When the Insta-Princess and I tell our tale of love, we mention chirping birds, bouts of red-hot passion, bells ringing, waves parting, sunny skies, stock market successes, and strangers stopping us on the street and telling us how wonderful we are.  That’s all true. (I still get stopped on the street, daily.  And sometimes it’s not because a gaunt, heroin honey wants to offer discounted booty.)  What we rarely mention, however, what we just don’t bring up in decent company is that the Insta-Princess almost dropped me two seconds into the relationship.

Because of a few books.

“Books?” you ask.  “Really?  They must have been horrible, filled with rituals on how to prepare and devour babies.  Or, how to get into the Starbucks franchise business.  You know, the usual tools of Satan.”

No, not that.  They weren’t even anything as evil as John Grisham books.  No, beyond that, even; books so profoundly disturbing to her that she almost gave up this delicious hunk of man meat.  They were, in order of appearance, the Trixie Belden series of books, and Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.

“Tween girl books?”  Now you’re stunned.  But, hear me out: I was a voracious reader as a kid; I read everything I could find, and when one of my daycare “teachers” (a luscious dame on whom I had a huge crush) gave me fourteen books of various sizes and flavors, I attacked that stack of good reads with my usual desire to keep on reading, and the wont to impress her.   Amidst the other books, the ones about Mushroom Planets and a sand-fairy known as Psammead, were a set of the first four books about a red-headed chick and her school-aged detective group known as the “Bob-Whites of the Glen”.

Yeah.

But, see, as kid with burgeoning hormones, I admitted to being a wee bit jealous that one of the characters in Trixie Belden, Jim, was not only rich, but he was living with the best-looking gal of the series (as a newly-adopted sibling) and was kinda-sorta-not really hooking up with the main gal.  Frankly, the kid had it going on.  Plus, did I mention I was trying to impress my daycare teacher?  The first woman whom I had ever seen in a bikini–up close and personal on one of our daycare’s weekly trips to the city pool?  We’re talking hot stuff, kiddos.

As for Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.: C’mon, I was suckered in.  It’s not my fault Judy Blume wrote boy-friendly books like Freckle Juice, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and Superfudge.  I had no idea she also wrote books where the protagonist and her buddies got together in a group and steadily chanted, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust.”  Although the idea of boobies appealed to me, I’m not sure I was ready to learn about one pubescent girl’s troubles with her first menstruation.

On the other hand, I learned that Jews and Christians could marry one another, so put an X in the column for diversity and tolerance.

By the time I was well into my adulthood I had accepted my history with these books; I even finished reading the Trixie Belden series (never leave a series unfinished, especially if you’re just trying to figure out if Lucky Jim ever really got some), and managed to keep copies of that and Judy Blume’s  adolescent trap book.  So, when the Insta-Princess mentioned having read the Trixie Belden series, and how she wanted to peruse a couple of them again, I braved the waters and admitted I had those books, and boyohboyohboy would she like me to bring them up to her like right now?

I was thinking I was going to get some McLovin’, and she thought I was odd.  Still, even that wasn’t quite the straw and fragile camel’s back scenario–not until I saw her copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. sitting on her shelf.  “I’ve read that!”

Uh-oh.

No smoochies for Skip that night, huh-uh.  While my love for Chicago didn’t help my case, now I was directly in the sights of her devastating gaydar.  Of course, farces being what they are, I didn’t know any of this until later–much later–after she had been to my house, seen my lack of decorating and other clichéd heterosexual male sensabilities, decided her gaydar was malfunctioning. and laid a hotty-totty smackeroo right where it counted.  So, all worked out well.

Still, even though you’re endlessly stuck in the pages of your 1950s-era surroundings and are forever at the mercy of unconsumated relations with the gals of Sleepyside-on-Hudson, I salute you, Jim of Trixie Belden.  I mean, really, you have two chicks…

I walked out of the gallery, puzzled, unsure of the world.  Like the previous time I’d felt this way, I turned to the one person who had always been there for me.  “God?”

GO AWAY.  I’M BUSY.

“This is important.”

BUGGER OFF.

“No, really.”

FINE, BUT I’M RANDOMLY CHOOSING WHICH OF MY MORE VOCAL FOLLOWERS GETS CAUGHT WITH HIS PANTS DOWN.  HYPOCRISY IS A SWEET, SWEET GLAZE ON TOP OF LIFE.  OH, LOOK: ANOTHER REPUBLICAN.

“Yeah, but both sides–”

AND PAUL MORRISON.

“–yep, that’ll do it.”

NOW, GET ON WITH IT.  I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY, YOU KNOW.

“But, you’re God.  You can make the day last forever.”

NOT WEDNESDAYS.  I HATE WEDNESDAYS.

“Okay.  Hey, I’m doing my best to figure out life on my own, but there are some things that I just can’t work out, no matter how much thought I put into them.”

LIKE PEANUT BUTTER CUPS?  I STILL CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW THEY WRAP DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE AROUND SMOOTH PEANUT BUTTER.  IT’S SINFUL.

