Friday, October 21, 2005

Something to Say

An acquaintance of ours, a man jam-packed with personality and unique character tics, sprang, it seemed, fully quirky from the brains of his equally off-kilter parents. He regales us with stories of the first order whenever we are blessed with his company. For an apparently weather-related reason, a short bit that he had related to us came back to me the other day.

The story had to do with his parents and with their competitive streaks regarding personal injustices or incidents that were unloaded onto them.

It was a rather stormy night, with thunder shaking the foundation of their house and lightning bolts splitting trees in their expansive backyard. Peering through the curtains of a picture window staring out on the yard, his dad saw the hullabaloo and opted to turn on the tv set to catch the local station’s version of the maelstrom outside. You can guess what happened. Shortly after clicking on the tube, lightning struck and the tube blew up and the plastic casing starting melting and fuming. Excitedly, his dad got up and started searching for his wife, eager to let her know how close he was to getting struck. Ah HA! I’ve got one on her.
Unbeknownst to him, while he was watching an exploding tv, his wife was on a phone, a corded model. A bolt of lightening had also struck the phone, melting the wall mounted receiver and charring the phone cord. As she turned around to see what her ecstatic husband was screaming about, she smiled. Wow, had she a story to tell him!
Our friend’s father, bounding up stairs with the anticipation of a five yr old with a loose tooth, rounded the corner into the kitchen. There, he saw his wife, hair a bit crispy at the ends, cockeyed smile on her face, plastic-burning smell wisping in the room.
“Honey”, she said, “guess what just happened to me?”
He took it all in, and with a disgusted look, turned 180 and slinked back to the plastic pile melting in their living room. Foiled again.

I empathize with him most days. Like John Prine’s character from "Angel from Montgomery', I wonder

"how the hell can a person go to work in the morning
And come home in the evening and have nothing to say."

But, that’s how most days are. Predictably the same. No lightening bolts striking my monitor dead (along with a hoped for fireworks show from the bowels of the monitor). That’s where blogs come in quite handy. "Borrow"ing bits and pieces from here and there, incorporating them (hopefully seamlessly) into my dinner conversation, successfully sashaying through the one-course performance.
"Ah, there’s my dad/husband! Not the same drudge he was before."

As an example, tonight I’ll be using this blogbone that 2Blowhards posted today. Slick magazine covers. Their origin. Their pain. Their raison d'etre. I’ll be either enthralling the family or putting them to sleep face down in the chili. But either way, I’ll have something to say.

Note Bene: You may wonder, "How will he keep this plan going on without his spouse discovering his supper patter is Bidened?" Well, the ever-loving wife visits here once in a blue moon. My (admitted) spelling errors drive her off into the deep. So, this little conversational STP hint will stay between us.

Dear DarkoV, Dear Darkov ...
My feet are too long
My hair's falling out and my rights are all wrong
My friends they all tell me that I've no friends at all
Won't you write me a letter, Won't you give me a call?

Signed Bewildered

John Prine is wonderful, no?
Somehow, men can never win the oh-how-I've-suffered competition. To see real professionals duelling to the death, you really need to watch two women go at the "see you one major medical condition, raise you one child gone tragically wrong" high-stakes game.
Far f-ing out photograph. I love it. Thunderstoms are the greatest. Love your blod - incase I haven; told you in a while.
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