Parenthetically Yours

Two Funny Conversations

The scene: Tuesday morning, at my buddy Clay's house (which is really my buddy Matt's house, but I digress), in the kitchen, right after he's pulled a container of Tex-Mex chili sauce from the cabinet. Action.

Me: Dude, is that chili mix? What is that stuff?

Clay: (thick Texas drawl) It's this vegetarian chili sauce. It's awesome. I got some tofu dogs last week, grilled 'em up and put this stuff on it. It was the bomb.

Me: No way! Are you vegetarian?

Clay: I was last week. I'm puttin' this stuff on my eggs.

Scene two: With The Wife, on a walk, talking about health-related stuff.

Wife: (with shock and amazement) Did you know my dad has lost 50 pounds now?

Me: What? That's insane.

Wife: Yeah, he weighs, like, 180.

Me: Uh...that's only 14 pounds heavier than me.

Wife: (deep, silent contemplation) 

Me: That's crazy.

Wife: He's lost a fifth grader.

And scene(s).

(rw)

F-F-F-F-Freezing

So, Katie and I have been walking quite a bit lately. We've gone every day this week, sometimes in the evening and always in the morning. Fall mornings in Franklin are cliché: bright, crisp, and still. It's seriously something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. We love it. Of course, it's ridiculous (for us) to try to get up early enough to get a walk in, fix a quick breakfast and coffee, and for her to get to work on time. But I have to say, we've done a pretty good job of it. So far.

We had a revelation a few weeks ago that any day we walk in the morning, we are totally alert and energetic for most of the day. I would hardly call what we do "exercise," but it definitely gets the blood flowing. Now there's a phrase that makes no sense to me: "gets the blood flowing"--as if our blood has been sitting in our veins motionless throughout the night. I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure one of the bedrocks of biology is that our blood is always moving. But again, I'm no doctor.

 

I was the first one up this morning and put on my warmest approximation of "active" clothing (does H&M have an outdoor line?) and opened the front door. Frost. Uh-oh. This won't be pretty. Katie and I have very different temperature tolerances. I have a bit more of a laissez-faire relationship with weather and temperature. My beloved, however--any sudden change in temperature has some sort of effect on her brain where she feels like she's being either broiled or cryogenically frozen, depending upon the up or down movement of the mercury. I'm not saying she's overreacting but that her brain actually triggers her fight-or-flight mechanism. In warmer climes, she's been known to stand up and strip down to the bare necessities in a blink leaving behind a small pile of clothing on the floor as if the rapture has occurred. And in colder times, she can simultaneously ball herself up and pull a blanket across her, perfectly tucked, faster than santa eats cookies.

Knowing this, and seeing the frost, I knew I needed to start scraping off the icy residue from her windsheild. Since I'm an awesome husband, I did this without provocation or bribery. But since I'm an idiot, I did this without mentioning it. She proceeds to walk out after me, door locked behind her and says, "you've got a key, right?" Uh, no.

At 29 degrees, the Rockwellian fall morning became a frozen circle of hell as we looked around the house for an unlocked window or anything to jimmy the door with. Since the attempted break-in, though, we've been vigilant to make sure all the windows stay locked and have put extra measures in place to keep things locked tight. It's funny how in only 90 seconds I let panic start setting in. I began imagining that we may never get back in the house, that we'd freeze to death sitting comfortably in our rocking chairs on our porch. They'd make a Lifetime movie about us--the moronic couple that froze to death instead of breaking a window to get back inside. Then I remembered our landlord only lives a few blocks away and the panic subsided.

About then a friendly neighbor came outside on his way to work and saw us wandering aimlessly in the middle of the street. It's funny, the things you do when you don't know what to do. We looked like people who mindlessly meander while talking on their cellphone, except we didn't have any gadgets up to our ears. It was a confusing feeling. What do we do? Where do we go? Starbucks? Our neighbor Chuck thought we were in the beginning stages of hyperfrost-induced dementia and invited us in for coffee. As the feeling came back into our faces and other extremeties, we explained our situation and asked if he had a gift card or library card, if so we could get into our front door. He let us borrow his Kroger card. 

I love Kroger cards.

Big savings and unlocks our door.

(rw)

It's WATERCOOLER WEDNESDAY time

Bogged (and blogged) Down

You would think that after the previous post here, I'd have been a bit more concerned about getting newer content up here in blog world. That was the intention, at least.  As it stands, however, I'm bogged down in a technological sewage dump and can't get out.

