A few football plays with my nephew

Redneck Jedis

There's an old redneck mind trick that goes something like this:  You go into, say, a chainsaw shop.  You're all dressed up for work, and on this particular occasion you're looking particularly dorky.  You've got on black pants and a white, button-up shirt.  You're cheap, so it's all you've got, and you're looking like a religious zealot showing up at there door.  You feel as out of place as you look, and it doesn't help there are three good 'ol boys gathered at the counter giving you the old-guy eye.  You approach them and ask if they sharpen chainsaws.  And then they pull the trick.  They look you up and down, painting with their glances a deep and unforgiving silence.  They somehow look serious when they say: "You want the chain on the chainsaw sharpened.  Not the chainsaw."   

If you had superpowers you'd slow down time to give yourself the appropriate comeback.  Maybe something like, "No, I'd like you guys to sharpen the plastic shell.  Maybe add some sparkles." 

But you don't have superpowers.  You can only stand there trying to process what they just said.  In that moment, with your mouth partially open, and your mind groping about the room, you've been judged.  This is when they make their opinion about you, your clothes, your hair, and your overall dumb city slicker-ness.  You could juggle the chainsaws, whittle a banjo and save one of them from a heart attack. Doesn't matter.  Your legacy is cemented while you try to figure out if they really said what they just said.

That's the redneck mind trick, tripping up superior looking folks with crazy spins on the obvious.  I grew up with redneck Jedis honed to asshole perfection.  They knew how to make anyone look dumb.  They would squeeze all the gray out of the conversation, all the wisdom out of the universe, and leave you on a cold, dry plain of ineptitude. 

And I'm sorry folks, I've brought you down with me again.  With my brow furrowed and my Neanderthal ancestry peering out, I respond.  "Yes, the chain sharpened would be good." They hook their thumbs in their suspenders, lean back and smile in a victorious glow.

I wish it were easier to combat this kind of thing.  But it isn't because when you're inundated with thoughts about job performance, daycare, computer issues, the election cycle, that bump behind your ear, if your wife really wants to go out tonight or if you should save the money for college, and global warming, you don't have the mental wherewithal to deal with a surprise attack.  That's why one of my dreams is to be that guy who doesn't seem to care all that much.  You know who I'm talking about.  They have there favorite professional wrestlers and aren't even ashamed to admit it.  They like their tires big, and they'll take up a good part of a conversation talking about exactly what kind of sports car they one day hope to have.  Sure, I'd love a spiffy car, but I just can't find it in me to core out the good part of a Thanksgiving dinner with the details of the Pontiac of my dreams.  I'd love to be that guy. 

And I hope they actually sharpen the chain because--and I know they doubt this--I really want to use it this weekend.  

96 minutes.

I looked at the Corolla clock and it was 9:24. Sarah wanted to be back home at 11.  The sitter, a friend of ours with THREE kids, said we should stay out as long as wanted.  Sarah wanted to be back for her boys.  Plus, I'd already chewed into our precious kidless time by doing a last-minute stand-up comedy gig.  

Sarah was hungry.  I was too.  We wanted to eat something and get to our friend's drum gig with a band at a Hank Williams tribute.  With just over an hour and a half, we skipped food for beer and Hank.  It was a good call.  Our friend played well for a rock-a-billy band headed up by a woman who looks like  middle school teacher.  She matched harmonies with a tall country gentleman on guitar.  Turns out they'd been lovers for years, but since their breakup had only gotten together for band dates.  We didn't know all that until Jen, who's the drummer's wife, told us.  Both she and Sarah loved the drama.  Jen imagined them getting back together in a passionate post-concert, country punk lovefest. 

And that's something else we all noted. The old country is punk.  It's the "go fuck yourself" of musical genres.  It smells like cigarettes and makes your belly burn.  It's the back alley fist fight between dreams and disillusion.  Every song is a bloody nose.  That was Cash, and Hank and Haggard.  That was country music before it became a carefully manicured front lawn for American preening. 

Earlier in the evening, I had my comedic cajones tested by a bar gig.  I can thrive in the traditional theater/stage set, where people are gathered and you're up front and they actually pay attention to you.  This bar is like Cheers, a big rectangle with most everybody with their back to you.  People don't go there for comedy. They go there to drink away their problems in the relative quiet of a neighborhood watering hole.  They serve good pizza, too, so as a comic you kind of feel like that annoying Bennigan's waiter who won't shut up.   You try to be funny, but it's hard to be even slightly relevant with six TVs flickering for attention. 

I was the headliner which meant I had to watch an hour or so of disquieting carnage.  The guy before me couldn't get anybody to listen so actually said "fuck it" and slunk off stage.  The guy before him got into a shouting match with a heckler.  The stage was set for more disaster.

One of the first comedians had turned most of the bar away with some pretty bad abortion jokes. If you're going to go down that road you'd better make it clever.  Throwing your girlfriend downstairs for a cheap termination is not subtle. Even the drinkers didn't want much to do with it.  One guy walked out.  On his way to the door he gave me the disappointed head nod.  The little moment of camaraderie had me wishing I could leave, too.

And it came back to moments.  Little slices of whatever we call life.  You've got to make them work for you or they'll work against you. 

So there I was, in a mostly empty bar and tethered to my inability to say "no".  A friend had called and asked if I could "headline" the show. That's usually an honor.  As I approached the stage, every other comic in the room was happy it was me and not them.  I had to salvage the night. When the emcee gave his uninspired introduction and then announced my name, I hit a shot of Patron, and resolved one thing:  I was going to make this work.

Really, you have a choice.  In the sophomoric philosophy of a stoned college kid, you can either live or die.  Dying on stage is, I think, worse than really dying.  When you die for real you don't have to lie awake thinking about it. 

When Sarah and I began our 96 minutes we joked about my many deaths.  For some reason, when I emcee something, maybe a fund raiser that doesn't call for comedy, I command the attention of the audience.  However, with comedy, I become meek. I feel like I am harassing the crowd.  I hope for a death in the audience or a sudden seizure or meteor or, heck, a bunch of TVs that drown me out I can die quietly on my own.

On the way to the stage, with the tequila worming it's way to my nerve center, I vowed to own the room.   The heckler smirked at his body count.  He'd taken out one comic and was prepared to be unimpressed by another.  I passed a funny guy named Steve and he gave me an sympathetic pat on the back.  He's a lawyer with a huge telecom trying comedy in his spare time.  His set was good, but nobody bothered to listen. 

Take care of the time you have, I thought later as Sarah and I raced from our parked car to Benders, the bar that hosted Hankfest.  We did.  We killed it.  We relished the music, the beer and took full advantage of two lucid adults.  Well, not full advantage, but you never know with two parents on the loose. 

We laughed and I thought of nothing but the moment.  The present was all ours.  Not too long before, at the comedy show, I'd fully realized the benefits of seizing opportunity. 

I grabbed the mic and told the bartender to turn off the TVs.

Dad's Bad Ideas #2342529

put a bowl of blackberries on the floor so you can get things done

hehehehe...blackberries...mmmm

yay!  Daddy didn't think things through again!

Aunt Jeeps Card to Quin

hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog hot dog

if you were on the fence about quitting everything and making movies for kids...

watch what just the opening credits of Toy Story 2 does for Otto: