A Law of Nature

No one had prepared me for the strange behavior I would witness while attending my one and only Single’s Dance.

When I arrived, one of the first things I noticed was this stunningly beautiful woman sitting at a table by herself. It seems I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Snaking away from her table was a line of men that weaved it’s way through the room so it looked like a reception line at a wedding. I swear that some men just entered through the front door and then headed straight over and got in line.

What really amazed me was that each man would slowly shuffle forward until he was first in line. Then he’d ask, “Would you like to dance?”

She would respond, “No, thank you.”

Then he would slouch off, head held low and the next guy would edge forward. “Would you like to dance?”

The answer was always the same. “No, thank you.”

It continued on until the whole line had passed in review. Each man had his own style. Some would step forward sheepishly, others with a swagger. Every one was shot down to crash and burn.

Finally, when the line had trickled to an end and it appeared there wasn’t a man left whom she hadn’t rejected at least once, she got up and left. She walked out the door and never returned.

I’m still not exactly certain what happened that night. I am confident, however, that if a representative from National Wildlife magazine had been present we could have solved one of the great mysteries of nature — that of the lemming.

The lemming is a small rodent that lives in the Artic and is known for traveling in massive migrations. What isn’t understood is why occasionally, the entire group, thousands of them, will just walk off a cliff into the ocean and drown. Scientists have no explanation, but I do.

I suspect that the leader is one stunningly beautiful female lemming and that the others are balding, middle-aged male lemmings hoping he’s the one she’ll choose.

Gary Mosher met his wife at the one and only single’s dance he has ever attended. He is co-author of the award-winning ‘Buddha in the Boardroom’, the book that shows you how to excel in today’s chaotic and stressful workplace environment. Read the first chapter for FREE at Bodhi Tree Publishing, LLC

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS…

Copyright The Quipping Queen 2005.

WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS…

Or, learn how to flog fruit and at least lob the losers!

Theolonius McTavish, a lemonade-stand sales rep at the tender
age of five, a used car salesman at the testy age of 20, and now
a paltry pie-maker just a tad too old to remember the darn
recipe!

A quick glance at the phrase, “When life gives you
lemons”, leaves a lot to be desired.

Actually, these five words have spawned more than 119,000 web
pages devoted to this tarty topic.

So, if you’re looking for advice on what to do with your lemons,
take heart and follow this abbreviated list of suggestions.

When life gives you lemons you should:

— Start your own unforgettable “lemonade experience”.

– Just shut up and eat your damn lemons.

– Do a little research on where they came from and who grows
them. (Sources all agree that lemons originated from somewhere
in Asia; today, America claims to grow a quarter of the world’s
supply, and California is said to be the biggest producer …no
wonder they call it the “The Land of Posh n’ Pits”!)

– The Ethical Werewolf recommends that you throw them at
Republicans!

– Stop snivelling and just sell’em on eBay!

– Make something called “Visualade”.

– Donate them to a school food-drive, (someone’s bound to pick
them up).

– Make a battery out of them and harness electricity for pity’s
sake!

– Go to a “limoncello factory” in Amalfi, Italy where
they whip up lemon salads.

– Turn around and squirt it in the eye of your nemesis.

– Throw them through life’s windows (for those who have nothing
else to do).

– Ask for a diet drink to put them in.

– Turn them into a profit just like Martha Stewart did!

– Become a lemonologist, (that way you can polish furniture
with the oil).

– Remember that God loves the yellow ones as much as the little
green ones, (but it might have helped if he’d also supplied the
water, sugar, a few spare ice-cubes, a pitcher to mix it in, a
spoon to stir it and of course a glass from which to sip it!)

– Jump on the optimist’s bandwagon by building resilience and
forging your way to success in whatever you’re pursuing, (even
if it doesn’t make you King of the Castle forever and ever or
produce mounds of money like Rumplestiltskin!)

– Pick up a get-well or care package, (provided they still have
them in stock).

– Make lemonade and be sure to share it with others, (just to
let them know how much you care about the bitter things in life
that seem to come with an unexpected cost attached).

– Call your husband to come home right away and then make
lemon-colored frosting, (to decorate whatever you’ve got lying
around in the fridge)!

– SMILE, return the lemons to the person who presented them to
you, and then ask for the oranges that you requested in the
first place!