“No, not candy.  More like Thomas Kinkade.”

OH.

“Maybe he’s a good man, possibly even a saint, but his paintings, his life’s work, his art, they… well, they kill a little piece of my soul each time I see one.  I look into the shiny lights and instead of seeing a reassuring source of warmth, I feel all of my energy being sucked into a bright white blight, threatening to take the world with it.  I don’t get him.”

HE’S SATAN.

“Really?”

YES.  FOOLED ME, TOO.  I ALMOST PUT ONE OF HIS COTTAGE PAINTINGS ON LAYAWAY UNTIL I TOOK A CLOSER LOOK AND SAW

I SHALL DEVOUR THEE AND MAKE YON CHILDREN WAIL AND CRY AND BLEED AND TAKE MATH TESTS AND RAKE LEAVES

HIDDEN IN THE PAINT STROKES.

“That’s horrible!”

I KNOW.  MATH TESTS.  MAKES ME SHUDDER.

“But so many people think he paints in glory of you!”

LOTS OF PEOPLE TUNE INTO THE 700 CLUB, TOO.  THE WORLD AIN’T A BRIGHT PLACE.  IF PEOPLE WANT MUNDANE, IF THEY CHOOSE TO CELEBRATE MEDIOCRITY AND TO WORSHIP PAINT-BY-NUMBER , KINKADE IS THEIR GOLDEN CALF.

“But, but, can’t you do something?”

I CAN PUT MENTOS IN A DIET PEPSI BOTTLE.  IT’S AWESOME.

“No, about Kinkade!  Beelzebub!  The Lord of the Flies!”

DO?  I’VE DONE IT.  I PURCHASED STOCK IN HIS COMPANY.  WITH ALL OF THOSE POOR CHINESE KIDS HE USES IN HIS FACTORIES OVER THERE TO ‘TOUCH UP’ HIS PRINTS, THEY’RE CHURNING OUT MILLIONS EACH YEAR.  MY 401K IS MAXED OUT, AND I HAVE MORE MONEY THAN, WELL… ME.

“That’s–really?”

YEP.

“You’re still a bastard.”

YEP.

“But now you’re buying lunch.”

AMEN.

(From left-to-right: Henry, Ma Kettle, Lollipop Guild, Cleophus)

Softee’s, like, famous!

When the members of Softee walked into the room, I immediately played my hand and tried to join the band by offering up my almost magical harmonica skills.

“I’m sorry,” Steph informed me.  “You have to be pretty to join.  Duh.”

“Also,” Mimi added, “–and please don’t take this personally, because you’ve got red hair, and red hair rocks the Casbah–you can’t actually play, you know, music.”

“I didn’t know it worked like that,” I said.  “I just thought that you all being talented with La Musica was a coincidence.  I thought it was about being on stage and having star power.  I thought it was…”

“Yes?” Sarah prompted.

“… being able to shine!”

Flora looked at me, pity filling her eyes.  “That’s not pity,” she protested.  “it’s just really dusty in here.”

With the realization that, at most, all I would ever be with Softee was a part-time roadie, I thought it best to soldier on with the interview.

“Thanks for coming by, ladies.  I know you’ve been busy with the music scene and having to go to the grocery store at midnight, hair swept up and giant, dark sunglasses hiding your face so you won’t be recognized and swamped by fans, so I appreciate the little time you carved out for me today.”

“You promised us twenty clams, each,” Steph reminded me.  I whimpered a bit.  Of all the Softee gals, Steph is the one you least want to tick off.  Do you recall Jim Croce’s cautionary tale of Jim?  Well, Slim came to town and pulled on Superman’s cape; he spit into the wind, he pulled the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and Steph is his child.  I once made the mistake of snickering at the torrid affair she had with Michael McDonald (of Sprint commercial fame… and, I hear he was in a band), but she heard me, sidled up next to me with nary a sound and whispered, “I’ll cut you.”  She shreds her guitar with effortless style, and one day I fear she will shred me.

“Twenty bucks.  Right.”

As Steph silently mouthed, ‘I’ll cut you’, I tried to move the conversation forward with a safe question.  “So, who are your influences?”

“Mostly Bruce,” Mimi said.

“Bruce?”

“Lee.”  Oh.  Long before Mimi sat behind the skins and kept the beat for the band, she extensively toured Europe and Asia on the Movie Karate Circuit. Unlike other martial arts competitions where such piddling things as physics help determine movements, the Movie Karate Circuit caters to those fighters who jump, twirl and dive through the air without annoying constraints such as gravity. Lithe and fearsome, Mimi ruled the circuit for years, dispatching each would-be challenger with impossible jumps, unbelievable runs across the surface of lakes and ponds, and a single chopstick as her only weapon.  She called her style, “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Valley”.  She once tried to lend her talents to Hollywood (you can see her considerable skills in action in that ’80s cinema classic, American Ninja, where she played the role of Michael Dudikoff playing the role of a ninja), but quickly grew weary of the fame and adoration and moved to the Midwest to escape her throng of fans and ninja assassins.

