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Music for small ears, Part II

Sep 4

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Hello again.  Since ending my last post mid-train-of-thought, I’ve had an unsettled feeling, akin to how you might feel if you heard the “Shave and a haircut” tune without the “two bits.”  So I’m back and ready to re-dive into the world of children’s music.  I think I mostly covered the section on classic kid songs, so I’m going to move forward now (knowing full well that I’ll probably be jumping back and forth between sections).

I called the second category, “Songs That Might Be Classics But I Didn’t Know.”   On our double cd of kid songs, there’s a good handful of these.  I didn’t know the “Mr. Golden Sun” song on there (though my lovely wife did), for example.  Another new-to-me song is “My Little Red Wagon.”  It’s catchy enough, but part of the song bugs the shit out of me every time.  It’s not the song’s fault either – it’s whoever produced these cds.  (Strap in, here comes a long ass tangent.)

Thanks to these cds, I’ve realized that there’s another thing in this world of which I’m not so fond: adults singing in kids’ voices.  In “About a Boy,” Hugh Grant’s character hates it when people sing with their eyes closed; stand-up comedian and actor Bryan Callen hates carolers because he can’t stand when people smile at him while they’re singing.  For me, it’s picturing grown women in a recording studio talking, singing, and laughing in their best pre-pubescent voices.  That said, these cds already had an uphill battle. 

Back to the “Wagon” song now: the part that bothers me is after the first chorus when the “kids” have a little “impromptu” chat.  “Hey Michael,” says one, “Have you ever thought of painting your wagon green?”  “NO!!” he answers, “It’s a RED wagon!”  Then together: “Yeah!  Hahahahaha!”  Are you fucking kidding me?  That’s what passes for dialogue in this genre of music?  Wow.  When I was three, I made up a joke: “Why don’t you put mustard on a hamburger?  Because you put ketchup on a hamburger!”  I think those are on the same level, though it’s worth noting that I was an actual kid when I came up with that and not a 50 year-old woman pretending to be a kid way older than three.

Crap, now I’m fixated on that cd.  Don’t get me wrong, they’re catchy songs and I’ll continue to sing along and dance to them as long as that makes my kids smile.  That doesn’t mean I have to like all of their artistic choices though.  Speaking of which, they erred on the side of being overly safe and politically correct in ways that no one would’ve thought twice about.  For example, they sing a version of “We Are Family.”  “I got all my sisters with me,” they sing.  Then – where there’s no room and it’s nowhere near in rhythm with the song – a voice adds, “And brothers!”  Heaven forbid we single out the females in a song.  Similarly, they have the “Baby Bumblebee” song that I learned at camp a long time ago.  My version had the speaker get stung, then smash the bee in retaliation, lick it up, and then vomit all over the place.   This one…doesn’t.  I can’t even remember what they do instead, but after getting stung by the bee, of course one of the “kids” throws in, “It didn’t hurt though!”  I think that’s a much worse direction to go in.  Why would we try to teach kids that getting stung by bumblebees doesn’t hurt?  I realize that they don’t follow up with, “Let’s go play with that beehive!  Yeah! Hahahaha!” but it’s still irresponsible if you ask me.  (And yes, I realize that nobody asked me.)

To be perfectly fair, I really like one choice that they made on this collection of songs.  You know “Bingo” (sorry, “B-I-N-G-O”), right?  Well I was standing over my kids’ playmat and being a silly dad for them when some pretty funky disco music came on.  “Aw yeah!” I said, as I wondered what song it might be.  Then the lyrics came: “There was a farmer who had a dog, and Disco was his name-o.”  Nice touch, fake children. 

Ok, I’m stopping here.  I plan on posting something sometime soon about the third category, but since I just said something nice about the music, it’s probably a good place to stop before I think of another part that bugs me.  Have a nice Saturday.  (And Sunday! Hahahaha!)

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Music for small ears

Aug 29

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

As I look through my posts so far on this website, I feel like I’ve written more about music than anything else.  If I had to guess, I’d say the second most common theme might be my kids.  Therefore, it was only a matter of time before I wrote a post about the music to which my kids are listening.  I think I can break it all down into three categories: Classic Kid Songs, Songs That Might Be Classics But I Didn’t Know, and Cool Kid Songs. 

When it comes to Classic Kid Songs, I find that I hear them a little differently than I did as a kid.  Much like with my Lyrical Breakdown posts, there are new meanings or angles in virtually all of them.  For example, I said to my lovely wife a couple of days ago, “Ya know, I’d be pretty pissed off if I were that doctor.”  “What doctor?” she asked (and rightfully so).  “The one who keeps telling that mom that the monkeys shouldn’t be allowed to jump on the bed anymore.  He needs to transfer that client to another physician because she clearly isn’t listening.  Oh look, another head wound from letting your monkeys do exactly what I told you not to let them do five f’n times already.”  She gave me a look that I’m pretty sure meant, “I love/am concerned that you think like that.” 