– Switch to limes and try a mean margarita, chips and salsa!
(Oh, and do bring along a pair of dancing shoes…no not your
big brogues or steel-toed stilettos!)

– Get tipsy, (and just say no when the bartender inquires
whether you want “bitters” with your brew or bubbly).

– Buy all your lemons at Sobey’s! (If you don’t have one in
your neighborhood, contact them and find out when they plan on
opening up a shop with lemons in your neck of the woods!)

– Have another root beer, (and maybe lemons will make you burp
less!)

– Pucker up! (Or at least show them who has Pucker Power in
your family!)

– Use a gadget called a “zester”, (to remove lemon peels what
else?)

– If you fancy yourself a bit of a wizard … you can always
use your abracadabra skills to make orange juice of course!

– Smash them with a heavy KB and hope for the best, (according
to a dedicated dragon door strength conditioning martial arts
expert).

– Say “****-off” and go to bed! (For those with short attention
spans and few alternative-dispute resolution mechanisms to deal
with difficult dilemmas or dorks of course).

– Go shopping with a valid credit card! (And avoid
yellow…it’s not your color!)

– Sue - it makes lawyers rich and leave schmucks like you with
a sour taste in your mouth! (So quit complaining and invest your
money in sugar; even if your all teeth fall out, your taste buds
will be happy).

– Find a politician and a lawyer who want to perform a “public
service”; then ask them to draft and enact a “computer lemon
law” entitling consumers to timely replacement of their personal
computers if manufacturers can’t fix them and requires
manufacturers to pay claimants’ legal fees as well as any
expenses incurred in resolving their claims. (Isn’t this is a
great opportunity to turn the tables on flashy floggers of
faulty fruit?)

– When all else fails suck them, (recommended by someone
calling himself “A Digital Dude who loves lemons”).

– Never forget to get your daily dose of cold, refreshing lemon
juice, it’s full of vitamin C, (according to a healthy food fare
lady).

– Be quiet and eat your lemons, (just like grown-ups do who
have no other way of proving their courage, fortitude and
mastery of the basic food groups.)

– Make “Snickers” because they taste a whole lot better than
lemonade, (a recommendation from a grade two student in Miss
Plum’s class).

– Eat more gelato, (from a contributor named “Quark” in the
Wordlab Forum).

– Say thank you and run, (from an anonymous online bulletin
board contributor).

– Just add some vodka and have a party, (definitely not
submitted by a party-pooper!)

– Watch a Frogcatcher Film titled, “When Life Gives You
Lemons”, that parodies the world of unemployed white-collar
workers (…who better than a few loafers to tell a lemon-aid
story!)

– Ask yourself what Eeyore would have done to resolve this muss
of a mess …after all didn’t he say, “They’re funny things,
Accidents. You never have them till you’re having them”.

– And if all else fails, try reading the twelfth volume in
“A Series of Unfortunate Events” by Lemony Snicket, a
hermit and a nomad who wishes everyone nothing but the best,
(after spending an inordinate amount of time investigating and
reporting upon woeful things that most people are better off
without).

If Real People Ran the Bank - I (a spoof for the heart)

Banish Loans Forever

If ordinary, hard-working, people ran the bank… the very first thing to get rid of would be loans. Absolutely no more loans!

Because once they’re gone, there wouldn’t be any more:

- Due dates

- Interest charges - at any rate of interest

- Late fees or penalties

- Liens

- Applications or rejections

- Credit reports [Old joke - If it weren’t for bad credit, I wouldn’t
have any credit at all]

- Playing catch-up month after month

And that means all the related emotional frustrations vanish as well. That would certainly make a lot of people happier. Don’t you think?

Instead of lending money, how about just giving it away? That should make everyone happier still.

Imagine a bank saying, “Help yourself - and never worry about paying it back.” If it doesn’t matter whether money ever gets repaid - there goes accounting and bookkeeping. There goes financial records. There goes debt - along with bad debt. But that’s not a stretch for a bank that re-writes the rules. If you thought familiar bank policies were cast in stone, think again.

Up with Emotional Solvency - Down with Debt

A whimsical bank that just started on the Internet eliminates debt and loans. Won’t touch ’um. No way, for nobody. That’s because it rates a person’s emotional health higher than their financial wealth.

