Schmuckaroony Me

Yesterday I received an email from a friend in Florida. It said simply: “Nothing in the blog lately. What’s up?”

I didn’t even know that he was reading. And with that I realized that not having subscribers does not mean that people are not reading. So I owe an apology to my anonymous, mystery viewers. I owe thanks to those people who chuckle or guffaw or scratch their heads when reading my diatribes. The head scratching can certainly be found more than the sounds of glee.

This Homer is for Organic Meatbag and Manloaf. And this entry is for everyone else. It’s really just a random napkin poem from who knows when.


Wake and bake
Bender healer
Pain of Sun-
God’s dreaded flashlight
It shows the hair
Hair of the Dog
Tequila worm
Red wine drunk
And cheap beer all in me
Bleh
But the shots
Mmmmm
Jello shots are lovely

Pygmalion

Last night I was flipping channels and stumbled across a seminar broadcast on PBS; I stopped because the man giving the presentation was older, bald and I thought briefly to be Stephen Covey. Covey, of course, is the Seven Habits guru of the late 20th century. This guy was not him. But it’s apparent that when you want to be a guru, you need to be old and bald. And you need to love to wear ski sweaters. I digress.

Anyway this guy gets to talking about the historical value of Lao Tzu and the message that “if you change your mind, you change your life.” OK. I’ll be changing the channel. But wait…He threw in the hook. Dr. Mindbender said something, just as I was about to click the remote, that captured my attention. He suggested that the mind could actually altar not only your outlook but also change your genetic and physical dispositions.

I sniffed; I sniffed again. I looked for the pile of dog feces in the room. But my pets had made no mess. I clearly was smelling bullshit. Or so I thought.

The further explanation was attached to the ol’ placebo effect. And the claim was that a university study (I don’t think that the university was named by the way) demonstrated that physical prowess could be changed by our thoughts. The gist of the study included a group of knee patients who agreed to traditional treatment and surgical treatments for minor but painful injuries. In the case of the surgical care, some people underwent genuine surgery. But some members of the sample simply had arthroscopic cuts made into the area complete with the in-spraying of gas to expand the joint area; then the patients were closed up without any genuine repair. The only catch is all of them were told that the surgery was a success. The non-surgery, surgery group had improvement in health commensurate with the traditional care group and nearly on par with the sample that actually underwent surgical repair. Conclusion: If you believe that you are better, you will be. The presenter went as far as to say that one especially vocal patient was doing things such as climbing and dancing regularly in spite of never being actually “fixed”. The truth was not revealed for about two years to the individuals.

Hmm. So what is being presented here is actually a belief that the Pygmalion Effect (Self-Fulfilling Prophecy) can be attached to all aspects of our lives.

I changed the channel. Heard enough.

But I have to admit that in the back of my ol’ noggin I did ponder the self-fulfilling prophecy thing. I did ponder the physical aspect of our minds. And I chose to recall a few items in my youth where both the positive and negative played their angel and devil roles to perfection.

When I was three, my parents took me to visit a psychologist. I suspect that it was at the recommendation of my pediatrician. I strangely recall playing with toys of varied sorts (Lincoln Logs and a rubber lion for certain) while a bearded, sweater-vested, pipe-smoking man observed me and conversed with my very young parents. I learned later that he requested that I be admitted for study because he perceived that I was autistic. My parents said “no thank you” and instead turned to people of prayer for my welfare. The matter was never discussed in front of me. I was encouraged to excel because I was a smart, charismatic little man. The result was an honors student, school politician and fairly pompous kid. I was not autistic, slow or socially backward outside of my awkward issues with girls. But I may have been that way if my parents and others accepted that singular diagnosis. Score 1 for positive self-fulfilling prophecy.

I was a clumsy kid and suffered a lot of falls, concussions, etc. When I started having dizzy spells and migraines at 11 or 12, I had the joy of going through a full battery of neuro tests (MRI, CT Scan, EEG). I sat in the room with my dad and the neurologist as he went through the results. There were a few anomalies in the EEG. The glitches were probably responsible for my clumsiness in my early years. And in his estimation, I probably had a very, very, very small touch of Cerebral Palsy. I could function normally without issue but it was unlikely that I would excel in sports as I aged because I would be slower or lesser in my athletic development. I walked out of there KNOWING that I would try my best to play basketball or something. But I never expected to be a very good player regardless of my efforts. I proved myself right. Score 1 for negative self-fulfilling prophecy.