Without getting all Geek-Squad on you, I installed an older operating system on my beloved G4 Powerbook (which is five years old this fall) because the newest Mac OS has been frustratingly slow on it...and I can't run my recording software on it. I got the old system (Tiger) installed fine. Protools works great. But nothing else does. Not Word, not iTunes, nothing. I may have even shut down the internet for about thirty seconds last Friday. Did you feel it?

So, all weekend I've been trying to figure out how to import (or even find) my contacts and emails AND since none of the updated apps work I have to reinstall the original versions of them--iTunes, iPhoto, Office, Protools, BLAHBLAHBLAH. On top of that, I'm trying to delete about 40 gigs worth of info. 

Sitting me down at the helm of this is like putting a monkey in a scrap yard with an acetylene torch and expecting the Eiffel Tower in 3 hours. In that three hours, all you'll get is a broken torch with monkey poop smeared across the tank. 

Let's just say this is taking a little more time than expected. 

(rw)

Shameful Self-promotion

Dear (insert name here)

First of all, my heartfelt apologies (not really) for the lack in humorous observational content as of late. Typically I try to write these (as Katie calls them) “bloggy-boos” in the morning hours between 8-10. After that, my day is rolling along like a train running 45 minutes behind schedule. Of course, if I would prepare these things in advance, my train would always be on time. I think I can, I think I can.

This, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with what I’m writing about today. I just started writing a brief apology to those of you (about 100 altogether) who find some sort of joy (torture?) to type in my little ole web address and read my words. I appreciate it. I really do. It’s pretty cool that anyone would find it that interesting. For me to go to website it pretty much needs to deal with guitars, music, or Macs.

But you, you are my faithful, loyal few. And that’s why I’m asking this of you today: give me $1,000 in small, unmarked bills, do not touch the silent alarm, and... Wait. Oops. That’s a note for later on today. You didn’t read that. Ok…here’s what I’m getting at. If you like what you’re seeing here, why not share it? In an incredibly vain (and a little embarrassing) way, I’m asking you to do some marketing for me. I’m trying to increase my readership and, as silly as it is, I’m kinda serious about this blogging thing. I’m proud of it, committed to it, and maybe one day it’ll pay for my kids college. Or a chicken sandwich.

So…all that to say (can you tell I’m not so good at asking people to do me any favors?), if you have any friends who enjoy a funny story from time to time, or like an anecdotal, observational thought here or there, or don’t have anything better to do, invite them over here to the party. To make it easier, I’ve written you a sample email to send out.

My dear good-looking, smart friend.

Let me clue you in to a great opportunity. No, you don’t have to sell anything, you simply be yourself and the checks will begin arriving in a matter of weeks.

Wait. Once again, that is an email intended for another group of people. Take two.

Dear smart and funny friend, (you may consider including their actual name. It makes the note seem more “personal.”)

Let me invite you to the party. What party, you ask? I’ve never been invited to a party, you mutter under your breath, especially by this person sending me this unexpected email. Why haven’t they called lately? They still owe me $50. (I’m taking some liberties here, but the point is that your note will get them “thinking.”)

I’ve been spending valuable work/study time reading what could probably be described as the funniest, most culturally important blog of our time. It’s by a man who is sometimes described as “funny,” or “articulate” or, “deluded” by himself and/or others.

To get there, go to www.randywilliams.com (if you’re a nerd, you can make this a “hot link,” but in the Williams house, a “hot link” is something you grill) and enjoy a little free entertainment during these taxing financial times. You’ll be glad you did and I’ll get a $50 referral fee which I can use to pay you back (you won’t really get a referral fee, but this will create “trust” in your “friend” and will “trick” them into coming to the site).

You’re welcome,

Your good friend (“buddy” works just as well here)

Copy. Paste. Send.

(rw)

Get back, Jack

My first attempt at carving a jack-o-lantern. 

(rw)

Ironical

iro·ny (ˈī-rə-nē) also (ˈī(-ə)r-nē) noun. plural iro·nies. Latin ironia, from Greek eirōnia, from eirōn dissembler. 1502

Definition: Setting off the alarmed exit at Home Depot with a bag full of alarms.

This happened to me yesterday.

(rw)

There Goes the Neighborhood

There was no warning, it just started happening. My aunt Lynette is in town with two of her girlfriends to see Yo-Yo Ma perform with the symphony so we met them along with another aunt for dinner. It was fun and afterward they all wanted to see the Loveshack (our little cottage) so we headed for the house with the ladies following behind.