Along the same lines, I have no idea how someone plays Knick-Knack.  Maybe I missed that day at recess, but it seems to be a pretty versatile game.  It can apparently be played on a shoe, on a knee, with some sticks, etc.  Ok, buckle in for a second because I’m about to blow the door off this one – I just looked at the lyrics on Wikipedia, and I’m more disturbed than ever.  In the order of least-to-most problematic:

3.  There are 20 frickin’ verses to this song?  That was overly ambitious (as evidenced by the horrible rhymes of “thirteen” with “curtain” and “fourteen” with “autumn”).  Let’s try to forget those ever happened.

2. In verse number seven, the old man plays Knick-Knack “up in heaven” or “on the way to heaven,” depending on how you know it.  Either way, has the main character been dead the entire time a la “The Sixth Sense” and we never realized it?  Who’s this creepy kid playing games with a deceased old man for twenty verses?

1. Oh boy, the creepiness goes both ways it appears.  Looking at the lyrics, “This Old Man” should probably be called “This Pervy Ghost.”  I still don’t know what Knick-Knack is, but the old/dead man plays it on the narrator’s thumb (or tongue, as a scarier alternate lyric says), his shoe, and his knee to start the song.  The pedophile’s getting more daring going up to the knee, wouldn’t you say?  Well, in verse five, there’s an alternate lyric of playing this “game” on the speaker’s thigh.  And in verse nine, he’s on the kid’s spine.  I’m just glad that there are no numbers that rhyme with “uvula” or ”anus,” because I’m pretty sure the old man would skip to those numbers as quickly as possible.

Crap, I had no intention of spending that long on one particular song.  To summarize, I don’t really get or like that song anymore.  But do you know who loves that song?  The dog.  That dog gets a bone every single verse (before the old man mysteriously ”rolls” home – is he an obese pedophile ghost?).  Good dog, now go learn how to report your owner to the authorities. 

I’m going to stop here for now.  I went a little overboard, so I’ll save the second and third categories for a later date.   If I ruined “This Old Man” for you, I don’t apologize in the slightest.  But if I got it stuck in your head for the rest of the day, I do feel a little sorry about that.

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Unapparent apparel

Aug 19

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Through my work, I was at a commercial shoot earlier today. That happens from time to time, and though there are some cooler aspects to it, it’s largely a shitload of sitting around and waiting. The crew will take 45 minutes to an hour to set up a shot, and then filming the shot itself will take a whopping five minutes. An hour later, and we’re doing the same thing for another shot that will eventually amount to 30 seconds of air time.

Well, today’s shoot started with something a little different. I was there, hanging out with some of the people involved and doing my thing, when one of the actors arrived. We were going over his various wardrobe choices and finally agreed that we needed something that wasn’t there. The nice woman in charge of that department said she’d run down the street to Target. Before she left, the actor asked, “Do you have shoes for me?” I guess we all had the same confused look on our faces, because he pointed down to his feet and said, “I only brought flip-flops.” Here’s the thing: his role in the spot involves him exercising. It’s his only role, really, and he knew this months ago. Still, the producer and wardrobe lady took it in stride and said, “We’ll get some for you. What size are you?” I was still a little concerned that he wouldn’t bring shoes (or socks for that matter) to the shoot, but my astonishment didn’t last too long…because I was re-astonished. “Oh, and can you get some underwear too?” “Excuse me?” one of them asked. “Yeah, I don’t wear underwear, so I didn’t bring any of those either,” he answered matter-of-factly.

After we mocked him for a while behind his back, I tried playing devil’s advocate: “Ok, maybe we’re being a little harsh here. Sure, it’s an exercise show and he’ll be on the floor wearing shorts, but maybe he expected underwear – and shoes of all sizes – to be supplied.” “Nope!” the wardrobe woman chimed in. “I emailed him last week and again yesterday with a list of everything to bring.” “And you wrote ‘shoes’ in there just to be safe?” I asked. “And underwear too,” she replied.

So there you have it – no excuses for the shoeless, sockless Commando. While that’s not the most interesting thing in the world, it certainly made me smile a few times during my multiple “sitting and waiting” sessions throughout the day.

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Lyrical Breakdown: The Beastie Boys

Aug 6

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When “Licensed to Ill” by The Beastie Boys came out in November of 1986, it was revolutionary.  Rap music went from an all-black counter-culture movement depicting lives and scenarios unseen by the masses to a mainstream, popular, and fun type of music led by three New York Jewish kids who encouraged us to party.  (Partying is a God-given right, after all.)  I only remember three things about that next summer: One, I turned 10 years old.  Two, the Lakers won the championship and Pat Riley guaranteed that they’d do it again the following year (which they did – suck it, Celtics and Pistons).  Three, “Licensed to Ill” was on damn near non-stop during my days at Camp Skyview. 