Finally I had a year of pure hell in elementary school wherein a group of boys decided to start their own little gang of bullies. They targeted the lesser imposing or smarter kids as victims. I was soft, had never been in a fight and had been told my entire life that I could never get in trouble at school for anything. I was the perfect target. I went home everyday bruised, red-eared from having the little terrorists on each side of me flicking away and talking shit. My self-esteem was garbage. My dad said “fight back”; my mom said “No. Let the teacher handle it”. I fought back once and was given the only black eye of my youth, along with more bruises. The other guy knew how to fight and he tore me up. I was a coward, a weakling and I was never going to be anything more. That mental state resurfaced a few months back for a brief moment. And I have been pissed ever since. Score 1 for negative self-fulfilling prophecy.

Those who know me know full well that I am neither autistic nor is there any reason for my not being a decent athlete even at 36 years of age. Most might be surprised to hear that I was ever bullied or beaten up by anyone. The only explanation is the man in the mirror. I am my own worst enemy. I have recently started to seek a change of attack for that enemy. I have dedicated myself to finally fulfilling my lifelong dreams of writing a book (even a bad one), having an athletic appearance, knowing how to viciously defend myself, and proving that I can be more than I am.

To that end, I have to say that Dr. Mindbender (whoever the bald man was) had a bit of relevance in his "mind over matter" philosophy. Go figure. I devalued the message until I looked in the mirror. How many of us do the same thing everyday?

Sometime in 1998...Who knows

Lost and wandering down a lonesome highway, I see a sign. I don't understand the text upon it, but the shape is familiar to me. Perhaps I knew of it in my youth. Perhaps. But I am not sure now. All I know is that I am lost, aimless, a vagabond. I have no family, friends or home. Though I did have all of these once. Oh the memories seer my mind. But now it's just me and this sign; an octo-shaped form in no mans land, crimson-stained message with no meaning to me. I am certain that I once knew this. I guess lost it like I lost myself. There is nothing here in any direction but death and sand and bitter heat. So why is this symbol here? Why now? A flash of a memory washes over me. I see her death. Another comes and I see more death. There is blood on my hands, tears in my eyes. What is the damnable flood of thought? Why oh why am I haunted with a flood in the desert?

And still more micro fiction

If only I had an idea that spanned greater than 250 words....



James sits upright in bed. He stares at his hands, wipes cold sweat from his brow and arms then looks out the window to his right. Palm trees sway as winds come off the quiet ocean tides. It’s serene. Paradise.

“No snow. No blood. Just a dream. Just a dream.”

20 minutes later… James sits upright in bed. He stares at his hands, wipes cold sweat from his brow and arms then looks out the window to his right. Palm trees sway as winds come off the quiet ocean tides. It’s serene. Paradise.

“He’s done it again. I think it must be Canada perhaps Alaska. Now what? I can’t call now. She’s already dead. I can’t do anything. He’s daring me to come for him. Do I even care? Just go back to sleep.”

40 minutes later… James sits upright in bed.

“DAMN YOU ERIC!!!”

The no longer sleeping man showers, packs his bag and calls for a taxi. The vehicle arrives as he pays his hotel bill. The Polynesian girl waiting on him is youthful, beautiful, interested. Interested now at check-out but not in the last month. Damn you Eric.

“Take me to the airport please. And make it fast. My sister has just been murdered somewhere…”

More Microfiction from the noggin of JD

September 1864 (near Atlanta, GA)

William T. Sherman stands inside his tent; he proctors strategy for the battle to come along with his Lieutenants. A rap is heard against the heavy tarp acting as a doorway for the Union general.

"Enter!"

"We have Corporal McGee sir."

A gaunt, young soldier steps into the tent. He is rigid at attention but obviously breathing hard- the anxiety of an audience with the General over The West.

"At ease Corporal. I am told that you have an ability that might be of use to the Union. Is this true?"

"Yes General. I, um, have a gift."

"Let's see it then soldier!"

At the general's order the timid young man observes the general's cot to the left of the men. Pointing his hand toward the wooden bed, the men turn their attention toward it and then stumble back as the cot bursts into flames.

