot & sour soup, looks at it, and exclaims in his authentic Brooklyn accent: "This has twofoo in it!"

His wife, a lovely woman who is also an accomplished gourmet cook who should know better, responds in her equally authentic Brooklyn accent: "There's always twofoo in it!"

We all returned to this same restaurant about three months later. And the exact same exchange occurred between Rich and his wife, again.

Take That

This morning, I unveiled a new weapon in the war on jackass drivers. Feel free to copy this tactic.

I'm driving on a semi-residential street going the speed limit. Mind you, it's really stupid to speed on this street because a. It's heavily patrolled by members of the Dallas Police Department and b. There are three school zones you pass through, so you end up speeding up just to slow down.

So some lady in a Lexus who's much more important than me and has to get to work right now decides to drive within inches of my rear bumper. She's so close I can see the color of her eye shadow, a very nice magenta/taupe shade, in my rear view mirror. Somehow, it doesn't matter to her that we're both currently driving in a 20 mph school zone. Her menacing driving is some sort of tactic to get me to speed up and hit a back pack-toting third grader. So I remain calm and kept my finger gestures to myself. Instead, I slowly take my foot off the accelerator. My speedometer drops slowly from 20 mph, to 15 mph, to 10 mph. As I slow down to a virtual crawl, the grimace on her face becomes more pronounced. Finally, when we were out of the school zone, she hit the gas and gets around me.

I win.

Bad Phone Friends

Karen and I both have friends with atrocious cell phone manners. My friend is one of those people who will talk at the top of her lungs and cackle like a witch into her phone while eating at a restaurant. And, of course, she'll take call after call during a meal until I take my fork and stab her phone.

Karen just accompanied her bad cell phone friend to the grocery store yesterday. Her friend has a genetic hip problem and has trouble walking. She's going in for surgery this week so Karen is helping her arrange for post hip replacement life by stocking up on food and moving stuff around in her house so she can reach it from a wheelchair. Her friend had to use on of those "rascal" scooters to get around the grocery store. And she spend most of the time in the grocery isle, talking super loud into her cell phone. So Karen finally had enough and told her friend "Would you shut up and drive?"

Crapdome

I know it's the only place in town that can accomodate 100,000 people, but do you really want to rely on a junky mid 70's stadium of dubious construction for protection from the wrath of nature? Not me. And this picture shows exactly what I thought would happen when the Superdome clashed with Katrina. The roof is getting torn off, George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic-style.

I hope the people inside the dome are just wet, not hurt.

Unfortunately, I own a firearm

I've owned this gun for about six years. I never really wanted to be a gun owner. But when you have a taste for cool old houses in shady neighborhoods, gun ownership is almost a requirement.

This gun is a cheap automatic that was manufactured in Hungary. Apparently, it's a military sidearm known for its reliability, not accuracy. I picked it up for 99 bucks at a gun show. Gun shows are great places to buy low cost legal weapons. But they're creepy places to visit. You can tell that most people who attend gun shows are really into weapons. And I've always thought that if you're a obsessed with guns, there are some severe deficiencies in other parts of your life.

When I bought this gun, I took it to a gun range within a week of the purchase so I'd be familiar with its operation. And then it went in my night stand to be mostly forgotten. I've taken it out maybe four times since I've owned it. If I heard a strange noise in the house, for example, I'd take it with me when I investigated whether or not a night prowler was trying to get in my house. Once I stuck it in my waistband when checking out a stolen car that was dumped in my alleyway, just in case the thieves were still hanging around and had a taste for assaulting dumb ass homeowners who ventured out into the alley to look at heisted vehicles. But on the whole, I think taking a gun with you to any stressful situation is an invitation for somebody to die.

This weekend, I fired it again at a shooting range for the second time in six years. Most of the people were there for fun it seemed. One guy was there with his kid. Another guy was there was his girlfriend (scariest first date ever?). One married couple brought a case full of guns, lined them up, and blasted away at targets. To me, there's nothing fun about firing a gun. It's something you should never have to do, unless your slaying game for your dinner table. But I felt I had to get reacquainted with the gun again. This time it was for home protection purposes again, but for a reason I never imagined. Karen has a job where she comes in contact with unsavory people on a daily basis. And she got word last week that one of those people, who happens to be a very bad person, has made a threat on her life. So both of us got reacquainted with firearms. I'm sure this threat will come to absolutely nothing. I sincerely doubt that the bad guy is going to send one of his minions over to our house. But it's the kind of threat you'd be a fool to take lightly.

I pray I never have to use this thing. I wish they weren't legal to own. But that's never going to happen in this country. So you have to either arm yourself or get killed. What a nice choice.

Weird Hotel

Will, Sach and I stayed in the weirdest hotel ever in London.

This hotel was in a really nice part of London called Notting Hill --- maybe you've seen the movie. And from the outside, it looked like one of those old grand hotels with bad ass stained glass, dark stained woodwork in the lobby, and red leather upholstery everywhere.

But the rooms were unbelievably small. The bed I slept on was smaller than the one I had when I was seven years old. And I could touch both far walls of the room when I layed down. We didn't care. We spent hardly any time in our rooms --- just to sleep, and we didn't do much of that.

Notice the big key and blue keychain on the table. The hotel wouldn't let us take the room keyes out of the hotel for some reason. We had to show the desk clerk a card to get our key. But the hotel was so weird, a situation we totally accepted, none of us asked why we had to surrender our key when leaving even though we were paid guests.

After taking in all that the strange hotel had to offer, Will said: "This is my favorite hotel room ever."

Late Night Movie Watching

I just finished watching this documentary I rented called Dig! about the Dandy Warhols and the Brian Jonestown Massacre. I am very familiar with the Dandy Warhols and are quite fond of their music. I didn't know much about the BJM. Both bands started out about the same time, all of the members of each band became friends and both bands are equally talented. BJM's front man Anton Newcombe is probably the most gifted of the bunch. But he's sort of a lunatic --- the Syd Barrett mad genius type that will likely land in a mental institution some day.

Anyway, the movie I guess is supposed to show how two good bands can go different paths. The Dandy Warhols did what famous --- or somewhat famous --- bands do. They made reliably good albums, toured steadily, behaved themselves for the most part except for a bit of excessive drug use, and made videos. They still have a record deal and make money.