Every single bus ride started with someone putting that cassette tape on.  Everyone sang/rapped along as each song seamlessly bled into the next one.  The only non-Beastie Boys time on the bus was in the brief seconds it took for someone to eject the tape and flip it over to start the next side.  As you can imagine, the songs are still near and dear to my heart.  When “She’s Crafty” (song #3) popped into my head last week, I realized that it would make a good candidate for a Lyrical Breakdown (if I ever sat down and spent the required time writing about it).  I looked up the lyrics on a few different sites, and while there are a few words that I would’ve put down differently, I’ll go with what seems to be the accepted text.  Take it away, MCA, Ad Rock, and Mike D:

Well this girl came up to me – she says she’s new in town
But the crew been said they seen her around
I thought they were right but I didn’t wanna know
The girlie was Def and she wanted to go

Please remember, I was 10 years old at the time.  That said, I wasn’t stupid.  I knew right off the bat that the girlie wasn’t “deaf,” which is a plus because that little misunderstanding would’ve changed the whole song for me.  Also, I knew from the way they said “she wanted to go-oh!” that it implied something of a sexual nature.  When the older, wiser P-Dawg looks at this intro through adult eyes, I have a question: Why didn’t he want to know that about her?  Here’s my reading of these four lines: A chick approached him with a variation of a pick-up line (very aggressive, no?).  His buddies have heard or seen slutty things about her and slyly mention this.  He hopes that they’re wrong because he’s not into the trampy types, but he gets the feeling that she came up to him for one reason and one reason only: to bone down.

I think her name is Lucy but they all call her Loose
I think I thought I seen her on eighth and forty-deuce
The next thing she said, “My place or yours?
Let’s kick some bass behind closed doors!”

Well, here’s the first case of me missing something due to my small number of years at the time.  10 year-old P-Dawg thought, “Yeah, I guess Luce is a nickname of Lucy.  Maybe they just needed a rhyme for ‘deuce.’”  Didn’t occur to me that it was the other spelling and a telling nickname for this whorish young lady.  I did, however, understand that “kicking some bass” was a euphemism for sex.  I was very advanced for my age. 

We got into the cab – the cab driver said
He recognized my girlie from the back of her head
He said a little something about tip to base
So I made him stop the cab to get out of the place
I shouldn’t have looked back man I’ll always regret it
Something’s going on and I’ll probably never get it
She was crying like a baby – stupid dumb
It’s just too bad that girl’s a bum

(chorus) She’s crafty – she’s gets around
She’s crafty – she’s always down
She’s crafty – she’s got a gripe
She’s crafty – and she’s just my type
She’s crafty

Ok, here is the reason behind this whole post: the cab driver scene.  As a 10 year-old and all the way up until my favorite brother and I had a discussion recently, I never really thought about what any of those words meant.  Why would he recognize her from the back of her head?  Maybe he sat behind her in class or something.  Now, not only do I get the sexual meaning behind that, but it makes me wonder how the cabbie would even see the back of his passenger’s head.  I guess he recognized the front of her too but felt like stating his past with her in a more poetic fashion.  But oh, that next line isn’t nearly as poetic.  My bro (and probably the rest of my friends) never really thought about what “tip to base” could be in reference to.  I mean, he’s a cab driver, and there’s a base fee and a tip on top of that, right?  But what has else has a tip and a base and could upset someone by talking about spanning that distance while looking at the back of his ladyfriend’s head?  Hmmm.  I asked my Bratty Kid Sister if she’d ever thought about it, and she said that the dirty way made “more disgusting sense” and was probably the true meaning.  Flash back to the busload of happy 8-14 year-olds loudly singing along with those lines and tell me you don’t feel just a teensy bit uncomfortable.

Along similar lines, I remember thinking “She’s always down” in the chorus was about her being sad.  Now, it’s probably more along the lines of, “She’s ready for the hippity dippity if you are, homes.”  But there’s something else new here for me: “She’s just my type.”  So he’s drawn to this kind of young lady, even though it leads to him ultimately being unhappy.  It’s self-aware to be sure, but also self-destructive and his crew needs to step in earlier to stop the cycle from repeating itself instead of just coyly mentioning the girlie’s whorish tendencies.  Ready for the next verse?  Of course you are.

