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Archive for the ‘Weirdo’ Category

(Sorry, no music or movies or Marin County in this post. Well, except for living in Marin.)

Sunday morning. Slept in, scored an extra couple hours of sleep.

Probably would have woken up before 9:30, but the cat insisted on breakfast at her usual 6:00am time. We’re trying to play the ignoring game in hopes of encouraging her to let us sleep in later, but after half an hour of steady purring (not nearly as cute at that hour) the wife gets up to feed her.

Anyway, this is one of those cool wake up slowly mornings where you strike bizarre zombie poses, wondering how else you could waste the day*. Decide to cuddle with the wife, who is engaged in her own zombie pose.

I start thinking about my extended past as a single guy. I’d dream about all aspects of dating…yes, the walks on the beach as well as the stuff now well illustrated on those grown up websites–that I had to use my imagination for at the time. Cuddling in bed on a Sunday morning…check!

Check! Checkity-check-check! FINALLY is what the twentysomething might have said.

Here we are, intertwined in this sweet, romantic moment. And my shoulder facing the bed is KILLING me! If I stretch it under her it gets compressed and goes numb. If I stretch it out between us it acts like an amputated third wheel. Maybe I could stretch it out behind me, but then I’m doing one of those bizarre yoga poses that make you question why you’re doing yoga in the first place.

Then there’s my dragon breath!**

How can you possibly get into that “Ah, this is such a romantic Sunday morning.” vibe when you’re worried about forcing your partner to breathe from her mouth? I twist my head so the breath is directed into her pillow which A. Heats up her pillow in the wrong way. B. Bounces off the pillow and strikes her anyway. C. Twists my neck into another yoga pose, the one that makes you think, “Based on my experience level I REALLY shouldn’t be attempting this!”

I don’t get why humans haven’t evolved into cuddling. It’s clear we’ve evolved to reproduce and have all those difference that distinguish men and women. Seems to me that men’s heads should have evolved to, say, the right side of their body, women’s to the left. Then when you’re in this cuddling situation the heads rest comfortably on each others’ shoulders, no?

But then that would only add fuel to the anti-same sex marriage activists arguments. “See? Gays can’t marry because their heads would be on the same side. They can’t cuddle!” ๐Ÿ™‚

*Such as writing this blog post.

**And hers, but for the sake of my marriage let’s focus on why MINE is the problem. ๐Ÿ˜‰

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My lovely fuzzball, Soozie, developed Irritable Bowel Syndrome last year. No more dry food, a lovely permanent stain on my luxurious month-old couch with the fancy microfibers. Where she used to get wet food on weekends as a special treat she now gets the gourmet stuff full time.

Needless to say her Diva tendencies have elevated to a whole new level. We’re talking 5:30-6:00am feedings…even more evil when I was working at Ubisoft under a contract that had me up at 6:45am so I could hit Marin County’s southbound 101 traffic to catch Golden Gate Ferry to the SF Ferry Building, walk half an hour to the vicinity of the Giants ballpark. You know how hard it is to get back to sleep once the cat has walked across your chest several times? And that’s her Plan B…Plan A is actually sitting on my wife’s chest and purring point blank into her face. Not because it gets my wife to feed her…because it gets ME to feed her!

I used to have a secret weapon in the form of her cat carrier. I knew I’d discovered a special kind of leverage when the metal squeak of the door latch would send Soozie bolting in another direction. I learned to keep the carrier underneath my nightstand, where all I had to do was squeak the hinges the moment she jumped on the bed, hiding in the shadows. SECRET WEAPON UNLEASHED!

P-CHOOOO…the cartoon sound of Da Sooze in desperate flight, giving me another hour of sleep. Kinda like a snooze alarm.

But the day that I feared came…The Fuzz would merely look at me from the safety of my wife’s torso as I reached over to squeeze the latch. No Dad, she was saying…I don’t think the Vet is open at 5:30 in the morning. But the kitchen is!

I’d like to think I’m feeding my cat the best canned food out there. And I ain’t talking Fancy Feast–though she knows what those words mean. Most of her cans actually contain identifiable food inside them. You see cheap crap like Friskies Tuna, Chicken & Greens flavor and inside is just a blend of mush. Good God, could you imagine if people were fed like that?* The Soozebot usually gets fed Tiki Cat and Weruva. The latter brand usually has human like food substance inside. There’s one flavor called Grandma’s Chicken Soup** that actually has shredded chicken, carrots and peas in it. I mean, what’s to stop me from eating it myself? They could put a label on it, pack it in Lunchables and what I don’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

Do you think Soozie would yell, “EWW–Gross!” if she realized Grandma’s Chicken Soup was actually human food?