This quirky website places more value on emotional solvency than wealth accumulation. Huh? How’s that possible? It’s the logical (illogical, more like it) outcome of putting feelings first. And its other policies are equally unprecedented and unique. http://www.joyfulbanker.com/goofypoliciesdept.html

The Joyful Banker is a parody of all things financial. It just wants to make you happy - and it wants to keep money worries at bay (even if only for a little while). It exists solely to amuse and delight. To make people feel both generous and rich - with access to unlimited money (admittedly funny munny). This site delivers a high level of frivel (wordplay), giggle, and absurdity in the process.

People are More Valuable than Money… Really

Joyful Banker’s avowed purpose is to deliver joy and up-beat energy to all comers. But it can’t pull it off without putting money in its rightful place - which isn’t first place. Or even second. This is the only bank on the planet devoted to what’s really valuable - relationships, generosity, kindness and joy.

Joyful Banker is the Mother Lode of Binkle Lore and Wisdom

A binkle is the energy that’s created when people really connect with each other, with nature, or anything that inspires. It’s the zizz of energy one feels. Although the word is new that feeling is not. It’s been part of every profound or happy experience you can remember. That sensation is always called something else: love, awe, the thrill, peace, inspiration, etc. But the energy of that moment is binkle energy.

This joyous website is devoted to increasing binkle energy in any way possible http://www.joyfulbanker.com/binklepage.html It’s not hard to find binkles showing up anywhere - if you’re looking for them. Can’t have too many. But if you run low, just come beck to fetch some more.

Probably should warn you - it’s addictive. The zizz of binkle energy keeps you constantly alert for how to get more. And if you can’t find any… that’s a downer. But a moment of caring and sharing is sure to get them flowing.

The Binkle Standard Simplifies Your Life

1. Spend MORE of your time and attention with people (or activities) that give binkles

2. Spend LESS time and attention on people (or activities) that drain binkle energy

3. Pass it around! Leave a trail of binkles wherever you go

That’s it! But the rewards you feel cannot be exaggerated. Playing “spot the binkle” sure beats a Do List when it comes to banishing stress. Not to mention, it attracts some pretty nice people.

There are still a few bugs being worked out. The funny munny is just for fun. Not to knock fun, but you can’t use joy bucks to pay the phone bill.

Come to the Joyful Banker for Binkles and Joy

Anyone who comes to the website has an account (their email address), so can partake in the Unlimited Withdrawals or Open Vault policies. This is one financial institution that won’t leave you empty handed. Or empty hearted, either.

©2005, Lynella Grant

This is Part 1 of a 5-part series.

Read the rest http://www.joyfulbanker.com/articles.html

–Lynella Grant The Joyful Banker, a parody of all things financial http://www.joyfulbanker.com The funnest, most joyous fool service non-bank in the world. With unlimited withdrawals. Off the Page Press (719) 395-9450 mailto:banker@joyfulbanker.com

It’s No Joke - It’s the Audience!

Let’s define-what is a joke? Simply anything that makes people(audience) laugh. It can be merely a word, a smirk, a raise of the eyebrows or even a momentary silent pause. As long as it gets a smile or a chuckle or a guffaw from the audience. Which means a joke or comedy needs the audience to decide or judge whether it is funny or not. The keyword is audience response.

An audience is a prime importance in humor. Its participation which ultimately decide whether it is a joke or otherwise. There is no humor until the audience confirm it with laughter. So humor is a partnership. Humorist and the audience. So that’s why many comics like to include them in their acts. A humorist must treat the audience as a participant because it is the audience that are going to reward the humorist with laugher.

Next important point is to know what is funny to them because they are the decision makers of your jokes. For a joke to works the audience have to know what you are talking about. Do a in-depth research of your audience. Find out what tickles their funny bones and what offends them as well.

The bottom line is a humorist must be involved with the audience. And that’s no joke!

A freelancer from Malaysia who dabbles in both visual and performing art. Cartooning, script-writing, acting in TV and movies, doing voice, sound and singing impressions under the stage-names: Wacky Willy and SFX-Man.