Then it happened. We ran over the slightest pothole where some unfinished road repair had been professionally left unmarked so as to test the limits of the suspension and maneuverability of various passersby and/or swallow small pets whole. Before our Jeep’s shocks even had time to recover, a sound so unnatural and frighteningly loud began reverberating through the entire neighborhood.

We pulled over quickly, partly to check things out, partly to just stop the horrific noise. It was definitely coming from the front right wheel so I got on hands and knees in front of the car while trusting Katie to let the car roll while I looked and listened. If you didn’t know what was going on it would’ve appeared as though she was trying to run over me at > 1 mph.

I couldn’t see anything so we had to tough it out. Just ahead was going to be our most difficult obstacle. Downtown. If you’re familiar with downtown Franklin, you know what I’m talking about. If you’re not, let me set the scene for you. Picture the most quaint, perfect small town village you’ve ever seen. Ok, take that scene but take out all the hardware and appliance stores, the pawn shops, and diners. Now, replace them with boutiques, gourmet cupcake shops, fine dining, expensive ice cream, high end (very) furniture stores…now you’re getting the picture. Very quaint, very posh, very white.

There's our scene. Enter the Clampetts with a Holy Mother of Pearl noise screeching from underneath the jalopy. The close proximity of all the buildings and the general quiet of the square amplified the noise even further. I’m not exaggerating—it was SO.LOUD. The villagers were already taken back by this (gasp!) American car driving through their velvety smooth streets. Now they had this noise to contend with. Normally subdued gentlemen threw their National Reviews down and ducked for cover under bistro tables, parents pulled their children closer, lovers’ gazes were broken, the stock market crashed—It was pandemonium.

To be honest, that's a bit of an exaggeration. The stock market had already closed by this point. No doubt people were stopping and staring, though. Then came the giggles. My laughing starting as we made our first turn onto the square. Katie nonchalantly rolled up our very dark tinted windows. I knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t going to let anyone recognize us. Have I mentioned how LOUD it was? Hahahaha. By the time we were stuck at the light by Starbucks Katie was laughing so hard I had to remind her to breathe. Six blocks later in our driveway our sides were sore.

Postscript: I woke up at 6:15 this morning to take the Jeep in to have the noise checked out. 10 minutes later the mechanic came back and said, “Well, I could tell you ‘you have a broken hub,’ or ‘your axle is cracked,’ but I won’t do that. Here’s your problem.” He then tosses the tiniest of rocks onto the counter.

“No charge.”

(rw)

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

Franklin is a ghost town. By that, I don’t mean that it’s uninhabited. I mean it in the same way one might say, “Arkansas is RAZORBACK country,” or, “Nashville is a guitar town,” or, “Rome is a Pope town.” In other words, they like their ghosts around here. Last year around Halloween, Katie was at Bible study one evening, so a couple of friends and I went on the Haunted Franklin Ghost Tour (yeah, I get the irony). We spent 90 minutes touring various buildings downtown behind a sarcastic thespian-type wearing a civil war-era get up as she filled us in on the local haunts of Franklin’s sordid past. It was actually really informative and since I’m a history nerd, I loved it. I also know which downtown buildings I DO NOT want to spend the night in. Scary stuff. Who knew my town was Tennessee's most haunted? I mean, if you believe all that.

My memories of Halloween revolve around KISS because I only remember dressing up as Ace Frehley for three years in a row. I also remember watching KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park on Halloween night one year. It had to be 1978 or something. Mom and dad were at a party so we got stuck next door with our neighbors. After returning home from tricks and treats, our bellies full of discount candy, we settled down by the warm glow of the television. It was my generation’s Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show. Of course, the main difference is that the Beatles were geniuses and KISS were buffoons. Tell that to a 10 year-old boy with stars in his eyes, though. It was bigger than Star Wars for me. 

I’ve never lived in Franklin, though, until after the wedding in January, so this will be my first official Halloween here. Apparently, it’s a pretty big deal downtown where we live. Our neighbors said they spent hundreds on candy last year and that kids are literally lining up the sidewalks. One lady used a counter to keep track of her ghoulish little visitors and by the time the night was over, she had clicked the thing over 1,500 times. Up and down Main and Fair streets people have begun decorating like it’s Christmas. One family is readying their garage to be transformed into a haunted, um, garage (?) with a GIANT pumpkin façade. Kids will walk through the mouth of said pumpkin to get inside. I’m not kidding when I say they’re REALLY into Halloween here.