The conspiracy…Grandma’s Chicken Soup is always a bit cheap as far as how full the can is. I’m talking the little 2.2oz cans. I get the Tiki Cat Chicken/Salmon one and that sucker’s packed with enough meat for two or three meals. Grandma’s leaves the cat wanting more. But who am I kidding…I could pop the lids off all 100 cans (Internet bulk buying!) and she’d still be stalking us in the pre-dawn hours.

*OK, debatable.

**My Grandma didn’t make me chicken soup, though she did offer to let me try her tripe soup once when I was 15. Smelled like Minestrone and I was hungry, so I went for it. You never forget your first experience with the gag reflex…

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Heading out of Home Depot with the wife today, where we adopted a new lighting system to make the kitchen nice & bright. It’s so cute! And if you told me back in high school that I would be more excited about installing new track lighting than I would be about playing guitar* I’d think I was in the Twilight Zone. And in the Twilight Zone I was, The Home Depot version. It wasn’t just the cashiers with the ridiculously long eyelashes, as if they’re at a Friday night Happy Hour waiting to get noticed. It was the woman sitting on a bench outside by the food truck eating crumbs off her shirt. Like, literally off her shirt…as in stretching her shirt up to her mouth and applying aardvark techniques (maybe Hoover) to make sure no morsel was wasted from her, I don’t know, six dollar investment.

Oh, what–you think because it’s Marin County the Depot’s food truck stocks garlic fries and upscale Tiburon cuisine? Well, it did have a specials of the day menu…

So we had this brief laugh at the woman’s expense…oh my God–what a social faux pas! Good thing we don’t…do…cough, cough…that.

Well, my wife probably doesn’t, but I can’t be the only one who lives by the rule of having bizarre, reality show worthy eating habits in private that I would never do in public. Even my brother’s common line at the dinner table when we were kids was “Don’t worry, Mom…I’ll never do that in a restaurant.” I’m thinking this woman has simply evolved to the point where she’s not feeling ashamed; she’s thinking SHE got crumbs and the rest of us didn’t.

I seem to be in my own personal Twilight Zone**, except I don’t get the cool zone where I can stop time or where pretty people are considered freaks of nature. No, I get the Crumb Eater (all fair if you’re talking Sift Cupcakes) or the neighbor who picks his teeth with the chest of his shirt AS HE’S TALKING TO ME!

Yes, it happened. Having a friendly conversation and he stretches his shirt to wipe/dislodge something in the back of his molar. Might have been easier to simply take the shirt off, but that would have been weird. The tough part was trying to continue having a normal conversation after that, trying not to notice the big tooth & drool stain on his sternum, like one of those ink blots the shrink*** gets you to analyze.

I see…crazy.

Sad thing is I’m not far off from eating crumbs off my own chest and picking the tough ones out with the shirt I’m wearing. The cynicism of advanced age is setting in. People inherently suck–not every individual…just a significant number to make you throw your arms out and yell “Frick it!”*** and let all those bad habits you’ve worked so hard to keep a lid on run free for disapproving eyes to judge.

And at that point I won’t care.

ย 

*Might have been exaggerating there, as I logged in some quality guitar time after dinner!

**Right, like that’s unique!

***Never my shrink. ๐Ÿ˜ฆ

****So I’ve had a tough couple of weeks, ya know? I’ll save the whining for my journal!

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1. BevMo.

2. Sift Cupcakes.

3. Bananas At Large. I know, I work there–but I just spent two hours in Bed, Bath & Beyond with the fiancee, watching her DROOL over matching towels and bedsheets!* What about the things *I* need in our new life together???

4. Craftsman Tools. OK, I’m lying…don’t care about tools. But I’m a guy, so I feel like I need to exert my manliness here because I know getting as excited as I do about Sift Cupcakes is a little disturbing. But I’ll cage fight for them suckers!

*In all fairness, I drooled a little over the 1000 thread count sheets.

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I found myself combining Trader Joes peanut butter crackers with marshmallows recently. Something about that squishy white happiness with a touch of buttery crackers and peanut butter and BAM! That rat in Ratatoullie was right about the genius of combining foods, though I’m thinking I was more lucky in this case.

To be honest, the only reason I’m posting this is because it’s a distraction from doing my taxes, which are in the number crunching phase. I’m friggin’ broke all year (life of a musician…) so why do these numbers say I’m slightly above the poverty line? Impossible!

And my jazz book is open to the “Satin Doll” page…dying to go from printed notes to moving sound molecules. Did Ellington or Strayhorn worry about their taxes? Maybe Duke asked Billy, “I know I can deduct my work related travel miles, but can I count the miles traveling to dinner after the gig?”