I spent my last dollar to by a Sabrett
When I seen this girl I could never forget
Now I like nothing better than a pretty girl smile
And I haven’t seen a smile that pretty in a while
The girl came up to me she said she loved the show
Asked her to come home and she couldn’t say no

As young P-Dawg, I eventually realized that he wasn’t saying a slurred version of “cigarette.”  I never took the next logical step to ask what a Sabrett was, and I eventually settled on thinking that it was some kind of a hat.  Nope, it’s a hot dog – I was way off.  Back to the story though: is this a new girl who came up to him after the show?  It sure sounds like it, though the “the” in front of “girl” is confusing.  If it were “a” or “this” or even “some,” it would be clearer.  Here’s the main distinction though: he asks her to come home instead of the other way around.  The first chick was the aggressor, but now he’s the one wanting to kick some bass.  But wait – is this one still his type then?  As a kid, it never occurred to me that this could be a different woman, but that’s where adult me is leaning.  After all, the last time we saw the first girl, she was crying and a bum, so would he really be asking her back to his place just because she said she liked the show they just put on?  I say no.

We got to the crib – there’s Adam and D.
“We didn’t say a word!” – they just stared at me
I said, “I don’t know her, I just met her tonight.”
And Adrock started hiding everything in sight
D pulled me over said, “Hide your gold,
The girl is crafty like ice is cold!”

Yep, it’s gotta be a different girl.  With the first one, they’d seen her around before and knew of her slutty tendencies (slutendencies?).  With this one, it seems like they’re just afraid to have a stranger over there and sense some ulterior and nefarious motives.  (Ulfarious?)  The final line in this section is great for two reasons. First, it taught my generation that analogies can be fun.  Second, a kid named Chris who lived down the street from us when I was young thought it was, “The girl’s a crafty isotope.”  How did he know the word ‘isotope’?  Who knows, but elaborately wrong song lyrics were kinda his thing, as he also gave us the masterful “Smooth Apparatus” by Sade.

The girl is crafty – she knows all the moves
I started playing records – she knew all the grooves
D thought she was a thief – and D was right
But I just figured she’d spend the night

Oh yeah, and they taught us about foreshadowing too.  “D was right…she was a thief!  Get out of there, MCA!  She’s no good for you!”

When I woke up late in the afternoon
She had taken all the things from inside his room
I found myself naked in the middle of the floor
She had taken the bed and the chest of drawers
The mirror, the TV, the new guitar cord
My remote control and my old skateboard
She robbed us blind – she took all we owned
And the boys blamed me for bringing her home
(repeat chorus)

Here is another rather large difference between young me just accepting lyrics without thinking about them and the current me who overanalyzes words to the point that I argue with myself: She took a lot of stuff!  As a kid, I just crammed those lines together into a concise “she-stole-his-stuff” package and never broke down that with which she actually absconded.  1. He’s naked – but he could’ve been naked after all the bass-kicking, back-of-head-looking, and tip-to-base-ing.  2. The bed and the chest of drawers – whoa, how fucked up did he get to not notice someone (or more likely, multiple someones) removing large furniture from his room?  How did his roommates not hear this?  I’ve moved beds and other furniture more times than I can count, and that’s no silent process.  3. The mirror, the TV, the new guitar cord – ok, the TV makes total sense.  That’s what I’d expect her to steal.  Well, that, any cash lying around, maybe some weed, and a cassette tape or two.  A mirror?  Sure, why not.  A guitar cord?  Was the entire guitar not there to take?  She must have a guitar already to take a cord with her.  (And I always thought of it as “guitar chord” until today, even though that doesn’t make any sense when listed as a stolen item).  4. My remote control and my old skateboard – well of course she would take the remote if she’s taking the TV.  She’d be an irresponsible thief if she left that there.  Any why’s he complaining about that?  What good would a TV-less remote do him anyway?  As for the old skateboard, I see two readings on this.  Either it was his trusty skateboard that he’d had a long time (which would bum him out) or it was his last, unused skateboard (as opposed to the new one that she didn’t take).  I’m guessing it’s the former since he doesn’t sound too jazzed about the whole thing.

So she took everything (though there’s no mention of the other two beds being stolen), and MCA ends the verse with a little “They’re mad at ME?” humor.  It might not come across on the screen, but if you know the song, that’s definitely the intonation.  But the song doesn’t end there, my friends.  By adding the chorus again, we’re all reminded that despite all the shit that just went down (speaking of which, she didn’t steal their toilet, so they’ve got that going for them), her craftiness makes her just his type.  I don’t know if his parents didn’t love him enough or what, but that’s pretty fucked up to be drawn to sluts, criminals, and criminal sluts.  (Criminuts?)

So there you go, everyone.  I probably just gave more thought to this song than the 3 Beastie Boys did while writing it combined.  That’s what I bring to the table…assuming it wasn’t also stolen by the ulfarious criminut.