BJM got into fights amongst themselves on stage, Anton Newcombe kicked people in the head during performances, couldn't hold their tours together and got really bitter when the Dandys started being successful. People started attending BJM gigs just to watch Newcombe meltdown, which was often. But when he maintained, the band was marvelous. BJM actually tried to start a stupid press war with the Dandys, complete with releasing a single that mocked their rivals in hopes of boosting their own album sales. In one stupid scene, he's outside a Dandys show passing out his single. How embarrassing.

I felt embarrassed for both groups at the end of the movie. Newcombe squandered away his talent because he's an immature jackoff and probably always will be. And the Dandys front man Courtney Taylor can't decide if he's a fashion model or a singer --- his posing and preening in a video included in the movie makes me cringe.

Doesn't matter. I still like the music that both bands make. Sometimes it's just better not to know too much about bands you like.

I Heart Bob Costas

Not only is Costas a superior interviewer, he's got more integrity than just about everybody on national television news combined.

Costas is taking a turn in Larry King's seat on CNN (what a relief, King is boring, obvious and a complete beating.)

I was watching NBC or ABC or some other shitty morning national news show yesterday and they were into day two of the NBC interview stumbled on with the Dutch dude who's under arrest in connection with Natalee Holloway's disappearance. The sum of the story is that the court won't let the interview be shown. Big damn deal. All the guy said was "I'm doing fine here in jail" according to NBC. What a fucking news flash. But because it's got a connection to the sad dissappearance of very pretty young girl, everything is big news. It's what call the pretty girl disappearance sweepstakes --- if you're pretty it's news. If your average, maybe you'll land on a milk carton. Anyway, as part of the ongoing coverage of Natalee, one of the shows mentioned that Costas refused to do a show on Natalee Holloway. You know why? Because it's NOT NEWS and Costas has the balls to say so. Who cares if the lame interview you got isn't allowed on television? Thank you Bob Costas. I hope you start a trend.

This Ain't No Picnic

I really want to see "We Jam Econo: The Story of the Minutemen" which was recently released. I was just getting into So-Cal punk in 1985 when Minutemen lead singer D. Boon's car flipped over on a highway killing him. I think the very good Double Nickels on the Dime had been released a year earlier. I love seeing rock docu's on the big screen, especially when they are chocked full of live performances like this film is.

Even though Dallas has three art house theaters, this film probably won't make it here. I guess that figures since the only two people in the greater Dallas metro area who'd want to see this film are Rob and myself.

Beauty Overload

One of the most freakish aspects of my day is my trip on the parking garage elevator. I use a parking garage that is located across from Dallas' famous Neiman Marcus department store. All of the Neiman's employees use this garage. Most of them are female. And every single one of them is beautiful. It doesn't matter if they are 25 years old or 65 years old --- all of them are really attractive. I've actually become desensitized to it. But Dallas has been doing that to me for a long time. This city is so full of trim blonde women with high cheekbones that I've actually become tired of them. They all look exactly the same to me.

Stories

My friend Siva once said: "Life is all about collecting really good stories."

I agree. And it's appropriate that he said that because Siva figures into a lot of my favorite stories from college days in Austin.

One winter evening in 1988, Siva, Diane and I were at the Tavern Air Conditioned (don't ask, it's a really old bar) drinking. We were sitting next to a window that looks out over the intersection of 12th and Lamar Street. Siva and Diane had their backs to the window. And I was facing the window, but wasn't paying much attention to what was going on outside since Siva and Diane and I were likely involved in some deep conversation about whether Richard Marx was going to have an enduring musical career.

At some point, I look out the window and see a late 1970's model Chevrolet completely engulfed in flames. Not kind of on fire --- this car was a huge fucking ball of fire. The driver was standing next to his car wondering what to do. Finally I say: "Look. That guy's car is on fire."

Siva jumps into action. But Diane and I stay put, not caring to get blown up. Siva goes outside and has a very short conversation with the guy. The burning car guy won't move. So Siva returns inside the bar. And as soon as he's in the doorway, Siva yells: "Does anybody here speak Portuguese?" The bartender says: "I do!"

What are the odds?

Bartender eventually deals with burning car guy and presumably tells the motorist in his native tongue to move far far away from his inferno of a vehicle.

But it was really Siva who saved the day. I was content just to drink my Shiner Bock and watch a hell of a fire.

Cheek to Cheek Chicks

How come every time a group of chicks are together and a photograph is taken of them, they always lean way into the camera and get cheek to cheek? Is this some sort of learned behavior that comes from attending 300 Tri Delt mixers where scoring "we're having so much fun" party pictures are the main goal of the event? Or do chicks just suddenly develop serious back issues when a camera is placed in front of them?

I need answers.

Your Favorite Band?

I'm always stumped when someone asks me who may favorite band is. If I say "It's hard to choose" my questioner thinks I must not know much about music. And if I give an honest answer, I get further blank stares because the band I name is best known for an early 80's synth song that sounds like Duran Duran (a band I'll admit that I love.) Nobody understands why I think so highly of this band because they're mostly known for some minor hits. And few people have ever heard their last three albums which contain some of the most stunning songs ever recorded.

So ladies and gentlemen, my favorite band of all times is Talk Talk. I love them. I love their weak songs. I love their unstable synth pop song that's title is same as the bands' name. And I love the dreamy, quiet, atmospheric and "New Grass" which is on their incredibly complex and beautiful last album Laughing Stock in 1991. I never, ever get tired of them. And I think I'd pee in my pants if they ever got back together and recorded.

Whenever Your On My Mind

The greatest pop singer songwriter, then, now or in the future is Marshall Crenshaw my friends. Rate me, debate me.

Worst Business Ever

I think I visited the most corrupt business ever over the weekend.

For starters, I am rarely the victim of the larcenous mechanic. That's because I have very good understanding of automobiles and what goes wrong with them. You can't tell me I need a new engine when I need a new battery. I know better.

When my truck's steering started pulling violently to the left, the engine labored hard and I smelled something burning, I was pretty sure that the caliper on one of the front disc brakes was sticking. I felt under the car and sure enough, one of the brakes was unusually hot --- signs of sticking.