OK…I’m going to crunch a few more numbers, then head off to Plush Puffs, some place I saw on The Food Network that makes amazing gourmet marshmallows. Can’t imagine what will happen when I eat one of those with the peanut butter crackers…might explode in my mouth! ๐Ÿ˜‰

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Ten years old, trying to fall asleep in the top bunk of my bunk bed. But kids that age aren’t tired at 10:00 at night…they’re tired during school! So I toss and turn, stare at the ceiling, feel like I’m in prison more than anything else. I could be playing Atari games.

Enter my Dad. With my parent’s bedroom across the hall I could see them enter and exit when I peeked from behind the corner of my doorway. In other words, I could see them, but they likely couldn’t see me…meaning a Superman attack was imminent.

Huh? Superman was a my cherished latch-hook yarn pillow I made back in second grade. Hook the different yarn colors in the right places and I get a cool image of Superman that barely fits my head at bedtime–he functioned more like a teddy bear in this case. But he also functioned as a weapon because with the pillow’s small size I could wing it a good distance.

So Dad heads for the kitchen completely starkers. I know, it sounds shocking when I say it. I never saw him wear jammies in my youth–or even now, as I think of it. But at this age when girls are little more than annoying classmates, it would be a pretty lame cliche to say I was scarred by the site of my Dad’s nudity. However by the time I hit puberty just the thought of seeing parent naked was enough to send me reeling to a therapist, while his discretion had improved, so maybe we’d both adjusted our habits accordingly.

Back to Superman…normally I used him as a missile to attack one of our dogs when they’d enter my room to raid my cat’s food and water dishes. Pig Dog (nickname) enters the room quietly…tap, tap, tap…slurp, slurp, WHOOSH, BAM, CRASH (Pig Dog getting broadsided into nearby desk), TRIP, SCATTER, RETREAT!

Dad was going to face the same consequences for my insomnia.

He rounds the corner back into the hallway I LAUNCH the pillow at him and recoil in horror as I realize my aim wasn’t just accurate…it was accurate in a way that might get me grounded until high school.

The last thing I saw was Superman heading straight toward his crotch.

With my head buried in the pillow I hear, “God Dammit, Keith! Go to sleep!”

I’m horrified! My innocent little joke turned into a catastrophic maiming that could be the end of our family–though my brother was born a few years later.

My Dad heads back into the bedroom, “It was a good shot, though!”

I blocked it out at the time, but now that I think of it I’m pretty sure I heard my Mom laughing herself silly.

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I was in San Francisco–or something I thought was San Francisco because it rarely looks like the real one when you’ve got streets leading nowhere*, up and down, overpasses for people only. Through reasons never explained I’m at some sort of film festival and my buddy Chris has got Dolph Lundgren to star in his short film.

Now thinking about it in waking hours I feel a thin layer of suspicion that he’s basically brought some clip from The Expendables in, passing it off as a short film of his own.

This didn’t bother me at the time, mainly because Dolph had made an appearance at the screening for my pal and was signing autographs. I’m not much of an autograph hound in real life. The last autograph I think I waited for was Allan Holdsworth**, where I complimented his guitar instructional video’s genius and he simply stared at his promo poster, pen in hand and said, “Who do I make this out to?”

But I had nothing for him to sign. I look down at the cafeteria table in front of us (yes, we’re in a cafeteria–WHY???) and go through all these scraps of paper (once again–WHY???) and find an opened envelope for him to sign.

But I quickly realize the autograph isn’t enough. I want a PICTURE! Me and Dolph, him making a boxing fist while I make a dorky smile while holding a thumbs up, a look I’ll surely regret later. I whip out the camera phone, get Dolph over to my side, take the picture…

We’re like ants in the picture!

“That’s way too small!” Dolph says, as he takes the camera and starts going through the menus, searching for the feature that lets the camera zoom in for a decent close up. But he’s distracted by all the fans who want his time, pictures of their own, autographs! So he hands me the camera back, smiles, apologizes. I dig into this motherfrickin’ camera, wishing I’d read the instruction manual.

I want my picture, dammit! Do you realize how cool my Facebook profile would be come if I had that as my main photo???

The camera is suddenly full of layered menus and extraneous buttons and levers, NONE of which zoom the camera in. I’m soooo depressed this epic photo op will never present itself again I want to smash the camera into a million pieces and force feed it to the model who looks like Alyssa Milano, the one who currently graces all the promo posters at your local Verizon store***.

So I end up leaving, heading back into the city to find my car. I end up in Chinatown at a restaurant/brothel, but I don’t want to bore you any further with this dream… ๐Ÿ˜‰

*Well, THAT’S San Francisco!

**If you don’t know who Allan Holdsworth is you SUCK! ๐Ÿ™‚

***At least, the ones I saw in Los Angeles and Marin County (Northern CA). Why Verizon THIS particular model to be the face of their company is the subject of another blog I’ll probably never write.

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