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Use your words

Jul 30

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 3 Comments

Despite being a person who loves words and word games, I was never a big fan of Scrabble. The problem was that I cared much more about putting “good” words out there (or ones I just liked for some reason) instead of focusing on getting the most points (which is, ya know, the goal of the game). I’ve always loved word jumbles, crossword puzzles, and more than half of the things found in the word puzzle magazines I get at the airport. But when it came to Scrabble, I preferred not to play because of the combination of my deficiencies and my desire to win at every game I play.

With all of that in mind, it was a bit of a leap for me to download a Scrabble-esque game on my iPod touch. I’d heard two good friends of mine talking about playing against each other and how much fun it was, so I wanted in. I especially liked that it might be hours or even days between moves so that I wouldn’t have to devote a certain amount of time to sit and focus on an entire game. So I took the plunge and started games with each of them.
Sure enough, I lost each of the first several games I played. I had fallen into my old traps, choosing to play a word like “debut” for 10 points over “box” for 13. Much more importantly, I didn’t pay attention to how my words were opening up the coveted Double/Triple Letter or Double/Triple Word spots, which ended many of my games before they ever really got started.

After a little while though, I became hip to all of that and slowly let my preference for “good” words fade into the background. I started playing for points and adopting a keep-away strategy when it came to the multiplier spots. I learned to use established tricky words (qat, adz, xi, etc.) to my advantage, and I started winning some games and making my losses more respectable. I also learned that two people can play against each other on the same device, so my lovely wife and I have taken to passing the iPod back and forth throughout our evenings and occasionally talking a little trash. I feel like I’m reformed and even will to play the real board game again sometime (even though I love the fact that the scores are automatically tallied in this version). Two things I’d like to point out though:

1. I’m not completely “fixed” with my word issues. Earlier this week, I played a word against my friend Lisa that we both agreed should’ve netted me more points. She had “ado” already on the board, and I masterfully (if I say so myself) added letters before and after it to turn it into the far more exciting “matador.” I knew I wasn’t maximizing the Doubles or Triples, and only the M was worth more than 1 or 2 points, but I couldn’t help myself.

2. Playing this game is causing me to overthink even more about words and their composition than I already do. While we were making dinner, I said to my lovely wife, “‘Shrub’ is a good word, especially if you’re stuck with only one vowel.” Later that night, she called our son a “champ” for some reason. “‘Champ’ is a good word too,” I said. “Even better actually.” I paused while my wheels turned. “Hey, you can put four different vowels where that A is in ‘champ’ and they all have very different meanings.” Being a wonderful partner who listens to me and humors me from time to time, she agreed. We spent the next minute or two talking about how different it is to be a champ, a chump, a chimp, or to chomp on something. “Three are nouns,” she said. I nodded, noting her accuracy.  “‘Chump’ would give the most points since the U is worth 2,” I added.   She nodded back.

So there you have it, friends.  I/we have a new little obsession that I never would’ve expected based on past failures.  It’s not as drastic as me taking up ice skating, but a fun and bold move nonetheless.  Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s my turn in three different games to assert my wordnerdiness.

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Beating the system

Jul 21

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 2 Comments

When I was young, I had an idea of how to screw over the government and totally get away with it.  I’ve never put it into practice (nor do I intend to), but I do feel like sharing it now.  Check it out: Let’s say I want to mail Mike Honcho something, but I don’t have any stamps.  Ruh roh.  Fear not – I write his address as the return address and mine as the one where the addressee would normally go.  Then I throw it in the mailbox without postage.  What happens to that piece of mail?  By all accounts, it would get stamped with “Insufficient Funds” and brought directly to his doorstep, right?  (Does everyone know about this already and just never mention it?) Instead of putting my address front and center, I could just put some made up address so it never gets traced back to me.  They’d never try to deliver it to the fake address because there’d be no postage.  Am I missing something here or is this a simple and foolproof way to stick it to the man?  I suppose there might be a limit to the distance one’s trying to mail something via this method.  I mean, chances are someone who lives in Paris isn’t dropping off a piece of mail in an Encino mailbox.  But how would they know that?  Why couldn’t the Parisian be visiting and want to mail something to an American while in the country?  I guess the only question that remains is whether looking cheap is worth saving 40-something cents.  I can imagine college kids sending things to each other this way across the country and saving several dollars over the course of a semester…if college kids ever sent anything by non-electronic mail anymore.

I thought of this because I had another idea in a similar category, though this one is purely for individual gain and not really at the expense of the government.  Here it is: I think I should buy a Town Car with tinted windows.  If I’m driving that, is there any chance a cop would pull me over in the carpool lane (unless I’m speeding)?  I’m not talking about a limo per se, but something clearly used for transporting people without the ability to see said people.  Think of the extra hours of life I’d have each year!  I truly believe I’m onto something here.  I mean, I’m not gonna do that of course…but still.  I’m just sayin’.