"My God! The boy has the devil in him." Exclaimed one Lieutenant.

But the general only smiles and flings a bucket of water onto the burning bed smoke billowing where flames had spontaneously combusted.

"Devil? Nay. He’s our angel. Corporal McGee, you do have a special gift. You are going to preserve the Union. And we are going to scorch these damned gray dogs into submission. Send word to Washington that victory is imminent."

Super Heroes, Super Villains, Super Powers

There is a reason why so many of us love the comic books and hero movies. We love the adventure. We love the technology. We love the suspension of disbelief in seeing a man (assumed to be like any other) flying or exercising amazing strength and blinding speed. It is what all of us deep down wish that we could do. It’s a part of our imagination; it’s a part of some of our actual dreams at night. The chance of being Jamie and having a second, revered identity is bliss. Alas it all has to be left to idle fancy.

I speculate that mutations of the species do not exist be it by God, gods or evolution because of the shortfalls in our human nature. At the very least my own human nature would be a detriment to my ability. I would not be a villain but I would most definitely not go hungry either.

Save the day? Sure. Charge a fee? Not likely. Expect endorsements, gifts, total comfort? YES. Be willing to take a whole closet of gold out of Fort Knox if no one else was assisting me financially? If I had the super power to do it probably. Knowing that I could totally do something would make for quite the internal struggle between right and wrong. But my personal temperament would surely lead to the occasional justification of means where I would never venture as a mere mortal.

Then there are the moonlighting possibilities:

Invisibility – Security Consultant
Multiplicity- Building Contractor
Speed- UPS
Telekinetics- Mega Mover
Phasing-Art Thief
Plasticman- Porn

It’s no wonder he was always smiling.

Cheers.

Old Doodles from the Mind of J D Davis

Just found these and figured I would publish...

Bitter Rebirth (4/26/1998)

Everything in me that was good
Died with your silent exit
I became a beast again that day
Long had the monster been caged
The lamb walked about freely
Tender presence with no fearful reason
A spirit of love in statue’s eyes
I was a different man then
Now I am a killer again
Long caged dragon now barely bound
Growing stronger within this silence
Bitter and angry from the seclusion
Again stony in heart and mind
No longer appeased by life’s warmth
Untouched by grace once known
Blood flows free on these hands again
The door cast wide open as a broken heart


Bastardom (5/18/1997)

I have an Eve all my own
She gave birth to who I am
Within she bore a painful seed
Bitterness was begat by lies
Then silence begat pain
From pain was delivered violence
Then from violence came a child
I am a bastard
This is my lineage


Untitled and Undated (presumably in the window between 1995 and 1998)

How do I become the man I was when I do not remember that person anymore? I am a hard, cold, bitter, angry, young and old man. Once I was glowing from joy, peace, love, strength and vigor – That time is no more. All that I was has slowly died from the mortal wounds bestowed upon my personal being by the same people that said “I love you” (brotherly thieves, lying lovers, a silent bride and conniving clergy). People are hypocrites. And now I have nothing to say about anything that’s good. My name is Cain.


Cheers.

Saint Valentine, Cupid and J-Double-D

Yesterday was a day typically regarded with a either a headless saint or a fat, bow-wielding midget. It’s a corporate holiday that keeps flower companies in business at the first of every year in much the same way that the Vatican single-handedly demanded survival for fishermen in the middle centuries. It’s a farce disguised as a special day when there should be no need for a special day to declare your unyielding love for your soul mate. It’s pomp and circumstance.

So why do we participate in the ritual? We participate because for some pathetic reason we actually need a special day to do what should be a natural due process. Anyone who attempts a boycott is “bitter” or “lonely” or “pathetic”. Or he or she is sadly stuck in a loveless, joyless relationship. All of these are feasible. And all of these in many cases are bold-faced lies.

I never dated in High School. I had commitment issues. I had trust issues. I had obscene abandonment issues. I was overcome with religious guilt. And I did not have a single, solitary drop of real self-confidence. The boy in the mirror each morning was a masked performer nothing more.

When I started college, I sat with a group of girlfriends on V Day, ate junk food and watched “When Harry Met Sally”. I AM NOT GAY. But that was my day because I still did not date outside of the occasional fraternity or sorority function. I was a half way decent date for my lady friends who did not have significant others. I was safe, a gentleman and did not have the fortitude to believe that I could ever be anything more to anyone. I had issues.