Read more articles and free tips at: http://funny-ideas.blogspot.com/

Reach me at: kertoon@yahoo.com

The Warner Brothers Make Noise

Hollywood was an attractive place for the early filmmakers to
settle, full of good weather, orange and lemon trees. For
producers who owed money on borrowed camera equipment if a
creditor came after them, they could hide among the trees. It
was a hard business full of causalities and took a pirate’s
mentality to survive. Most of the studio heads were from poor
backgrounds, with limited English skills and never forgot their
childhood or a personal slight. Included were Jack, Harry,
Albert and Sam, the four Warner Brothers from Youngstown, Ohio.
They had begun with showing movies off the side of a tent in
Youngstown, borrowing all the chairs from the local undertaker.
Every time there was a funeral in Youngstown, they had to give
all the chairs back and the film patrons were forced to stand.

As a boy Jack Warner wished to be a singer and a comedian. His
brothers, recognizing his lack of talent instructed him to sing
in the tent when they wanted the audience to leave. He was later
advised that the money was not in performing, it was in paying
performers. Among the stars that would be under contract to him
would be Betty Davis, James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart and Errol
Flynn.

The silent days were a struggle for Warner Bros. Rin Tin Tin, a
German shepherd that according to his publicity was born in a
foxhole in World War I, was their biggest star. Heroic as he
might have been on the screen, he proved to be, like many stars,
cantankerous in person. Jack Warner took the dog on a publicity
tour. As he introduced him to the crowd, his ungrateful employee
bit him on the behind, leading to the dog’s dismissal. It proved
to be a prelude to Warner’s many future battles with stars.

Trying to make a name for themselves, the four brothers got
great publicity by announcing that the renowned opera tenor
Caruso would be arriving from Italy to make a film for them.
They paid him 25,000 dollars and then put him in a silent movie.

The movie studios had the technology to make talking films years
before they made them. One of the reasons why they resisted the
idea was that they didn’t want to risk losing their overseas
market. Stars like Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary
Pickford rarely ever had a flop as their films were shown around
the world and knew no language barriers. But in 1926 the silent
films faced their biggest competition with a new device called
the radio. As movie attendance dwindled the studio heads shut
their eyes and pretended the radio was not there. But the
Warners lead by the ambitious Sam, decided to push the envelope
and try to save their sinking studio by experimenting with movie
sound.

Sam purchased an experimental sound system called Vita-phone.
They then acquired the rights to The Jazz Singer, a popular play
about a young man who had a beautiful voice and is offered a
Broadway career against the wishes of his Old World Jewish
father. In the play the son gave in to his father but the
Warner’s, wishing to reach a wider audience, Americanized the
story by having the son follow his own dreams. Star Al Jolson
adlibbed the dialogue,” Wait a minute, wait a minute you ain’t
heard nothing, yet!” The Warner’s were only intending singing
but at the last minute they impulsively kept the line in the
film. The Jazz Singer received a standing ovation when it
premiered in New York in 1927 and went on to make three and half
million dollars at a time when admission costs 20 cents. The
sound revolution was under way!

Movie audiences had often been loud and noisy while watching
silent films. Now the theater’s got quiet as people strained to
hear every word. Movie Theater’s had to be rewired for sound,
costing major studios like Paramount and Fox millions of
dollars. Movies now had to film mostly at night as any passing
truck noise could ruin a sound recording. ” How boring!” said
Mary Pickford. “At first we moved! Now everyone is standing
around talking!” One enterprising actor was hired for one day’s
work. When the director wasn’t looking he let a bunch of
crickets loose on the set. It was five days before the crew
could round up the chirping crickets, and the actor kept on hold
received five times the paycheck.

Who You Calling a Hick?

Who You Calling A Hick?
By David Leonhardt

For the last time, I live in the country, not in the sticks. And I am relaxed, not a hick.

Ever since we moved to the country, I get the feeling you city-folk are confused. So here is a primer on what it means to be living in the country.

When you walk three blocks from your house in the city, you will be in another neighborhood…and possibly lost. We’ll be approaching our next-door neighbor’s front porch.

The neighbors are no trouble at all. Sure they play hard rock heavy metal blow-your-brains out music all evening…but the birds and the crickets drown out the racket.

Our neighbor across the road has a sign that stays lit up all night: Bert’s Auto Repair. He no longer does auto repair, but he doesn’t do sign removal either. See? We have a downtown, too.

We don’t need streetlights. We already have the stars, thank you very much. What do you mean, “What are stars?”

You have gangs in the city. Every now and then, somebody loses an ear, a few fingers or a loved one. Ha! We have gangs, too. Our gangs eat the field mice. Bet your gangs won’t do that for you.