Got any “Stick It To ‘Em” schemes of your own?  Comment away, my friends!

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Feeling L.A.ted

Jul 18

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

MC Squared’s wife hails from a tiny little mountain town in the northern part of our great state of California.  I like to tell people that she didn’t need to learn how to change lanes while driving until she went to college, but it turns out that’s an exaggeration.  On New Year’s Day of this year, a group of us went out for breakfast after a fun night together.  Mrs. Squared leaned in and said, “We’re in L.A., so if someone looks like someone famous, it’s probably that person, right?”   We all agreed that that was indeed the case, so she nodded in a direction and asked who the red-head at the nearby table was.  “Oh, that’s Charlotte from Lost,” I said.  “That’s it!  Thanks,” she replied, and we went back to our meals. 

This kind of thing happens all the time, and having grown up in the Los Angeles area, I’m as used to it as one can get.  When I saw a cool-looking dad with a “Working Class Hero” shirt in Staples with two boys who looked like Gary Oldman, it turned out that he also had Gary Oldman’s voice and entire identity.  It just happens, so much so that I really can’t remember all of the famous people I’ve seen in the past couple of years, let alone my lifetime.  I’m not bragging (because it’s not like I’ve hung out with any of these people), but it’s one of the interesting aspects of life in L.A.

All that said, I had a two-day period this week that I can only describe as “so L.A.”  A lot of it has to do with my work, so I’m going to be vague when it comes to some of the actual names, but you’ll get the point.  First off, we have a client in town from the Chicago for a commercial shoot, and they were already thrilled with the weather and overall feel of being in Southern California.  My colleague and I took them out to dinner with a couple of other people, one of whom happens to be the son of a famous former TV star in the 80s and 90s.  When I’d first mentioned who his mom was on the phone before the trip out, they oohed and aahed like he was an exotic animal.  So we took them out to a cool and happening place on Sunset, and while we were checking in at the hostess desk, I leaned into the group and said, “In case you’re interested, that’s Dr. Dre sitting right over there.”  “Oh my god, you’re right!” one said.  (Duh.)  I watched as they quickly scanned the rest of the restaurant to see if anyone else of such importance was there while we walked to our table.  Though no one stood out, they weren’t disappointed as they were clearly still riding the Dre high.

During the meal, an L.A.-based woman with whom we occasionally work said that her husband was going to stop by and join us for part of the meal.  When he walked in, I shook his hand and introduced myself.  Meanwhile, the voice inside my head said, “Hey, he’s the guy that won that reality show a few years ago.”   So there I was on the patio of a trendy restaurant with an old tv star’s son, a reality tv personality, and nearby an icon in the music industry.  To complete the scene, the table behind us had a man in his 50s sitting with five or six scantily clad young ladies who were clearly not his relatives.  The Midwesterners’ eyes could not have been wider. 

The next day at the commercial shoot, they were treated to another “Hollywood type” that they’d missed up to that point.  I was sitting with a woman who was hired to say two or three lines in the spot, and though I was writing emails on my Blackberry, I apparently missed the glowing neon sign above my head that said, “Please talk to me about how awesome you and your career are!”  Out of nowhere – seriously, we weren’t talking at all – she said, “I just completed a one-woman show that I hope to take off Broadway.”  “Oh cool,” I said, and I made an exaggerated move back to my phone to nicely show that I was done with the conversation.  “And I just got a call from someone,” she continued.  “She wanted to commend me on my honesty and forthrightness, which is exactly what I wanted to get across.”  I nodded and made a Clinton-esque lip purse to imply that I was proud of her.  That had to end it, right?  “A one-woman show is really hard to pull off,” she told me.  I decided it was time to have a little fun since she wasn’t getting any of my obvious hints.  “How large was the cast?” I asked.  “Just me!” she said.  “I know, I was kidding.”  “Oh.”  I went back to my phone, this time intensely writing an email to myself (about this lady’s honesty and forthrightness).  “That’s the big challenge of a one-woman show,” she continued, “not having other actors to bounce off of.”  “And a really small cast party,” I added.  “That’s so true!” she laughed.   Mercifully, she was called away to start getting her makeup done. 

I told the clients about that interaction and warned them to steer clear of talking about her one-woman show.  It became the running gag of the day, because the woman was…well, the word “nutjob” kept coming up.  In between takes, she ran over to us to tell us how difficult it is to say “Irish wristwatch” five times fast.  (She’s right, of course, and I truthfully have trouble saying that even one time correctly.)  Then she ran back to her spot and one of us inevitably asked, “Is that in her one-woman show?”  Ah, good times.