I toyed with the idea of relationships in high school and the college years. I certainly did. But I also made certain that none of the things I wanted could ever come to fruition. All I had to do was always want to be involved with someone who was already committed to someone else. It was the perfect smoke screen to protect my emotional and confidence issues. I would just stay withdrawn within myself like a good little monk.

But then I met L. I was already in my mid-20’s and I had never had a legitimate relationship. She was a colleague. Then she was my friend. She became my favorite person with whom to spend my time. Eventually we became more than friends. And we became more without my ever actually asking her out on an official date. Our life together grew naturally. I could not stop anything or hide behind my usual masks because there was nothing to hide from someone who had grown to know me as I was.

And then I lost my grandfather suddenly to a heart attack. I went through the motions that had sustained me in previous losses. I took up residence at my best friend’s house. I sought solace where I had felt comfort as a teen and young man. But there was no comfort. I needed to be with her in order to feel any comfort, any shelter in the emotional storm throttling me. I only felt at home when I was with her. I was not going to even try to deny the obvious. I was completely and totally in love with this woman.

That is how I found my valentine. We were a couple for less than 6 months before we eloped. This year we will celebrate a decade of marriage. It has not always been easy. We have survived trials and in some cases one another. But we are still together. It’s not rocket science and it’s not something that is reserved for February 14th or our anniversary. It is 365 days a year.

It’s love pure and simple. It’s fate pure and simple.

Cheers.

Micro fiction----

So I started doing some drafts of a few things to eventually post one small vignette on a website hosting a micro fiction contest. This weird little piece is one of my installments that did not make the final cut. Cheers.

Great show tonight. And now that we’re back to the apartment, Mikey is going to give this lil’ girl the after show treatment. I see him toss the small blonde onto the bed; her purse lands just inside the doorway. Slam goes the bedroom door. I allow my right arm to phase through the wall and take her purse. They don’t notice anything. ID says Christy Ann Brown. Age 16. I go to my room. Our beds rest against the same wall.

“NO! No I can’t. Dammit NO! NO!”

Sounds like our little concert rat is regrettin’ sneaking into the show. Teen rebellion gone bad.

“Oh God help me. Stop. Please.”

“Shut up and be a good little whore.”

His head must be within inches of my own through the thin wall. The volume was low but so very clear in my ears. What to do? I pick up my cell phone and search for a number to the local newspaper. Got it.

Turning onto my knees facing the wall, I phase my hand and face through. Christy is face down; he does not see me. Shoving my hand into his skull I command only my finger tips to harden. I remove them and his limp body collapses atop his would be victim. The coroner will be scratching his head when the autopsy shows 5 finger tip-sized aneurysms that all blew at once. Phone ringing.

“Voice.”

“Take a Want Ad?”

“Sure.”

“Alternative band seeks Bass Player.”

Chachi really?

I recently celebrated my 36th birthday. And when I arrived at the office on that sad, sad morning, I found the above photograph pasted in a good many places. I had been Baioed in much the same way that Facebook has allowed people to Kanye themselves. The difference of course is that Scott “Charles in Charge” Baio is actually cool. Whereas Kanye is a douchebag lacking in respect, inner dialogue and impulse control.

I really have nothing to say. I just thought that the picture was great. And now people are calling me “Chachi” because people see this picture and perceive that through swollen, drunk eyes that there is a familial resemblance.

Cheers.

Good Richard Hunting

I have recently taken up listening to audiobooks. It is mush easier for me to enjoy a “read” (if you will) by attaching it to my ears and not to my eyes. As much as I enjoy a good read, time is really of the essence in this busy, hubbub life. My genres of choice have been classics and history. And this week I listened to Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is a great book from my youth; it is a great book now. And there are distinct funnies in the text now that obviously did not exist at its writing. So without further adieu I give you Treasure Island through the eyes of Dick…(All quotes come directly from the text.)


‘Dick’s square,’ said Silver.

‘Oh, I know’d Dick was square,’ returned the voice of the coxswain, Israel Hands. ‘He’s no fool, is Dick.’

‘Why, we’re all seamen aboard here, I should think,’ said the lad Dick.

‘But,’ asked Dick, ‘when we do lay ‘em athwart, what are we to do with ‘em, anyhow?’