Don’t be shocked if you see a free-range skunk waddling across our front lawn on the way over there. We might not have major league baseball, but who says we can’t have a mascot? And our theatre nights don’t cost us much. Most of the crickets and lightening bugs play for free.

Sure, I’ll mow the lawn. Remind me next month.

By the way, it’s called a septic tank, not a skeptic tank. And yes, Irma Bombeck was right. And so are the weeds.

Every Monday morning I go for a hike. I tie up my laces. I put on my cap. And I grab hold of two heavy bags. Then I walk. And walk. And walk. And just when I feel like I can carry the bags no farther, I reach the end of the driveway. Yes, Monday is garbage day.

Out here, we ride our mowers and push our brooms. In the city, we hear you do the reverse.

You go to the grocery store to get your food. We cut out the middle man. We pick our own raspberries (both black and red) out back. And out front. And down the hill. And over in the woods.

We grow our own apples; in fact, the trees might give fruit by next year…hopefully.

And when we’re in the mood for chicken, we sit silently at the property line with a hatchet, waiting for a stray bird to accidentally wandering under the fence. Or we drive to town for some KFC.

It’s true. The nearest grocery store is seven miles away. But it takes me only seven minutes to get there…which is how long it took me to get out of the condo parking lot when I lived in the city.

We don’t need bars. We have bonfires. The action gets pretty hot, especially when we have plenty of wood to burn. And who needs alcohol when you can just stand downwind from the fire?

We don’t worry too much about breathing in pollution. There’s not much of that around here. But we do keep our mouths closed when the mosquitoes are swarming.

Lady bugs are very pretty, but not when there are 30,000 of them squeezing their way into your walls. If only they ate mosquitoes

We have mice. You have rats. Mice are cuter.

Too bad they don’t eat mosquitoes.

Sure I commute. What do you think we have a staircase for?

Don’t get me wrong, the city’s a great place for theatre, basketball and fancy restaurants that serve you itsy bitsy morsels on huge white plates with sweeping splashes of colored sauces.

But have you ever noticed how very few depictions of paradise include skyscrapers, traffic lights and hot dog vendors? Come pay us a visit and you can enjoy paradise all to yourself…if you don’t mind sharing it with the chickens, the skunk, the crickets, the mice and the mosquitoes.

Excuse me now. I have a mouse trap to empty.

About the Author

David Leonhardt publishes A Daily Dose of Happiness:
http://www.thehappyguy.com/daily-happiness-free-ezine.html
Read his personal growth articles at:
http://www.thehappyguy.com/self-actualization-articles.html
Visit his Liquid Vitamin Supplements Store:
http://www.vitamin-supplements-store.net
Or his happiness web site:
http://www.thehappyguy.com

Men In High Heels

While the idea of men in high heels makes most of us cringe or even laugh right aloud, high heels for men are actually in! While most men don’t wear high heels that are made for women, more and more men’s shoes are being made with a heel, and technically they are high heels! While some men may choose to wear high heels that are made for women, the majority of men don’t, but they are still indulging in the high-heeled look that has been appealing to women for years! Men in high heels may be something that makes most of us gasp, but it is becoming more and more common, just look at the feet of the men in your life!

Men in high heels are becoming more common because shoes are becoming important now, even for men. Your average, every day Joe now cares what his shoes look like so much that he will go to a special store and drop more money than he did on his Nike Jordan’s in the 1980s. Shoes are in for men, because most men are learning that shoes are part of the overall look, something women have known for years. Style is becoming more and more important, and shoes are a big part of style now, even for men so the high heel rules for both men and women right now.

Because there is this new awareness on the part of men about their shoes, men in high heels simply seem natural. Therefore, they are not stilettos but they are higher heels then men have been wearing in recent history. Dress shoes with a thicker heal, men’s shoes with a thicker sole, boots with higher heels and soles, as well as casual boots with a substantial heel are all very popular in men’s shoes right now. Of course, these men’s high heels don’t look feminine at all and because the look is so popular most men don’t even notice that the hell is higher than they have been in their shoes in the past. What men do know about these high heels is that they look good with all of their clothes.

