Here I sit on this hotter-than-a-popcorn-fart Thursday afternoon attempting to do the unthinkable. That's right, I'm writing two blog postings on the same day. During the same afternoon, in fact. Why would I do such a crazy thing? Well, I'm glad you asked. It turns out I have to write a speech by the end of the month, and it can't suck. That's right ... Dave is getting his lounge act ready for a comeback. Diamond-studded Elvis suite, golden sunglasses and everything!
In order to write a speech that does not suck, I need to step back into the "write real good" portion of my brain and dust off the cobwebs. Kick the tires. Turn the engine. The old-car cliches are endless! About a month ago I did something drastic for a stay-at-home parent. I actually left the house! I went to a Fiddle Festival, a Hippie Festival, our family cabin, and the Oregon coast. No, I swear I actually got out and experienced something!
The only drawback to this newfound "life" of mine was a rather extensive absence from any form of writing. I neglected this blog, and left all of you poor readers desperately searching for a way to fill the void that was my brilliance. Right? Hello?
Anyway, I've discovered that the best way to gain reentry to the "write real good" portion of my brain is to mindlessly jot down whatever crap, I mean brilliance, comes into my head. So allow me to entertain you with a few witty (or not) observations I picked up while sweating profusely to bluegrass music and freezing to death on a cliff above the Pacific Ocean. Your welcome!
* If you have ever needed proof that the world isn't fair, then I've got a tale for you. A few weeks ago April, Michael and I chugged the Matrix down an old highway to the annual Fiddle Festival in Weiser, Idaho. This is a landmark event for lovers of old-time fiddle jams and small-town frolics. We made our way to a large stage in the middle of the town park, where a bluegrass band was in full swing. My eyes immediately gravitated toward a very elderly man sitting in a folding chair right in the middle of the stage. I was instantly mesmerized by this man. Not because of his age, but the way he was absolutely kicking you-know-what on the guitar. This guy calmly sat up in his chair and ripped into a blazing solo version of "The Flight of the Bumblebee" that Eddie Van Halen would have marveled at. He followed with an extensive harmonica solo with his band, and finished with a perfect rendition of "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" on the fiddle. It was the most amazing string of diverse performances I have ever seen. Something just isn't right with the world when a genuine talent like that languishes on a makeshift stage in Weiser, Idaho. I salute you, guitar/harmonica/fiddle hero guy! You rocked my world with that performance!
* Our small suburb of Eagle features a guy so recognizable, so visible, that people know him simply as the "Hippie guy." At least that's what I call him. He roams the streets with graying blond hair flowing, a bronze tan that began some time around 1967 shining, and most of the time nothing but bare feet. What I love about this guy is how much he stands out here. At one time Eagle was a sleepy farming community filled with horse pastures and open air. Today it has become overrun with Hummers, Starbucks, and a whole bunch of agitated people sporting those stupid-looking phone things you stick in your ear (why they do this I will never understand). Well, each day you can find Hippie Guy walking up and down the street next to the movahs and shakahs. The main difference I've noticed between Hippie Guy and his peers is how much happier he looks. Something to think about.
* Have you ever been driving in the middle of nowhere and suddenly realized that there wasn't a Dairy Queen around for miles? Did you panic when the cold reality that there was absolutely no way you could purchase a peanut buster parfait hit you? Did your longing for a chicken strip basket become too great for words? Well, the good citizens of Oregon have obviously faced this very dilemma, and vowed never to let this happen in their fine state. April and I recently drove from Eagle to Lincoln City along the coast of Oregon. We encountered numerous small towns, several mountain passes and even a slug as big as your fist. At each turn we were greeted by the familiar red Dairy Queen sign. This fast-food icon was everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE!! It didn't matter if we were in a large city like Portland, or a tiny one-horse town, Dairy Queen was there. In fact, there was a Dairy Queen just a few blocks from the house we stayed in. And we passed a Dairy Queen sitting next to an abandoned farm on the way home (I'm not exaggerating). So I salute you Oregonians! You and your freaky obsession with Dairy Queen and their soft-served goodness! You get your slushy on!
Be good kiddies!
- Dave
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Tell me who are you? (I really wanna know!!)
Sooner or later we all have to face the big questions. Who am I? Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? Why won't the Packers take Brett Favre back?
The biggies that shake our very foundation and leave us grasping for answers. I wrestled with just such a quandary recently. I stood in front of the mirror, stared intently into my own eyes and asked the very question that had been troubling my soul for nearly three weeks.
"Mr. Incredibly handsome and smart man in the mirror," I began, "Do you think ... well is it possible ... Am I ... a Cylon?!!!!"
I know, I know. We all have to ask ourselves this very question at some point in our lives. And after watching about 300 straight hours of Battlestar Galactica DVD's that my buddy Dale lent me, I knew that it was my turn.