It was a Saturday afternoon and I doubted the really good independent shop near my house was open. So I called the heavily advertised Just Brakes. I told them, look, my caliper is sticking. That's all I need fixed. Can you do that? The guy's answer sounds just like a Just Brakes radio ad. "Sounds like you need a friction reline which includes all pads and rotor machining. That's $99.98." I figure if they'll fix my caliper and give me new pads for 99 bucks, that's a good deal.

So before I took it over, I quickly Googled them. There were many many complaints about this company. A quick glance at the complaints reveals that Just Brakes often runs up bills by charging for repairs that aren't necessary. Good to know, but maybe this Just Brakes on Greenville Avenue and University is different. After all, it is a franchise. They couldn't all be the same.

When I got there, I told the guy "Look. I just need the caliper fixed. I can't afford the repair if it's going to cost a million dollars." The guy says "It's not going to cost a million dollars. But if we can't fix it properly, we'll refuse the business." Fair enough. I leave my truck there and tell them to call me before they do anything.

I get a call an hour later. The guys says this. "Are you sitting down? Your truck is the worst job we've seen today. It needs all new pads, new rotors, a new master cylinder and all new brake lines. That's going to cost $1,800." I told them not to do anything, I'd pick my truck up. I'm sorry, but for $1,800, you can get your entire engine rebuilt. That's an outrageous price for brake job --- the most expensive I've ever heard of. It was all I could do to return to this place and not go Pat Robertson on the first Just Brakes employee I saw.

I get there, and the owner or manager guy who looked very much like a tattooed gangster who'd just been let out of prison, says "So you don't want us to fix your Ranger?"

I said not for $1,800. I also told the guy that I knew for sure I didn't need a new master cylinder. I've replaced plenty of master cylinders. I know what happens when they go bad. Gangster apparantly didn't have his story straight with the guy who called me. And he said no, it really wasn't the master cylinder, it was the power booster that was out. "Don't you hear that hissing noise?" I said, "No. I've been driving this truck for two years. There is no hissing noise." In fact, I know perfectly well that when a power booster or a master cylinder goes out, the brakes won't hold any pressure and the brake pedal goes to the floor. My truck isn't doing that.

So then he trys to show me what's wrong with my truck by showing me this grease stained laminated chart that really had nothing to do with my truck's 22-year-old brake system. I said, sorry, I'm leaving. He says "Well, that's a really nice truck. It's in good shape. You want to sell it?"

I said sure.

"How much?"

I said "1,800 bucks"

Gangster Just Brakes manager didn't have an answer to that response.

Counselor Posting Up

Will and Sach --- I had to stop in Counselor, New Mexico. You know why.

My Old Living Room

I spent a great deal of my life in this room between 1997 and 2003. I made out with girls here. Girls broke up with me here. I had Christmas trees in this room. I was too lazy some years to put Christmas trees in this room. I sat and wondered where in the hell is my life going in this room. And this was the last room I saw when I walked out of my beloved house on Tremont Street for the last time in April of 2003.

Alice, the world's coolest real estate agent who we visited in Santa Fe, gave me this photo. I have no idea who the half person standing in the doorway is.

Mystery Photo

Rob says he just found an old photo of he and myself. Apparantly, we're holding a couple of 40 oz beers --- mine a regular Schlitz and his a Schlitz Malt Liquor, complete with the bull.

I'm really curious to see this photo. Back around 1990, when Rob worked at Sound Exchange in Austin, I used to roll by at closing time with a couple of 40s. Rob would consume the malted beverage while he counted up the register reciepts. And I'd listen to all manner of trash from the discount bin while also consuming alcohol. I remember that 2 Live Crews "Nasty As They Want To Be" sounded a lot better under the influence of Schlitz.

Rob actually has one my favorite pictures of myself. In it, I'm a cherubic 22 years old. I'm wearing my favorite bomber jacket and this long-lost paisley shirt that would have made Steve Kilbey of the Church proud. I was upstairs at the Cannibal Club eating a free bag of popcorn. And I'm flipping off the camera. The reason I like the photo is because even though I'm displaying an offensive finger gesture, I look like the most unoffensive and innocent person in the world. But I didn't feel that way at the time the picture was taken.

Liquor Store Commentary

One last vacation story, and I'll stop beating everybody over the head with the equivalent of a Kodak slide show projector.

Hot dry climates give a man a thirst for beer. So one evening, I walked to a liquor store in Santa Fe to purchase some brewed beverages. I grabbed a six pack of Colorado's famous Fat Tire ale. And while approaching the counter, I grabbed a 24 oz. can of the much more low rent Icehouse lager. The last item was a $1.29 impulse buy, what can I say?

So while I'm paying, a fat drunken man who obviously frequents this business like a Chevy Suburban visits a gas station, decides to make a comment about my purchase. "That's a strange combination," he says to me.

I look over at fat drunk guy. And he's just purchased a 4 pack of Bud Light ( I didn't even know they made 4 packs). And he'd also just bought a fist full of Tootsie Pops.

I just looked at the guy.

Big Sky

New Mexico is OK. All my friends know that Colorado is my favorite state in this nation, and mountain and scenery wise, New Mexico doesn't match up. But the temperature is amazing. It's always 50 degrees at night because of the dry air. And while the mountains really don't make you stare at them, there's something else that does --- the sky. It's really blue and in August there are lots of clouds. That's New Mexico's rainy season. In fact I think they get all of their rainfall for the year during August. The NM sky makes for some purty pictures.

Coming Up Craps

U.S 550 in New Mexico takes you through hundreds of miles of Indian reservations. For the uninitiated, Indian reservations are pretty bleak places. Indians are not wealthy people and the land we shoved them on is not terribly life sustaining. The economy is so bad that there are hardly any roadside stores at all on 550. I passed maybe one gas station in a 200-mile stretch. This is a problem when you wife has to pee and doesn't want to use nature's toilet. Or if you're running out of gas.

But while there are hardly any gas stations, there's plenty of something else --- the desert casino. We gave the Indian the right to soverienty on their land. So they make up their own laws. And they decided to legalize gambling a while ago.

We pulled over to use the restroom at this Apache casino. Since we were there, Karen decided to take a turn on a one dollar slot machine. She lost. But some Apache mother was probably able to put fry bread on the table that night because of our decision to waste a dollar.