We’re seeing men in high heels everywhere! Men are wearing these newer high-heeled shoes to the clubs, to work, casually on their days off of work, even to church. The style right now is just the high heel and the chunky sole, so these shoes can be seen just about everywhere that you can think of. The reason that they are being seen so often is that the high-heeled look is very versatile so that men can wear them with business attire, business causal attire, and even casual wear so it does not seem to matter what he is wearing, a man can wear his high-heeled shoes.

This men in high heels phase has been growing over the last several years, but the fashion trend seems to have peaked and is very popular right now. Even the most traditional men are finding these higher heels very sharp looking, so you’ll see men in just about every age group taking part in this fashion. It doesn’t seem to matter how old or young a man is or what he does for a living, he’ll buy the shoes that look good. Many men also feel as though the higher heels are very comfortable, so much so that they wouldn’t go back to the lower heels if they were given the chance. The chunkier sole often gives more cushion, especially in the better-made shoes.

The Spider Monkey Routine

Every now and then we run into something so peculiar we have to
stop and ask ourselves “is someone pulling my leg?” “Is this
really true?” This happened to me recently at a small family
gathering, when a particularly odd phrase came to my attention.

My sister had just gotten married and we were sitting around the
living room, getting to know her husband, Jack. He was talking
about sports and sports trivia and he made a passing reference
to something called “The Spider Monkey Routine.” He continued
telling his story, but I was no longer listening. These four
words slowly worked their way to the part of my brain that yells
“wait… what the heck did he just say?”

I had to stop him as soon as it seemed a polite enough time to
do so (see: right away). “‘Spider Monkey Routine?’ What’s ‘The
Spider Monkey Routine?’” He stopped and turned to my direction
and said “Oh, you know. The ‘Spider Monkey Routine.’” I’m not
sure why he felt this was an acceptable response. It’s not like
we were discussing television or breathing for crying out loud.
This was “The Spider Monkey Routine!” What could that possibly
mean?! Luckily my entire family was also puzzled. So Jack began
to explain.

He claimed that Brian Billick, the current coach of the
Baltimore Ravens football team, was once a contestant on “The
Gong Show” in the late 1970s or early 1980s. He said that his
talent was something called “The Spider Monkey Routine,” which
has since gone on to be sort of an underground joke in the NFL.
I will admit, I was still a little confused, but then Jack went
on to describe the routine itself.

According to him, Billick, clad in a furry, thumb-less monkey
suit began to wave his arms in the air while screaming “Waa
wooo! Monkey, monkey, monkey! Waa wooo! Monkey, monkey, monkey!”
This continued for what seemed like an eternity, but was only
about twenty-five seconds. Needless to say, he was ‘gonged’ and
left the stage in shame. Judge Jamie Farr described the scene as
a train wreck you couldn’t look away from because there was an
idiot dressed as a monkey screaming in front of it.

This sounded downright hilarious and frankly, too weird to be
made up on the spot. But I had my doubts. So later at home, I
did some research, hoping to find more information, pictures,
and maybe (dare I hope) video. Thanks to a few search engines, I
found out that Brian Billick was on “Match Game” in the 1970s.
But that show doesn’t give it’s contestants the opportunity to
dress up as “spider monkeys,” let alone scream and dance.

I then googled “Brian Billick Spider Monkey.” And to my surprise
it pointed me right in the direction of Wikipedia (a free, user
maintained encyclopedia). Under the Brian Billick entry there
was a small bit of trivia. “A young Billick was a contestant on
the game show Match Game in 1977. Billick later appeared on The
Gong Show in 1980, where he performed his famous “Spider Monkey”
routine.” Not only did this small sentence give my search hope,
it referred to the routine as “famous!”

Unfortunately, this glimmer of hope was also as far as my search
would go. To this day, I have not found anymore information
about the alleged “Spider Monkey Routine.” I am hoping someone
out there can help shed some more light on this subject. Is it
real? Is it “famous?” Please email any
information/pictures/videos you may have to HREF="mailto:l.maccorkindale@hotmail.com" rel="nofollow">
l.maccorkindale@hotmail.com. Until then, waa wooo! Monkey,
monkey, monkey, my friends. Waa wooo! Monkey, monkey, monkey.

Pimp By Proximity

When my youngest brother was about 3 years old, he was experimenting with inventing words that sounded interesting to him. On one particular occasion, he discovered a funny new word that he invented for himself which turned out to be something not so “new.” Speaking his new word proudly, he marched around the house saying the word “pimp” everywhere he went. As it turned out, my mother was being visited by a financial advisor on a regular monthly visit to discuss some information. As she went to the kitchen to prepare something for our visitor to drink, in came my younger brother.