‘I’ll wring his calf’s head off his body with these hands, Dick! You just jump up, like a sweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like.’

You may fancy the terror I was in! I should have leaped out and run for it if I had found the strength, but my limbs and heart alike misgave me. I heard Dick begin to rise, and then someone seemingly stopped him…

‘Dick,’ said Silver, ‘I trust you. I’ve a gauge on the keg, mind. There’s the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up.’

Dick was gone but a little while, and during his absence Israel spoke straight on in the cook’s ear. It was but a word or two that I could catch, and yet I gathered some important news, for besides other scraps that tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: ‘Not another man of them’ll jine.’ Hence there were still faithful men on board.

When Dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and drank—one ‘To luck,’ another with a ‘Here’s to old Flint,’ and Silver himself saying, in a kind of song, ‘Here’s to ourselves, and hold your luff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff.’ That’s what it begun with, but it went further’n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman!

‘Bring a torch, Dick,’

‘Give me a loan of the link, Dick,’ said he; and then, when he had a good light, ‘That’ll do, lad,’ he added; ‘stick the glim in the wood heap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to!

I was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land, and I heard you, John, and you, Dick Johnson, and Hands

‘It was Dick,’ said one.

‘Dick, was it? Then Dick can get to prayers,’ said Silver. ‘He’s seen his slice of luck, has Dick, and you may lay to that.’

‘Don’t it, though?’ cried Dick with a sort of joy. ‘Well, I reckon that’s worth having too.’

‘Dick don’t feel well, sir,’ said one.

‘Don’t he?’ replied the doctor. ‘Well, step up here, Dick, and let me see your tongue. No, I should be surprised if he did! The man’s tongue is fit to frighten the French. Another fever.’

Dick had his Bible out and was praying volubly. He had been well brought up, had Dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.

But Dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that the lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock of his alarm, the fever, predicted by Dr. Livesey, was evidently growing swiftly higher.

Dick, who had dropped behind us and now brought up the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses as his fever kept rising…This grove that was now so peaceful must then have rung with cries, I thought; and even with the thought I could believe I heard it ringing still.



It was hysterical to hear...Cheers!

Snow...Licky Boom Down Down

There is snow on the ground. Flakes dropping with a consistency normally reserved for places further north than here. It’s a brisk, calm pretty through the glass of my window. But it’s a mirage of what is real. The truth is a city with Thoreau’s quiet desperation. Bread, milk and eggs pilfered from every store shelf. The white canvas contrasts with the dirty, slushy gray of tire filth on asphalt. Crushed metal on metal resultant of ignorance that was not bliss; people simply have no concept of what it means to drive in imperfect conditions. It’s as if snow is a heavenly pharmaceutical- a dumb ass Viagra. Winter in Louisville is like this.

So just write something...

I started this blog as a means of renewing my lifelong interest in writing. I can recall doing little 2-4 page stories in 3rd grade while I waited for my classmates to complete assigned work. I was always swift with completing assignments; creative writing made for a quiet, still student to my teacher Mrs. Logan.

My love for writing continued through Junior High School but somewhere in the Sr. High days my skills laxed. I did not take the time to write anything more than what was assigned. Instead I would gladly sit alongside an older student named Brent Zirnheld as he developed his stories and novel ideas. I recall throwing out silly scenarios and character names for spoofs. But that was where it ended for me. When Brent graduated, the yearbook included his Senior will. Though I can not quote it completely, he said something along the lines of "I will to Jamie Davis the ability to use his writing and creative skill. You've got it buddy so use it." I was stunned and humbled. I proceeded to enroll in an Independant Study class my Senior Year - Creative Writing. I wrote nothing. I considered no viable ideas. I lost a bit of my skill and style. I ceased writing...

I ceased writing until late 1994. I was living in TN. I had dropped out of college and decided to learn how to live as an independent, strong-spined man. I was between jobs. And on the day after Christmas I sat in my apartment alone. It was chilly because I had to keep the furnace temperature down to maintain ease of bill payment. My roommates were actual students at the local university and would not return for another 10 days. It was just me, the TV and my thoughts. Jamie meet Depression. Depression this scrawny, bewildered little bitch is Jamie.