The Rolling Dutchmen

While heading north on Highway 550 through New Mexico, we encountered a procession of vintage Volvos, lumbering along in a very safe manner that Volvos are known for. They were only traveling at 60 mph when the speed limit was 75 mph on this desert roadway. On closer inspection, all of the Volvos were late 1950's and early 1960's models. And everyone driving them was from Holland. I know this because they all had Dutch license plates. And a couple of the cars had signs on them that said something like "Holland travels Route 66." I am a huge fan of the Dutch. I have enjoyed their country. And I hope they were enjoying mine. If I could speak Dutch, I would have told them to pull over and informed them of some very bad news; they weren't anywhere close to Route 66.

High Highway

I feared the "million dollar highway." This is the name for the stretch of U.S. 550 that goes from Durango to Ouray Colorado. It was carved out of the side of the mountains in the 1930s. And nobody's sure if the road got its name from the high construction cost or the spectacular veiws. I'd say the latter because this roadway is stunning. The drive is sort of like a ride on Disneyland's Matterhorn. You're plunged straight into a massive mountain range. And for most of the drive there is a moutain wall on one side and a 700 foot drop off with no guard rail on the other. I'm not a fan of driving on gaurdrailless twisty mountain roads. But this drive was fairly simple. Nobody tried to run me off the road, nobody was in a hurry, and most of the drivers like me were just happy to go the speed limit --- which was a mere 35 mph on most stretches because of all the of the tight curves --- and enjoy the scenery.

This shot was taken at Molas Pass, which is just outside of Silverton CO, at an elevation of 10,000 feet.

I love the photo misfire. They are so much more realistic than the posed picture. Her you see us in our natural state --- I'm fooling with some machinery and Karen can't be bothered.

The Note Lady

When we rolled into Santa Fe last week, we met our friend Alice at this ridiculous $2.5 million adobe mansion she was house sitting. This place was out of control in more ways than one. No expense was spared from the finished concrete floors, custom fitted windows and authentic adobe construction. It sat on a huge tract of land high up in the mountains that overlook the city. But for all its splendor, this home distinguished itself by the insane notes that the lady of the house left for Alice and her husband Geoff. The notes, which were taped all over the place, ranged from strange "Check for cats before starting dishwasher" to insulting "Don't turn on this television ---- too complicated". I walked through the house and counted a grand total of 34 notes. Most of them had something to do with the nine housecats --- which was quite apparent that the note lady had no business owning. The cats peed wherever they wanted so half of this new beautiful house reeked. And the note lady insisted through her notes that the cats were to go out during various times of the day. Nevermind the fact that her property was swarming with coyotes, who had dropped the note lady's cat total down from 11 to 9 felines. But yes, you guessed it, there was a note about the coyotes too. It instructed the housesitters to watch for them every five minutes when the cats were outside. There was a rifle next to the note, you know, in case a coyote was spotted with a cat in its mouth.

So Karen and Alice and Geoff and I laughed all week about the note lady. That is until I got a call from my mom late in the week. She said a friend had been driving down Gaston Avenue and saw that our electric gate had been left wide open. On Gaston, the wide open electric gate is shorthand for "please walk around the back of my house, break in and steal everything I own." We had a housesitter of our own who was supposed to be dealing with these issues. So we called her. She said, "Yeah, I don't know why the gate wouldn't close. It was open when I came back from work." Nevermind that Karen told her how to use the automatic gate opener and to watch and make sure the gate was closed before pulling away. Oh, and our housesitter said she had set the house alarm off --- twice. Nevermind that Karen showed her the very simple buttons to turn the alarm on and off. Oh, and our housesitter said she was out late one night, when she was supposed to be at our house, feeding the dogs, and her purse got stolen --- our house keys were in her purse. So she couldn't get back into the house.

We concluded all our housesitter problems could have been avoided had we left a whole lot more notes.

Dry Dock

This blog will be on hiatus for the next week. john_clarke and Mrs. john_clarke are heading west to New Mexico to visit good friends and look at a lot of adobe houses and crap. Then we're heading north to Colorado to stay in a tiny village surrounded by 14,ooo foot mountains and waterfalls.

It'll be fun. But I'm going to have to dial it back a bit on the usual john_clarke travel routine. There will be no stays bed bug motels, stops at weird diners or snooping around abandoned farm houses with mrs. john_clarke along for the ride. But that's OK. I get to share some rest and relaxation with the woman I married. And I'll be forced to travel in the style to which most normal people have grown accustomed.

Rob, I See Your Nude 70's Album Cover And Raise You

Pablo Cruise offered us sweet sweet adult contemporary music ---and unnessary album cover nudity. So did Orleans. This terrible cover for their 1976 effort "Waking and Dreaming" contained the hit "Still The One." I'm sure this was a huge seller at "Peaches" back in the day when it was in heavy rotation on KVIL. And this sucess probably caused Pablo Cruise to go nude too in hopes of boosting sales.

Trashy

Here's exactly what I mean when I refer to the "trashy-ass Section 8 apartment complex" across the street from my house. This huge pile of garbage was strown all across the yard of the complex this morning. It included a mattress and box springs, random empty boxes, bottles, hangers, diapers and clothes. None of it had any value at all. I have no idea why it was dumped there but I have a few ideas.

1. Somebody didn't pay their rent and got evicted. But why would the landlord throw all of this junk on the front yard? He's going to have to clean it up sooner or later.

2. Wife or girlfriend got mad at husband or boyfriend and dumped all of his crap out of the window. Possible, but the windows are too small to stuff a mattress through.

3. Tennent decided to move out in the middle of the night and just left all his unwanted crap on the yard of the apartment. This is probably the most likely explanation, but why would you go to the trouble of hauling all of this junk outside the apartment if you never plan to come back?

I feel sorry for poor people who have to live in crappy apartment complexes like this. But poor people are sometimes are pretty sorry themselves. I used to rent a house from this woman who owned about 30 rent houses, most of them in poor neighborhoods in Dallas. She charged really reasonable rent and most of her houses were pretty nice. But she said that many of her tennents would completely trash the houses. And for some reason, when they left, they'd take everything they no longer wanted, including rotting garbage and animal waste, and dump it in a pile on the living room floor.

"Work Harder! Cody Wants A Pony!"