He smiled with a big grin to the stranger and greeted the man proudly with his new word, “Hello, Pimp!”

The visitor was a little taken aback by this greeting, “Hello there. You’re a cute little boy, what’s your name?”

“Hello Pimp!” said my brother in reply.

“Hello, how old are you?” asked the man, trying to ignore what he was hearing and upgrade the conversation.

“Pimp, pimp, pimp,” replied my brother.

Seeing that he was not going to get anywhere conversationally with this little upstart, the man fidgeted in his chair, hoping my mother would soon return from the kitchen, “Well, you’re a nice little boy, now go and play.”

“Helllloooo, Pimp.”

At that moment, my mother returned from the kitchen with the refreshment, and heard what my brother was saying. Her face turned a dark shade of red as she handed the drink to our visitor. “Stop saying that, Jimmy. I’m so sorry, I’m sure he does not know what that means.”

“Oh that’s all right,” replied the visitor, “He’s a cute little guy.”

My mother spoke to my little brother and told him to go play in his room. As my brother left, he raised his hand and said, “Goodbye, Pimp!”

Needless to say, the financial discussion had a difficult time getting off the ground on that particular afternoon. For the rest of us, it was forever burned in our memory that each time we got a visit from the financial advisor, the pimp was back.

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The Truth About the Great In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida LIE!

You know me. I tell only the truth in my stories. (Mostly.) So maybe this once I told a big lie, just so I could tell an even better story that’s actually true (mostly.) Was it worth the sacrifice of my very soul? You decide.

Jim Ottea and I had been cruising through Colorado for several days, he on his Yamaha FJR, me on my BMW K1200LT. After almost two weeks on the road, the trip was nearly over, but the fun was not. As far as we’re concerned, it’s not over ’til it’s over. People have been hurt trying to prove us wrong.

We’d been laying our bikes down low enough to kiss the pavement up near Telluride, traveling from Silverton to a little town called Ouray (pronounced “OO-ray”) where the cutbacks are sweet and the drop-offs are steep. The roads were so fine we spent two days on them, staying more than one night in a nearby town so we could play on Highway 550 again and again.

Winding down into Ouray on our last day in the neighborhood, I rolled out of the final hairpin and pulled up next to Jim on a road-side pull-off, with Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gada-Da-Vida blasting out of the speakers on the Beemer.

“How many times have you listened to that record?” Jim asked, possibly annoyed for having heard it blaring at the last 3 or 4 stops. (I’m also not sure he was completely comfortable with my wanting to play my ABBA CD whenever we’d pull up near Harley guys in their leathers and do-rags.)

“About seven,” I answered, “I just found it this morning in my CD case. Pretty nice stuff, huh? Ever hear this song?”

Jim snorted, and I continued, “The drum solo alone is good for 20 miles, even on these winding roads.” I cranked it up a little more for his listening enjoyment, just in time for the song’s big finish.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he winced, obviously jealous of my six-cd-changer. I shrugged, and we pulled back onto the highway and out of town, headed toward Gunnison and points east - the general direction of home, although neither of us wanted to face that ugly fact, not yet.

The next day we were on our way to raft the Royal Gorge, although we didn’t realize we were on our way to raft it, for conceptually, that adventure hadn’t yet occurred to us. We pulled into a little park where the Arkansas River storms past a wooden deck overlooking the water. On the platform stood a kid about 20 years old, snapping pictures of the white water rafters as they splashed along in the rapids below (to sell at outrageous prices when they returned to the rafting company’s headquarters.)

While Jim went back to his motorcycle, undoubtedly to see where he might be able to mount a six-cd-changer and 8-speaker sound system on an FJR, the young man and I chatted about his job and his cameras, about life in general and about nothing in particular,

“Hey,” the kid said to me, out of Jim’s hearing, “Anyone ever tell your friend he looks like a rock star?”

I leaned back against the railing, taking in the full warmth of the sun, and replied with nonchalance, “Funny you should mention that. Which one do you think he looks like?”

I already knew where I was going with this. I am the Bad Ted, and this was just too easy.

“Well, I’m not sure, but he looks familiar. He just looks like some rock star I might have seen somewhere.”