I simply had to find out if I was really an unemployed stay-at-home Dad who plays college football video games and drinks gallons of coffee, or if I was actually a Cylon robot superagent placed on this planet to unknowingly usher forth the Apocalypse and end all human existence. Thanks to my tireless viewing of Battlestar seasons 1 through 4 every fracking night during the past month (not that I was addicted or anything), I am now keenly aware that there are Cylon agents living among us.
They look like us. They act like us. They pilot Colonial Vipers through star nebulas like us. Some of them don't even know they are Cylons. They go through their entire lives in blissful ignorance, until the fateful day the Cylons turn on their radio, play a really creepy song, and bamo! They kick into gear and begin shooting Admiral Adama and holding secret meetings in the air lock.
So you can see my concern right? I have to admit that I often hear creepy songs in my head. Why just last week I was humming a tune, when to my own horror I realized it was the theme song to the Doodlebops!! Aaaaah!!
I haven't figured out the answer just yet, but I have come to one really embarrassing realization. If I am indeed a Cylon superagent, then the Cylons are going to be very disappointed with my model. I like to consider myself witty and charming and full of zest. My relatives often use another term to describe me. Namely useless. I can't fix anything, I can't shoot anything, and I sure wouldn't be very useful during an outright war on humanity. I can't chop wood, I have absolutely no knowledge of machines and my idea of repairs consists of placing broken objects in a corner and saying witty things like, "Man, it sucks this is broken."
Here's an example of my useless charm -- A few months ago our backyard fence began falling down. My solution: Hold it up with a lawn chair and various bags of leaves. My father-in-law took one look at the fence and returned a few days later with a stake. He then hammered the stake into the ground, and voila, the fence was fixed. I, um, wouldn't have thought of that.
So here's hoping that I'm not a defective Cylon superagent, and merely a screwup of the human variety. And here's a warning to everyone out there. There is still a member of the Final Five to be revealed, so watch your back! Whatever you do, avoid creepy songs and wait, what's that? ..... "Doo doo doo doo doo duu duu doo doo ... We're the Doodlebops oh yeah! ..."
OH MY GODS!! IT'S HAPPENING!!! SAVE YOURSELVES KIDDIES!!
- Dave
The biggies that shake our very foundation and leave us grasping for answers. I wrestled with just such a quandary recently. I stood in front of the mirror, stared intently into my own eyes and asked the very question that had been troubling my soul for nearly three weeks.
"Mr. Incredibly handsome and smart man in the mirror," I began, "Do you think ... well is it possible ... Am I ... a Cylon?!!!!"
I know, I know. We all have to ask ourselves this very question at some point in our lives. And after watching about 300 straight hours of Battlestar Galactica DVD's that my buddy Dale lent me, I knew that it was my turn.
I simply had to find out if I was really an unemployed stay-at-home Dad who plays college football video games and drinks gallons of coffee, or if I was actually a Cylon robot superagent placed on this planet to unknowingly usher forth the Apocalypse and end all human existence. Thanks to my tireless viewing of Battlestar seasons 1 through 4 every fracking night during the past month (not that I was addicted or anything), I am now keenly aware that there are Cylon agents living among us.
They look like us. They act like us. They pilot Colonial Vipers through star nebulas like us. Some of them don't even know they are Cylons. They go through their entire lives in blissful ignorance, until the fateful day the Cylons turn on their radio, play a really creepy song, and bamo! They kick into gear and begin shooting Admiral Adama and holding secret meetings in the air lock.
So you can see my concern right? I have to admit that I often hear creepy songs in my head. Why just last week I was humming a tune, when to my own horror I realized it was the theme song to the Doodlebops!! Aaaaah!!
I haven't figured out the answer just yet, but I have come to one really embarrassing realization. If I am indeed a Cylon superagent, then the Cylons are going to be very disappointed with my model. I like to consider myself witty and charming and full of zest. My relatives often use another term to describe me. Namely useless. I can't fix anything, I can't shoot anything, and I sure wouldn't be very useful during an outright war on humanity. I can't chop wood, I have absolutely no knowledge of machines and my idea of repairs consists of placing broken objects in a corner and saying witty things like, "Man, it sucks this is broken."
Here's an example of my useless charm -- A few months ago our backyard fence began falling down. My solution: Hold it up with a lawn chair and various bags of leaves. My father-in-law took one look at the fence and returned a few days later with a stake. He then hammered the stake into the ground, and voila, the fence was fixed. I, um, wouldn't have thought of that.
So here's hoping that I'm not a defective Cylon superagent, and merely a screwup of the human variety. And here's a warning to everyone out there. There is still a member of the Final Five to be revealed, so watch your back! Whatever you do, avoid creepy songs and wait, what's that? ..... "Doo doo doo doo doo duu duu doo doo ... We're the Doodlebops oh yeah! ..."
OH MY GODS!! IT'S HAPPENING!!! SAVE YOURSELVES KIDDIES!!
- Dave
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