This morning while walking to work I saw America's favorite sweatshop-produced clothing promoter and shrill former television talk show host Kathie Lee Gifford getting out of a silver Jaguar. She was walking into the swank Magnolia Hotel in downtown Dallas. For some reason, she was carrying a thick three-ring binder. I imagine that the binder is full of lyrics to other peoples' songs she wants to butcher. Maybe she was meeting with a record producer in the hotel lobby to discuss the plans for the new "Kathie Lee Sings Motorhead" CD.

Long Green for a Long Trip

If I'm going to pay the Russians $100 million for a space ride, I don't just want to orbit the moon, I want to land on the moon.

Fun fact: The Russians have never had a manned expedition to the moon. They've landed rovers and robots ships that have taken samples, but there is no lunar footprint from any guys named Yuri.

Joy

For me, there's a certain thrill attached to checking the listings for upcoming music performances in my city. Usually, the listings are littered with Cinderella reunion tours, Nu Metal festivals and tons people nobody's ever heard of. But sometimes there's a gem in the listings --- a band I thought I'd never get to see. And today I saw that Gang of Four is coming in October. Gang of Four! They were the first of the great post punk bands. Their first album, 1979's Entertainment, is a must own for rock music fans. I even like their biggest failure of an album, 1983's Hard, when Gang of Four tried to recreate themselves as a dance band and had a hit ---
probably their only one --- with "I Love A Man in a Uniform." I can't wait to see these guys.

And fans of Hobbit Rock will be glad that Jethro Tull is coming in October. I'll say it again: If your rock band contains a flute player, something has gone seriously wrong.

I'm Angry and I'm Gonna Sell A Book

One of the morning talk shows had a teaser for an interview with some guy who had written a book called "100 people who are screwing up America." I didn't even know who the guy was. So I predicted to Karen that is book would be a real in-depth analysis of the United States' woes. It would probably break new ground by blaming the following people: "Liberals, Liberals, Liberals, Clinton is still bad, Liberals, Liberals, Liberals."

Then the guy came on. It was Bernard Goldberg, who's work I've quite enjoyed as a reporter on Bryant Gumbel's Inside Sports on HBO. I tell Karen, hey, I'm onboard with this guy.

Then he launches on the declining morality and vulgarity on television. Since when has television been a place where we've looked for morality? I'm sure the moralists were launching on "I Dream of Jeanie" in 1966 too. And vulgarity on television? I like it. Give me more. If the Sopranos were more vulgar, I'd probably like it even more.

Then his 100 people who were screwing up America were: "Liberals, Liberals, Liberals." Great. I'm so glad your book is that breath of fresh air I was looking for. What a radical departure.

Unbelievable

It pains me when my fellow Texans make national news. Get ready for this one to hit The Today show in the coming weeks. There's a kid playing high school football in Lancaster, Texas, with an ankle monitor. Why? He was arrested for robbing six people at gunpoint with his buddies. He actually transfered to Lancaster from Mesquite because he has to live in Lancaster with family because of a court order. The Mesquite coach said there was no way the kid would play there ---- it wouldn't be ethical. But the kid will get to play in Lancaster. "Kids wil be kids" the Lancaster coach says. He doesn't want to "ruin" the kids life over something like this. Oh, by the way, he's got offers from colleges because he's a damn fine football player.

There's a rule in Texas that if your kid doesn't make passing grades, he can't play football. But apparently, it's OK if he's charged with sticking a 9mm in someone's face.

When do sports officials start punishing people who happen to be really good at sports? Kenny Rogers gets charged with assault and his suspension gets over turned. I bet Rae Carruth would have been playing football before his murder trial if he could have made bond.

Hi. I'm 14 years old.

It's embarrassing to admit, but like most pimply faced teens, I've gotten sucked in by the Grand Theft Auto video game. Yes, it's incredibly violent. No, I don't have the recent version where you can see boobs during a scene. And yes, I wouldn't let kids under the age of say, 15, play it. But it's a genius game. You actually feel like you're driving around the dark corners of a real city. You commit crimes because you play the role of a criminal --- morality is not an option in this game. And the game is pure cynicism --- you can change radio stations in the car you drive and all the stations that are not too far off cartoons of real radio stations complete with the phony mass marketing scripts and mass produced music. It even has a stupid talk radio station.

I've played this game for about three nights now. And I don't have any urges to commit a carjacking, beat a thug with a baseball bat or run from the police. But oddly enough, driving around in this fake video game is not far off from tooling around some of the less savory streets of East Dallas, complete with liquor stores, street people and the occasional random gunshot.

The Water Rocket

I'm cannabilizing Rob's blog again. But I would have written about this anyway.

For years, when ever I'm in a large store, I walk down the toy isle to see if they sell those cool pump up rockets that are powered by tap water. Nobody ever has them. I guess I know why. Anything that allows one child to launch a hard object at another child is generally frowned on in the 2000's.

I figured the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission has something to say about the beloved water rocket. And indeed they did. Check out this 2001 press release: http://www.cpsc.gov/cpscpub/prerel/prhtml01/01158.html

So I guess I have little hope of finding a water rocket in a store. One guy decided to make his own. Except this guy rigged the rocket to a plastic 1955 T-Bird and used a two liter Mountain Dew bottle to the car to supply extra "fuel". It looks like he and his kids had a kick ass time with this invention, at least until he decided to put G.I. Joe in the driver's seat, causing his kids to freak out. Get ready to laugh at this guy's genius invention that I want to copy really bad: http://www.outsideconnection.com/rockets/rocketcar.htm

Seasoning

When you were in high school, did you think you'd look this way now?

I was pondering that while shaving my 38-year-old face this morning. I no longer look like the innocent rube I did in photos from 20 years ago. It's still very much the same face. Nothing has fallen off. But my face is definitely more wizened. I think that comes from earning the right to put "seen a lot of shit" on my resume.

Physically, my body is much different. 20 years ago, I was way too thin for my frame. Working out for me was a joke. Unless Jose Canseco steroids were involved, there was no way I was going to pack more stuffing onto my frame. I'm never going to look like my naturally athletic friends who are all pretty ripped. But at least my clothes fit me.

So yeah, I think I look pretty much like what I expected. I even finally figured out what to do with my punk rock hair.

But for some reason, in high school, I predicted that 20 years in the future, when I was established in a career, I'd sport a tweed jacket, jeans and cowboy boots look. That has definitely not happened.