Anyway, I was just so struck by the L.A.-ness of those two days that I felt compelled to share.  If you live here too, you’re probably nodding.  If you don’t, you’re probably shaking your head.  It’s not for everyone, and I totally get that.  In fact, Death Cab For Cutie has a song called “Why You’d Want to Live Here” that’s as anti-L.A. as you can get.    But hey, Randy Newman still loves us, so it can’t be all that bad.

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Back in the present

Jul 8

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I’m officially old.  That’s ok with me though.  I was just telling a friend that age numbers don’t seem to bother people who are happy with where they are in life, and I have no complaints on that front.  I do, however, lament that my body seems to have moved into a new stage.  Specifically, my back doesn’t feel like complying right now.  I expect this to be a temporary problem, but it’s still disconcerting.  Little things like bending, reaching, or clothing myself have caused me to make what I can only refer to as “dad sounds,” in which a series of “ooh ooh oohs” and elongated groans accompany such movements. 

At first, I only felt this pain in my lower back during very specific (and telling) situations: swaddling a baby and putting a baby down in a crib.  It’s that motion of having weight away from my body with an attempted bend that caused the greatest dad sounds.  After a week or so though, the sounds weren’t limited to those motions.  I’d be on the ground and spend a few seconds trying to figure out how I was supposed to get up from that position.  My hands would search my perimeter for a magic lever or something to get me back upright without any kind of bend, reach, twist, or…movement.  I began to feeling my lower back in all of its glory doing such hardcore actions as standing, sitting, or foolishly walking.  That’s when I called to make an appointment with my doctor, and they gladly got me in the next day.

“So what brings you here today?” asked my friendly and competent doctor.  “Back pain,” I said.  “Right around here…and I know exactly what caused it.”  He cut me off and said that before we got into that, he wanted to know about any history I had of back pain, etc.  Then he looked at me with a half smile and said, “Ok, what did you do to yourself?”  “I have three-month old twins,” I said, knowing that that would probably be enough to explain away the pain.  It was, and he totally remembered his own pain from those same repetitive motions (with just one kid at a time).  We chatted for a bit, and after x-rays showed that everything seemed to be where it’s supposed to be, he said, “I think acupuncture and massage is the best first step for you.  No need to have you spend $1,000 on an MRI when that should do the trick.”  I appreciated that.  He picked up the phone and called a number from memory.  After giving some of my information to that person, he hung up and said, “Great, she can take you.”  “When?” I asked.  “Right now – she’s in the building across the street and will be waiting for you.”

On my short walk across the street, I had a few different thoughts.  One, I was glad that this should be a relatively easy healing process.  Two, I thought it’s great that he had that contact and the familiarity to get me some additional help right then instead of having me remain in pain for a couple more days.  Three, I was pleased that he so willingly accepted Eastern medicine as a logical first step for me.  I don’t know how common that is, but I have a feeling that some doctors categorically reject all pre-Western practices, so I appreciated it.  And four, I realized that I was about to have needles put in me in various places and probably shouldn’t act like a baby about it.

I don’t like needles all that much, but I’ve gotten a lot better recently.  I’ve had blood drawn or flu shots/vaccines enough now that it’s standard procedure, but I still can’t say I’m a fan and still have to minimally psych myself up to be manly about it.  And I know I’m being picky, but do we really need to have the word “puncture” in this process?  Can’t we come up with some euphemism that conveniently ignores that fact that tiny sharp objects will be making holes in my body?  I met the puncturist – er, acupuncturist – and we chatted for a few before I assumed the position (face down and the top of my butt hanging out and awaiting needles) and started the process.  It wasn’t that bad, of course, but before it moved from the unknown column into the known, my imagination had too many options.  Here’s what I didn’t expect: “Now I’m going to use some electric stim on the area.”  “Great,” I thought, “stab me and then electrocute me.  Where’s your accompanying whip and black leather bustier?  Should we agree on a safe word now?”  It was fine though.  When she told me there would be “a little pinch,” that was actually accurate.  When she said the electric stimulation should be “comfortably tolerable,” I expected way worse than the sensation that followed.   Half an hour later and with red marks all over my face from the…face pillow thing, I got up, got some ice packs, and made an appointment to come back the next day.  She warned me that I’d probably be a little sore after that first time, which I was, but I’m hopeful that the combination of some acupuncture, some stretches, and some core-strengthening exercises (once I’m no longer in pain) will help heal me and prevent me from having this problem again.  Oh, and the valium my doc prescribed for the nighttimes isn’t too shabby either.

So yeah, I’m getting old.  But with two hemispheres’ worth of medicine on my side and two adorable reasons for the pain in the first place, I’m totally alright with that.  (Just don’t expect me to get a tattoo of their names on my arm anytime soon.)