I picked up a journal that someone had gifted me in the previous years; it was empty. I was depressed. And the only thing on TV was Dead Poets' Society. Pen meet Paper. Depression can be incindiary. I discovered that my self loathing, disappointment, loneliness and pain made for some really powerful strings of words - poetry. I filled that journal and then I bought another. My mind became stronger; my confidence improved; I found gainful employment. My writing became less. The journals kept being purchased year on year. And the ink on the pages became less and less.

I have written increasingly less (for my own personal pleasure) in the last decade. I fell flat on butt in love. I married. I have been granted a wonderful life complete with support, affection, income. I feel warm inside and happy most every minute of every day. And I have no idea what to say or what to write. My skill is weakened; my poetic bursts are nearly extinct. The bursts are like the polar bear, giant panda and the manatee.

I recently promised Lisa a 5000 word composition on anything that I wanted. I made this promise in preparation for my trip to India in September. I carried home pages of little notes about my experiences while there. I noted little things about my colleagues with whom I traveled. I took pictures; I noted colors and smells. I have done nothing more.

This blog (all 12 entries though weeks and weeks have passed since it's creation) is my sole enterprise for creative outlet. Yet very little is ever presented that is genuinely creative. My blips of thought are typically pragmatic not creative. It's commentary and not witty prose. It's a reminder of what I am missing so dearly - a genuine creative bonfire.

Thanks Walker Lamond

Yesterday I was listening to Book radio on Sirius. I was not listening to the reading of any particular novel but rather to an interview with a throwback hipcat named Walker Lamond. He was discussing his book 1001 Rules for My Unborn Son. It is a hodge podge of little things that he finds to be important, simple, endearing. It's a message for his lil' boy on how to be be a boy and how to be a good man. I found it to be both an entertaining interview and enlightening.

The book (I learned) is a collection of good advice, great quotes, photos and sincere humor. It started as a blog and became a hardback complete with vintage cover art.

Rules offered included things on appearance like "hem all your pants by 2 inches so they actually fit properly" and "wear a sports coat at the airport for an easier experience." Very true rules though the majority of us either do not know them or more frankly do not care. Our generation is the business casual generation after all. Walker also presents more social rules like "Don't ask where someone got their eyeglasses" and "Sometimes your best bet is to bet on her." Sound advice on all counts.

So what brings me to this blog entry besides unoriginality? The answer to that is honestly very little. The interview included a portion wherein Mr. Lamond admitted that he gets a lot of hate mail from California because his rules indicate faux pas that are perfectly acceptable there. Walker is a NYC resident; he admitted in the interview very proudly that he is a Northeasterner. I thought on that comment and concluded that some rules are universal and some may be environmentally-influenced. The universal ones are even subject to the eye of the beholder.

So here are a few of my own. I think some are universal; some are Southern. And some are bullshi- (or they may be to you):

• Be eclectic. Culture, music, film and literature are diverse and beautiful.
• Memorize, embrace and love the poem If by Rudyard Kipling.
• Don't wear a kilt to dinner.
• Learn to defend yourself.
• Read.
• Iced Tea is always in season.
• Play Chess.
• You never get too old to look at the toy aisles in any store.
• Learn to dance (it might be the only thing that gets you laid).
• Question everything respectfully but still question.
• Listen to Frank Sinatra, REM, The Temptations, VAN MORRISON and Mozart.
• Spend money on great food and drink.
• Real men say "I love you"
• Don't be a douchebag.

If you want to know more about Walker Lamond he is on Twitter (rules_unbornson), Facebook and his website is http://www.rulesformyunbornson.com/.

Cheers.

Haggis New Year!

On New Year's Eve, my beloved wife and me decided that we would have a nice meal and then retire to our neighbour's home for a quiet, WII-filled celebration. It was low-key and easy compared to the more exciting days of youth. But at this point it's a perfectly acceptable option for toasting away the decade that was the single digits.

We failed to make a reservation for dinner at any of the finer restaurants in town. So after some banter we decided to venture across the city to an Italian chain restaurant that serves a fine steak for the money- Carraba's Italian Grill. For anyone who has not tried the Filet or Sirloin, do it. It's a great, great meal in spite of not being a traditional steakhouse. And better than some steak house steaks in my humble opinion. I digress.