Queen Bee

I've been calling Karen "Queen Bee" for a couple of years now. Neighbors Rick and Mike call her Queen Bee too.

If only they knew that Queen Bee was one of the main characters from the 1974 classic blaxspoitation film "Dolemite." Queen Bee ran Dolemite's pimpin' business while he was in prison. And while Dolemite was in the big house, she organized all of the ho's into a kung fu fighting force. So Queen Bee was the woman behind the greatness of the man.

I've explained the origins of the name "Queen Bee" to Karen, yet she still answers to the name.

Runnin' Around, Doing Stuff

It's no secret, but I actually enjoy auto maintenance. Most of the things I do to maintain my car are not very complicated but require a willingness to get dirty. And my previous post is proof that dirt doesn't bother me, at least on the weekends.

This weekend I drained, flushed and refilled my radiator and changed the fan belt. I immediately felt a sense of accomplishment and reassurance that my second most expensive possession will last a little longer. And I'm the reason that businesses like Auto Zone flourish in the United States.

I'm a derelict

As you can tell by the photos below, I never shave on the weekends. In fact, I can be full-on gross between Friday evening and Monday morning.

Saturday, I roll out of bed at 7:30 a.m., put on some shorts, a T-shirt and this nasty "Piggly Wiggly" cap I've had for years. I start working in the yard. Then I'll start fixing something that needs to be fixed on the house. Then it's time to wash the cars. I'll look up and it will be about 1 p.m. I'm sweaty as hell and smell rather ripe. And I haven't even brushed my teeth yet. But that won't stop me from getting in my truck and running errands, looking like some homeless guy who's so desperate, he just heisted a 1983 Ford Ranger.

What is wrong with me?

Sunglasses Derby

I was at the dollar store yesterday with four dollars in my pocket. All I needed was some knockoff Pledge for furniture dusting purposes. And because I had three bucks left, naturally I spent them on cheap sunglasses. So out of these three selections, which one should be made a regular part of the rotation?

1. 1963 Kennedy assassination witness shades. Everybody on the grassy knoll was wearing these.

2. T.J. Hooker glasses. Or Frank Poncherello glasses, it's your choice. Stop or I'll make a bad cop show.

3. The Velvet Undergrond eye wear. So Lou Reed, yet so far away.

It's Not Too Late For This One

Feeling completely dejected, I left 2806 South and headed over to check on another favorite abandoned home and ran across this place. It's been boarded up for about 6 months. And two nicely dressed men were standing outside of it. One was a real estate agent who said it's going up for sale soon. He asked if I wanted to go inside. I did.

I could tell that this was once a very expensive home. It had a Rookwood fireplace, really nice original tilework in the bathrooms, french doors into a sitting area and formal dining room and a really cool set of built in cabinets in the dining room with leaded glass doors.

Unfortunately, some idiots during the 1970's decided to wood panel the hell out of half the house. And one of the three bedrooms was turned into a really stupid looking bar. But at $140,000, it's a still a good deal.

Farewell 2806 South Boulevard

Today I headed over to 2806 South Boulevard with a flashlight and a camera, fully intending to explore the inside despite the structure's infestation with homeless people. And this is what greeted me when I arrived. What I saw made me feel like a failure.

I really wanted to save this house. It was beautiful, even its horrible condition. Now there's nothing left except a piece of molding that fell off the second story when the bulldozers were knocking it down that's still hanging in one of the trees. I guess the photos I took of the house is the only proof that it ever existed. And I wonder if I'm the only person in the world that cared about it.

Pernice Envy

Last night, my buddy Sach (his real last name is Sachtleben. He can't help it.) saw the Pernice Brothers at the Bluebird Theater in Denver. He said it was great, as it should be.

I love the Pernice Brothers. They make achingly beautiful pop music. But the Pernice Brothers must hate Texas because they've never played here before.

That's OK. I drove 850 miles one way to see them in Kansas City two summers ago. It was worth it.

But Sach got to see them at the Bluebird, a really cool old converted movie theater that is perfect to see a band like the P Brothers. It's not too big and not too small, perfect for seeing a genius band that few people know about. At the Bluebird, it's so intimate that you feel like the band is playing just for you, not the rest of the audience. That's the best way to explain it.

And Sach got to see them for the first time. Seeing a great band for the first time is like your first hit of heroin --- there's nothing else that will match the first time.

I'm starting to hate Sach.

Can Man Eat Too Much Hummus?

I dealt hunger a serious blow this afternoon by visiting Antone's Cafe down on the corner. Antone's is a Greek/Mediterranean near my office. It's been there at least since the late 80's. And that's something to be proud of because there are few businesses of any kind in downtown Dallas that have any sort of longevity.

The guy who runs it, whose name is indeed Antone, is sort of crazy. It must come from saying the same thing over and over again to his customers, loudly. "You want SPICEY?" "Anything for you BABY!" But I've gotten used to it. It's a minor inconvenience in exchange for a delicious gyro sandwich with a side of hummus and a drink for five bucks. But what's weird is that Antone always addresses me as "Joe." He doesn't call everybody Joe. Just me. I've never even told Antone my name. "Gyro sandwich for JOE!" But he's been calling me Joe for about 9 months now. So it's way too late to correct him.

I love the Greek guy. They work hard and always show up. And they're always quick with the advice for you to do the same: "Vacation? You chase women and spend all your money. It's better to be at work."

When we had an ice storm a couple of years ago, I made it to work, only because my boss drove me in. There were only a handful of people working downtown that day. And when lunch time rolled around, no place was open. Except, of course, Antone's. Antone kept me fed that day. So I'll continue to be his customer, even though he has no idea what my real name is.

Freak Eater

One of the downsides of being an early riser is that I'm hungry way before it's politically acceptable to be hungry. I get up at 5:30 a.m. on the weekdays. So by 10 a.m., my body thinks its time for lunch. And I usually try to fight through the hunger until 11:30 a.m. before taking care of it. So why don't I just get up at 7 a.m. like most people? Well, besides missing exercise . . . . ok, I really don't have a good reason.

Prime 10th Grade Car Audio Choice

You have no idea just how much Boston was blasted out of the speakers of this car in 1983.

White Man Afro

That's not PBS do-it-yourself art dude Bob Ross in the middle. It's Sib Hashian, drummer and bare chest bearer for 70's arena rock legend Boston.