But before some of you get up in arms about the theological correctness of “celebrating” All Hallow’s Eve—don’t. It’s all in good fun here and the kids get to play dress up and get free candy. That’s it. Hopefully my (and your) faith and theology can withstand one night a year giving away sweets to 6 and 8 year-old Spidermen and Hannah Montanas. And I can’t wait. I already have my Ace Frehley mask.

Check back next week for my Top 10 Ways to confuse trick-or-treaters.

(rw)

OH yeah...it's Watercooler Wednesday!

Gotta Keep on Rockin'...

I’m a prideful guy. I’ll just admit it and get it out of the way. I enjoy reading Important books and thoughtful essays by really smart people and having discussions about deep things—the environment, politics, the cultural importance of sports, and other nerdy subjects and I think pretty highly of my opinions. 

I love music too so I’m drawn to the Important artists—er, artistes—that have something universal to say (sing?) about life, love, and the general human condition. You know, the four B’s: Bob, Bruce, Beatles, and Bono. When people ask about my favorite song, I’m quick to answer “The Long and Winding Road,” by the Beatles and I’ve secretly longed to be the guy in “Born to Run” who promises Wendy to love her with all the madness in his soul and to die with her in an everlasting kiss. Epic, powerful stuff. That’s who I like to think I am.

But the truth is I'm not. Of course, I never mean to be phony, but recently I was listening to a local classic rock station (antenna’s broken. It’s either classic rock or conservative talk radio.) and I heard a song that with every passing word wrapped me up into a neater and neater package. I didn't know what to think. 

It was a song of hope deferred, of dreams fulfilled. It’s a story about a kid with delusions of grandeur but those delusions become reality. But after the dreams, the goals, the fame, he still remembers the kid with the big dreams and it keeps him striving for the best, to “stay on top.”

As much as I would love to say that I am defined by Dylan, that I’m aligned with the social worldview of Bono, that I can most easily relate to John Lennon, I can’t. I’m just a regular guy--a guy who prefers chicken fried steak to chicken cordon bleu. I’m neither a genius nor an artiste. I’m a kid who spent his mornings, afternoons, and nights playing air guitar in a mirror to KISS ALIVE and Van Halen II. I’m the middle-schooler who imagined what it would look like to see faces illuminated by the 100s of lights beaming from behind me on the stage, who wasted dozens of wide-spaced, spiral notebooks practicing his autograph and sketching band names in my textbooks.

I am the Juke Box Hero.

(rw)

 

Death row, Steve Jobs, and other nervous ramblings

I don’t understand why I’m so nervous. It’s only a dentist appointment yet I feel like I’m sitting on death row awaiting my turn in the executioner’s chair. I’ve even come up with a few last words.

“I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me—yeah, yeah. Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! You got ta give-uh whatcha taaaake!”

So, the best I’ve been able to come up with is lyrics from a George Michael song? That’s just pathetic. Oh well. I has elements of Braveheart in it, so it’ll do.

But yeah, I’m waiting on the couch to head down the street to the dentist. When I went three weeks ago (my first dentist visit in three years), they discovered that I have three cavities. They’re just going to keep an eye on two of them but the third one…well, it has to be filled now.

I haven’t had a filling in over 15 years so I’m hoping there’s been some technological developments that have made the tooth-filling industry quick and painless. Like, maybe Apple has designed something new to revolutionize the business. I’d love to hear that Steve Jobs keynote address. “We revolutionized computing with the Mac. We revolutionized music with the iPod and iTunes. We changed the cell phone industry with the iPhone. And now we’re taking it to dentistry. I give you iTooth.” Then he would go on to explain how teeth could be doing so much more than just chewing and crunching. The new iTooth would remove calories, fat, and carbs and electronically change your food at a molecular level to veggies and fruit. “We’re all vegetarians now! Except without the snobby opinions.” All the Apple faithful in attendence would cheer, they’d sell five million dentist kits the first weekend, and so on.

But, I’m afraid that’s not in the foreseeable future for me. Unfortunately, dentists are still in the dark ages; I’ll be getting a face full of novocaine and will be unconsciously drooling all afternoon. Unless, of course, Steve Jobs has something up his sleeve. He usually does.

I’d give my eye tooth for that.

(rw)

This post is FINALLY part of Watercooler Wednesday!