Anyway our drive to the restaurant was fine; there was minimal traffic given that it was the 6 o'clock hour. The restaurant had a crowd but the wait was not ridiculous. So we took a seat in the lobby alongside a few other parties and the usual waiting game began. This is where my New Year's Eve ceased being like any other. The waiting game shifted to something very different- it became peachy, wrinkled.

A woman walked into the restaurant; she was in black garb complete with a purse covered in skulls and crossbones. Her dark hair was short and appeared to be colored even darker black than what was probably a nice auburn or brunette color. She was a good-sized lady who clearly embraced her plus-sized frame. A moment later she was joined by a man who was at least 6 feet tall and somewhere in the territory of 275lb (perhaps even a 300 pounder); Lisa remarked that he looked like a wrestler. He had a bald head and a red goatee. His appearance matched his partner's in pride and volume. This was a huge dude - a huge dude in black boots, black coat and a pride-plaided kilt! Lisa remarked that they were probably going to have a nice Italian meal before enjoying the New Year at O'Shea's or some other pub in town. A likely plan in my opinion- an evening that I am certain I too would enjoy.

We watched quietly observing. They talked for minute or two whilst others waited to be seated until two seats opened on the bench opposite us. Like a true gentleman he motioned to the seats and his lady walked to take a seat with him following. She sat. And then he stepped to her left, turned around to face us and sat straight down. He sat like a strong man- a man with real posture. He sat like a man wearing a pair of pants. But he wasn't. No he was not wearing pants. He was wearing a kilt. A kilt that clearly fit him far better at 240 pounds. The man skirt rose with the straightness of his spine and underneath there was no thong or tighty whities. Nope. The noble Scot was a traditional lad. And his red-headed, wrinkly ballsack greeted the Davis family. Lisa's head snapped to the right with whiplash speed. My eyes diverted like Chandler Bing in a familiar Friends episode. The only difference being that shift of focus apparently came with an involuntary vocal response.

"Ohhmahgoodness..."

It was apparently loud enough for them to hear because out of the corner of my eye I saw his position change complete with a hand on his no longer bare lap. The goth, big girl seemed to go a tad pink under her powdered cheeks. Lisa was silent. I was mute. And no one dared to make eye contact with anyone. The damage was done. We had seen his scrotum. His Andre Haggisie. The only saving grace was that the sausage did not appear with the potatoes.

Shortly thereafter a young blonde girl greeted us with menus and took us to our meal. We walked directly past the couple still not looking at one another. The couple eventually took their seats a few tables from us. And he faced the other direction. Thank goodness.

Needless to say, we had our steak for New Year's Eve dinner. But we had some haggis first.

Cheers!

The Soundtrack of My Existence

As previously noted I find that my life has a soundtrack. It seems like the years all flow with some sort of song continuously playing in the background (at the very least in my head). There are countless songs in my little mental rolodex. Every genre is represented. Some just stand out more than others when I consider my life.

So what seems to define the years for me? Here is a little year by year for you...Some are awful; some are the wonderful gift of Sirius Radio. But all jump to mind when I think about the years that were.

1981
I Love Rock N Roll
Joan Jett

1982
Up Where We Belong
Cocker & Warren

1983
Beat It
Michael Jackson

1984
Footloose
Kenny Loggins

1985
Take on Me
A-Ha

1986
Best of Both Worlds
Van Hagar

1987
Talk Dirty to Me
Poison

1988
Pour Some Sugar on me
Def Leppard

1989
Love Shack
B-52's

1990
All Lips and Hips
Electric Boys

1991
Shameless
Garth Brooks

1992
Alive
Pearl Jam

1993
Informer
Snow

1994
Last Dance with Mary Jane
Tom Petty

1995
Man in the Box
Alice in Chains

1996
In the Meantime
Space Hog

1997
Walking on the Sun
Smash Mouth

1998
You, Me & The Bottle
BBVD

1999
Bittersweet Symphony
The Verve

2000
Beautiful Day
U2

2001
Beautiful Girl
INXS

2002
Dream A Little Dream
Dean Martin

2003
Throwing Punches
Page Hamilton

2004
I Need More Love
Robert Randolph & The Family

2005
Best of You
Foo Fighters

2006
Nearly Lost You
Screaming Trees

2007
Crazy Bitch
Buck Cherry

2008
Apologize
One Republic

2009
I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked
Ida Maria

Your turn...