Heresy

Have you ever thought that all of the random acts of terrorism really aren't a well orchestrated plot masterminded by some dudes hiding out in the mountains of Pakistan?

Maybe, just maybe, they're the work of some random like-minded assholes who just like to blow up people and themselves in the name of religion. And whenever that happens, the guys in Pakistan just send out a video and claim responsibility.

If that were true, wouldn't the war on terrorism be kind of futile unless somebody rolls out the equivalent of a thought control A-bomb?

More Than a Feeling

I saw Boston's lead guitarist Tom Scholz at lunch today. He was pudgy and wearing a Lynard Skynard t-shirt.

That could still be him, right?

Musical Memories

Why are the songs that remind us of significant and happy times in our life never fitting, appropriate or grand enough?

For instance, by all rights, a Johann Sebastian Bach processional should remind me of October 25, 2003, the day I got married. After all, that was what the organist was playing in the church that evening. But no. While facing the audience with my new wife, I was humming "Amsterdam" by Guster. This is a fine pop song, just short of a really good pop song. But the song is about a guy who's throwing away all of his girlfriend's stuff after she leaves him, presumably to go smoke hash in Holland's most decadent city. So "Amsterdam" is the song that is forever attached to my wedding memory.

There are a couple of songs that remind me of 1996, a particularly good time in my life. That year I was living in this really cool duplex in Fort Worth, was in love with a woman and was leaving a bad newspaper job behind for a much better one. Yet the two songs that always take me back to this time are Tupac's "California Love" and Spacehog's "In the Meantime."

So wrong.

Joe Lies

Lots of things make me laugh --- friends, comedians, political speeches. But there is one thing that has never made me laugh harder in my entire life. Folk singers.

At the last South by Southwest music festival I ever attended, which was about 1990 or 1991, I decided I wanted to see roots rocker Charlie Chesterman, formerly of Scruffy the Cat, above all else at the Cactus Cafe on the UT campus. The problem with trying to see Charlie was that he was on a bill with a whole slew of folk singers. And since there was no order to the performances, I had no idea when Charlie was going to play.

Rob and I both went to the UT campus to sample some of the offerings. I decided to stick it out at the Cactus Cafe and wait it out for my favored performer while Rob went upstairs to another venue to listen to the white boy funk of Bouffant Jellyfish.

So I sit down at a table next to the stage and listen to hack after hack get up on a stool with an acoustic guitar and sing about their problems. Their songs were sincere, pained and really bad. After about two performances, I walk out in the hall for a break from the misery. And Rob is just leaving his show. He asks how the Cactus Cafe performances are. And I tell him this:

"Remember the party scene in Say Anything where Lloyd Dobler's friend Corey breaks out her guitar and sings a bunch of songs about her sorry ex-boyfriend? It's just like that in there. Every song sounds like Corey's original version of 'Joe Lies.' "

That's all Rob needed to hear. He joined me at the table next to the stage. And we both caught a case of world class laughter. We added fuel to the fire by constantly repeating Corey lines from Say Anything.

"I wrote 68 songs about Joe, and I'm going to sing them all tonight."

"That'll never be me, that'll never be me, that'll never be me."

"He likes girls with names like ASHLEY."

"Joe lies. Joe lies. Joe lies, when he crys."

We laughed harder and louder each time one of us would throw out a Corey line. It just wouldn't end.

Finally, some poor schmuck who was pouring his heart out on stage actually stopped during the middle of a song and asked us to shut up. I'm not sure if we did. But I woke up the next morning with a laughter induced stomach ache.

John_Clarke, pitchman

So long ago, I allowed my blog to be used by Google for advertizing. Random ads are placed at the bottom. I'm pretty sure none of my five readers have been seduced by this adveritizing. But I'm always amused at what ads are placed on this blog. The ads are all somehow relevent to the topics I write about. So I just saw an ad advertizing the music of some guy named Jon Clarke. And there's a link that will take you to a site where you can purchase Confederate Flags. That's some commerce in action.

Rock Confessions

I used to like this band called Zebra. They were one of those almost metal bands that dorks like me loved in 1983. I think I heard "Who's Behind the Door" on one of the local FM rock stations and thought this band is for me. Zebra excelled at fast guitar noodling, falsetto singing and writing absolutely stupid lyrics that only appeal to 11th graders. I drove out to Six Flags to see them play (if you're an up and coming band, playing Six Flags is not a good sign of future success.) I stopped liking Zebra when my "Who's Behind the Door" cassette got stuck in the Mach 1's cassette deck for two months. For two whole months, I could listen to nothing else in my car except Zebra. I finally took a screwdriver to the cassette deck and extracted Zebra from my life.

It could have been worse. I liked another dumb band back then called Shooting Star. I might not be here today if I had to listen to Shooting Stars "Hang On For Your Life" for two months.

Muscle Car

Since Tara and SA Eric have chimed in with tales of teenage speed freaks, I feel obliged to tell my story.

On April 14, 1983, I purchased a muscle car. It was a blue 1969 Mach 1 Mustang that I bought for $1,500, money I'd earned working at McDonald's. I loved that car. In fact, I wanted it precisely because it was affordable and nobody else had one. It was the only thing in my high school career that made me stand out. It got me no attention whatsoever from females, but I earned the respect of the motor heads, freaks and jocks at school because I'd fixed up my own bad ass car.

I raced it a total of twice. Once I took a quarter mile stop light to stop light blast down Campbell Road in Richardson against David Andrews and his 1978 Formula Firebird. I lost by about two car lengths. A couple months later, I had another stoplight encounter with a stranger in a 1980 LT1 Corvette in Richardson. I beat the Corvette.

Then I was done. I actually shook after taking my car up to 90 mph on the street. I knew it was dangerous. And nobody was in my passenger seat egging me on. I had a lot of power under the hood and I wanted to see what the car could do.

If safety concerns weren't enough, I was afraid I'd blow my engine. I did not have another $1,500 to plunk down on an engine. And it was my car. My dad helped me work on it, but he didn't pay for it. While other knuckleheads in my neighborhood were going through cars and tires at a furious pace (including this chick Julie down the street who ran her Camaro so hard into the back of another car, the engine was pushed into her passenger seat) , I wasn't about to wreck something I loved and paid for with money I sweated over a grill to make.