“Someone recently said he looks like Keith Richards,” I suggested. “You think?”

“Wow, yeah,” the kid agreed, animated now. “Hey,” he added, more hopeful than doubtful, “He’s not, is he? Keith Richards?”

“Nah,” I laughed. “But…” I drew it out as if I was hesitant to reveal A Really Big Secret, then relented.

“Ever heard of a band called Iron Butterfly?”

“Yeah…?” (”C’mon,” his eyes pleaded, “you’re going to tell me he’s someone really cool, aren’t you?! I KNEW it!”)

“Ever heard of a song called In-A-Gada-Da-Vida?”

“Yeah!”

“Jim played the drum solo on that song,” I confessed, with dramatic reluctance. “That’s Jim Ottea, man. That’s HIM!”

“No shit? WOW! Hey, I play drums, too.”

“Ask him for his autograph when he gets back, he’ll be glad to give it to you.”

About this time, Jim came strolling back along the wooden pier, and as he approached, I announced, “Jim, I told this guy you played the drum solo for Iron Butterfly on In-A-Gada-Da-Vida. Think he wants your autograph.”

We locked eyes. Jim gave me a look of disbelief — poor guy, he has a little trouble overcoming his own, deeply ingrained senses of honesty and justice and right.

“You gotta be kidding me,” his piercing eyes accused. “Nope, not kidding,” my conspiratorial wink replied, “You’re in on this, like it or not.”

“Sign an autograph for this guy,” I coaxed aloud, “He’s a drummer, too.”

Then I explained to the kid, “Jim’s embarrassed about that drum solo. Thinks it’s immature and childish, now. But believe me,” I assured him, “you can still learn a lot about rock ‘n roll drumming from that classic In-A-Gada-Da-Vida drum solo.”

I don’t know if that is true or not, I’m not a drummer — but to my credit, I thought perhaps it could be true when I said it.

“I can’t believe this,” Jim muttered. I don’t remember if he actually said it aloud or simply implied it with another piercing look of profound disappointment in me, but I was having none of that. The game was on, and it didn’t matter in any case — celebrities are known to be bashful and sometimes reticent. Jim’s acting squirrelly now could only enhance the charade.

The aspiring drummer produced paper and pen and even a clipboard, not believing his fine fortune on that happy day.

To his everlasting shame, Jim fell fully into the wicked spirit of the thing. His reluctance resolved quickly into alacrity. His eyes twinkling, Jim Ottea (Wow! the REAL Jim Ottea , it’s HIM, man!) graciously produced an autograph that could one day be worth hundreds, perhaps even thousands of dollars — if he ever actually does make something of himself.

Meanwhile, I grabbed the camera and captured the moment, while Jim, with bold hand and proud flourish, shamelessly autographed — HA! Get this:

Stick with it, kid.

Jimmy “Rotten” Ottea

Iron Butterfly

The two of them spent the next few minutes discussing the subtle differences between traditional drumming styles versus I don’t know what. I must say Jim held his own in the conversation, even though he hadn’t a clue what the hell this excited young fellow was jabbering on about. Mostly, “Jimmy Rotten” just nodded sagely and grunted in a manner befitting an accomplished professional. I was very proud of him in that moment.

And, of course, he offered the lad much encouragement. That’s important for young folks, and Jim is a caring sort.

Now, I should admit that before we left the scene, we told the kid the whole truth, explaining it was all intended as a harmless jest.

I should admit that, but I can’t, I won’t, we didn’t. We never confessed a thing. The way we saw it, why spoil a young dreamer’s big day, just to save our own miserable souls?

And now you know the truth about the lie. I swear.

Ted A. Thompson http://www.phfft.com

P.S. On our way home two days later, halfway across Kansas in 104 degree temperatures on the ungodly, flat, baking-hot, wearisome Interstate that cuts through the Midwest prairie, I pulled up next to Jim on my motorcycle, matching his speed at about 85 MPH.

I got his attention with my horn, grinned, and as he watched and wondered what I was up to, I put the Beemer on cruise control and pantomimed wild drumming motions with my arms, fists closed tightly around imaginary drumsticks.

It was a close call. Somehow Jim maintained control of his bike, but I almost lost my good friend to the evil Kansas asphalt.

Ted Thompson is a freelance writer living in Harrison, Arkansas