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That’s bullshit: Second name edition

Jun 29

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I know you’ve all been wondering my stance on this for a while, so it’s time I got it out in the open: I’m often ok with the secondary names of body parts or ailments that get used more frequently than the proper ones. For example, I like the fact that “Achilles tendon” is used instead of “calcaneal tendon,” as it’s a nice nod to the Greek mythology I enjoyed learning as a kid. Similarly, I can appreciate why we would lean toward using the bluntly descriptive “pink eye” over “conjunctivitis.” But when it came time to come up with a secondary name for the masses to use instead of rheum, the powers that be failed us all miserably.

What is rheum? See – its secondary name has already wiped the real name out of our vocabulary!  (So even with the power of the internet and upwards of nine whole readers, this post will amount to little or nothing. Yet I press on!)  Rheum, I’ll have you know, is defined by the experts at Wikipedia as the “thin mucus naturally discharged as a watery substance from the eyes, nose, or mouth during sleep…(that) gathers as a crust in the corners of the eyes or mouth, on the eyelids, or under the nose.” I don’t know about you, but I grew up calling that substance “sleep.” Wikipedia also suggests the painful-sounding “sand,” the odd compound word “sleepydust,” or the confusingly plural “sleepies.”

Sticking with the term I know and still unfortunately use to this day, how the hell did that ever get traction? Seriously, let’s think about this for a minute. Was the originator of this term just being poetic before people took him or her literally?  I think there’s something quite pleasant about the description of waking up with a touch of sleep still in one’s eyes…as long as it stays on that metaphorical level.  Otherwise, it’s just confusing.  Why name the substance after the noun that causes it to appear in the first place?  It’s like calling sweat “heat,” or referring to body weight as “food.”  It’s strange, right?   I sleep, and when I’m done with my sleep, I awake to…sleep?  I take it back, that’s not just strange…that’s bullshit.

Technolo-jeez

Jun 24

Posted by P-Dawg in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

For the past many years, I’ve selected books to read by one of two ways: Either it’s a book by someone whose writing I already know I like, or it’s a recommendation from someone whose opinion I trust.  Well I did something different recently, and there were mixed results.  While on the phone with the now-married Mike Honcho, we started talking about which books by author Christopher Moore we had not yet read.  After a minute, I pulled up his listings on Amazon and found a couple.  At the bottom of that page, Amazon made some recommendations for me based on the purchases of other people who had viewed that same page.  One in particular stood out for some reason.  Oh yeah, I remember why: it’s called Rampaging Fuckers of Everything on the Crazy Shitting Planet of the Vomit Atmosphere.  Intrigued (because honestly, who wouldn’t be?), I read the description and found myself laughing out loud at the synopses of the three novellas that comprise the book.  “What the hell?” I thought, and I ordered it for my Amazon Kindle.  (I specifically ordered it for the Kindle not just to get it right away, but because I didn’t think I’d want to have that title visible on a bookshelf in our house.)

So I read Rampaging Fuckers… and thought it was ok.  It’s over-the-top and absurd as hell (which I knew going into it), and I’d say I truly enjoyed a grand total of about 50% of the content.  The second story in particular (which is a kind of disgusting twist on the movie “Innerspace”) was my favorite of the three, even though its synopsis originally interested me the least.  In any case, all of this is prologue to a line I read and enjoyed in this book: “Kids today, they can’t even read unless it’s spelled wrong on a phone.”  It’s rare for me to put a book down in order to jot down a line that I like, but that’s what I did.  Well technically, I put down my book-storing mini computer in order to send an email from my phone to myself about a line that I liked, but that’s essentially the same thing.  Despite that last sentence that I wrote, I don’t consider myself to be a part of that “mass instantaneous information” group.  Sure, I send text messages to friends, but never in the “C U L8R” style.  And I’m in my 30s, so I had a nice chunk of life before people tried fitting everything in 140 characters or less. 

All that said, it’s hard to escape what communication has become to our society.  This was made abundantly clear to me a couple of days ago.  My friends Jon and Erin stopped by on Saturday to meet our new children, and they very sweetly brought over some adorable outfits as gifts.  The next day, my lovely wife put a thank you note out on the table for me to write, which I did right away.  About half an hour later, I was sitting on the couch when Jon came to mind for some other reason.  Immediately I thought, “Hey, I wonder if he got my thank you note yet.”  I’m apparently so used to emails and text messages being composed, sent, and received within a matter of seconds that it was a foreign concept to me that I would actually have to (gasp) wait for something to be picked up, mailed, and delivered.  “Oh no,” I thought, “Am I really one of them and didn’t know it?”  Dismayed, I shook my head and went back to the Scrabble-type game I was playing on my iPod touch with my friend Lisa.  Yes, it’s another form of instant technology, but at least it’s still a place in which ”LOL” isn’t a real word.