So the Mach 1 led a pampered life from then on, took me to college at UT, and was put in storage when I graduated from college until I had enough money to completely restore it. I did that in 1994. It was show room condition and won first place at a couple of car shows. I sold it in 2003 just before I got married because I was also selling my house and didn't have a garage to keep it in.

A former cop drove all the way from Arizona to pick it up. He paid me $17,000 for it, and I probably could have demanded more for the car. I couldn't look as he drove it away.

Driving While Blind

I went home at lunch and noticed that George, my 85-year-old neighbor, was sitting in his car which he'd pulled to the front of the driveway. This concerns me, especially after George cost me $150 when he backed his other vehicle, a van, into my fence. George has readily admitted to me that he has no business driving because he can't see things that are straight ahead of him because of degenerative vision loss. I don't think George is crazy enough to pull out into traffic. My guess is George wants to be helpful by pulling the car up so his son, who I think lives with him, can drive George on his appointed rounds.

Or maybe George has nothing else better to do all day than pull his car up to the driveway and remember the days when he could see well enough to barrel his Chysler down Gaston Avenue.

But is it my place to ask George what he's doing? It certainly will be if he knocks the fence down again. But maybe George gets hurt on a future busting adventure. So do I take action now?

Hotel Hell

Karen informed me yesterday that we will be staying at Hot Springs Arkansas' finest hotel --- The Arlington ---- over Labor Day weekend. This was a small point of contention considering we're traveling to Hot Springs with Rick and Mike in their RV which sleeps about 8 people. But sleeping in a RV is too much togetherness for Karen. And she doesn't want to share a bathroom with three guys (never mind that every guy I know keeps his bathroom cleaner than most females.) Still, I understand. And I really don't mind staying in The Arlington because it's a really cool 1920's era building in downtown Hot Springs where many of the rooms have their own hot springs mineral baths.

But apparently we're also going to a wedding in Virginia that I forgot about. So we're going to drop some bills on another fine hotel for about four days in October.

Karen and I have a different philosophy about hotels. She likes to go first class because she says she's way too old to stay in hostel like surroundings. And she likes to be comfortable.

But to me, a hotel is nothing more than a place to sleep and take a shower before you go out and enjoy the place you've traveled to. I've reached the point where I have many more vacation days than I do money. So I stay with my buddies, or cheap places, I can maximize my vacation time. Or maybe I'm just a cheap bastard.

Negative Equity

Why are so many Americans willing to pay for stuff they don't own anymore? Apparently, lots of people like to buy new cars when they haven't fully paid off the one they currently own. So the new car dealer always says this ---- you can get that new car, we'll just roll what you owe on the old car into the payment for the new one. And after 15 years of the low low payment of $400 a month, this new Oldsmobuick can be all yours!

I know plenty of people who've done this. Of course, they get tired of the Oldsmobuick after two years and trade up for the Family Truckster. Now they're paying on two cars they don't own. Leasing is even stupider. They'll stick you with all sort of charges when you turn in the car. And to top it off, you never own the car so payments are perpetual.

Ask yourself this question. Would you buy a new house if it meant you had to still pay on the one you just moved out of?

My Favorite Fake Profession

Once, I was at one of those gatherings where everyone was asking everyone else what they did for a living. And this guy I know made up the best ridiculous fake profession he could think of. He claimed he was a "pediatric veternarian". He explained his profession to the curious this way: "Anybody can work on cats and dogs. I only work on puppies and kittens."

So, Have You Ever Heard an Eminem Song?

I love it when pop-culture ignorant marketing executives with major corporations strike deals in hopes that the kids will buy their products. Then they're surprised to learn that the deal leads to : "I'm rollin' in my Ford Fusion bitches, I cut a gangsta with my knife and he don't need stitches."

Read and learn my friends:

http://money.cnn.com/2005/08/01/news/newsmakers/ford_eminem/index.htm?cnn=yes

The Over-Laugher

On Saturday, I decided to take a bullet for the marriage team and actually suggested that we see "Must Love Dogs". It's got John Cusack in it, so it can't be that bad right? Wrong. It was written and directed by the same dude who gave us "Family Ties". And the script was actually worse than a Family Ties script. It was as if the talented cast in this movie was reading off a teleprompter script the entire movie, just like on a T.V. sit com. So I found myself looking at my watch throughout the movie, hoping for it to end. But there was one thing that made this movie entertaining. And it had little to do with the movie itself.

Karen and I sat down on in row near the middle of the screen, like we always do. And after we sat down, three 19 year old girls sat down behind us. Surprisingly, they weren't necessarily movie talkers and their cell phones remained off. But the girl directly behind me was an over-laugher. During the 15-minute onslaught of ads and movie previews, she laughed at absolutely everything, no matter if it was funny or not or if anybody else was laughing. During the preview of the lame movie in which Reese Witherspoon plays a ghost, the girl started laughing loudly when the preview just showed "Napoleon Dynamite's Jon Heder" in the supporting buddy role. Heder hadn't even said anything. I looked over at Karen and told her I couldn't take any more of this. So we relocated to real estate far far away from the over-laugher.

So the movie begins and proceeds to suck. And nobody in the audience is laughing at it except the over-laugher. And she kicks it into high gear. No matter where you sat, the over laugher was loud, way louder than the movie. So Karen and I couldn't help but laugh at the over-laugher when she laughed. People turned around to look at the over-laugher. It was downright bizarre. I think the over-laugher may have actually been planted by the movie studio to encourage laughter at this terrible movie. So I guess, on one level, this strategy worked, just not how the studio intended it to.

Eating Off a Table

If you're 38 and want regain the feeling of lost youth, go to a cafeteria.

I was passing by one on Sunday, while hungry, and decided to stop in. I almost regretted the decision because Sundays at the cafeteria is sort of like JFK airport on Thanksgiving --- it's jam packed. The cafeteria is huge with the after-church crowd in Texas. But the people watching in the cafeteria is great. All of the races were represented evenly. But the age demographic was slanted very high towards those who are eligible to collect social security. There weren't many 38 year olds wearing Muddy Waters T-shirts in line like me. Still I felt right at home. After all, I go to bed at 9:30 p.m. and like to complain both about my water bill and what the kids call music these days. So bring on the macaroni & cheese and cabbage, I'm in my element.