“Good choice,” I said.  “How about you, Flora?”

“Waldo.”

“As in Where Is?”

“Yes.”  At first thought this is a surprising answer, but after a few moments readers will likely remember the scandal-sheet sensation of a few years ago–brought to light after nosy paparazzi photographed Flora leaving Waldo’s house in the wee hours of a weekday morning.  The news and accompanying pictures devastated Waldo’s wife, Dora the Explorer (traveling at the time), who briefly went insane, confusing Flora with one of Dora’s constant traveling companions: “Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping!”

“I was set up!” Flora exclaimed. “Think about it.  How did the photographer even find Waldo’s place?”

“Where’s Waldo now?” I asked.

“Google Maps, I think.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

I understood.  Past relationships, man, they’re a drag.  “How about you, Sarah?  Who influenced you the most?”

Sarah looked at me with those piercing, glowing red eyes.  “Are you the Keymaster?”

“Not that I know of.  Hey, Sarah, what is it?  What happened?”

“I am Zuul.  I am the Gatekeeper.  We must prepare for the coming of Gozer.”

“Okay, I’ll help you.  Should we make some dip or something?”

“He is the Destructor.”

“Really?  Can’t wait to meet him.”

Luckily, I had my proton pack stashed behind my chair, so I grabbed it, fired it up and roasted all of the Softee girls (you can’t be too careful when it comes to interdimensional, god-like travelers–could have infected the whole group).  Don’t worry, though, they should be scrubbed clean and ready for their VIP playdate at Starlight on the 26th.

“Thanks for coming, ladies,” I told the sizzling containment box at my feet.  “We’ll have to do this again.”

In “Hey, I Know That Guy!” news, one of my middle school science teachers was sentenced to fifty-one months in jail for, apparently, convincing some young girls to unrobe in front of their webcams.

“Evil mastermind!” I shouted.  “That wasn’t what he taught us in the 7th grade!”  Otherwise, science would have been a lot more entertaining.

Turns out, though, he was undone because he pissed off his landlord:

He saved the images on a computer, and an apartment manager who evicted him discovered them on the computer last year and told police.

Huh.  What have I told you kids about computer security?  Always use a password, and make sure it’s not something easily guessed like, say,  ireallyreallyreallylikenakedunderagedgirls.

On the other beaker (’cause he was a science teacher, right?), I also recall Mr. Hazlett doing his best to save a dying man after a car accident, and when the CPR didn’t work, when the man couldn’t be saved despite Mr. Hazlett’s efforts, our science teacher was simply inconsolable for days after.

So, next time, Mr. Hazlett, avoid the illegal and stick with the heroics–you’ll be a better person for it.

To begin with, it’s a passing lane. You don’t cruise in it, you don’t talk on your cell phone, make dinner plans, fiddle with your radio, or lean over into the backseat to beat your kids. Eating, phone conversations and domestic abuse can be just as easily done–and safely, too–if you pull over to the side of the road and commence with whatever activity helps you get your jollies.

The passing lane, the furthest lane on the left side of the highway, is meant to be a quick kiss, a tantalizing, teasing caress, not a prolonged Stabby-McStabbity thanks to the help of automotive Viagra. Much like your fumbling boyfriend of yon high school days, the goal for the passing lane is to get in and get out. Once your bidness is finished, don’t bother sticking around; move over and let those of us who want to go faster than you slip on by. It’s only nice. Don’t dawdle in the lane, celebrating this one small victory in your otherwise unexamined, unhappy life; don’t stay put, reveling in your small-hearted joy of knowing you’re quickly building up a line of cars behind you, each with a driver ready to visit unholy destruction not only on you, but also on your children and children’s children; and for god’s sake, don’t–please, please–actually slow down.

In addition:

• If you’re over 70 (or just look like you’re 70) don’t chance it; stay in the furthest lane on the right.
• If you drive a truck, SUV or mini-van with tinted windows, hie thee to the middle lane so the rest of us can see past you and decide whether we need to gun it around you because you’re going so slow, or because there really is a traffic snarl ahead and that’s why you’re driving like a turtle stampede.
• I’m flashing my lights because you need to move over. There’s an opening to the right–take it! And if by some glancing miracle you do move over thanks to my skilfull use high beam morse code, don’t get all pissy and immediately move back into my lane, behind me, and start tailgating and flashing your lights. Bitter passive-aggressiveness will never make you any friends. (But it might secure you political office.)
• Finally, if you’re towing anything, anything at all, stay in the furthest right lane. Be it a U-Haul, rowdy children, or grandma’s dog on a cross-country vacation, if it’s tied to your car’s back end, stay out of the passing lane.

And hey, if I missed anything, feel free to add in comments.

Look who finally decided to return to Blogsville.

Speaking of Halloween, what the hell is it with those sound effect CDs where they lump in such non-October 31st-ish sounds such as “Alien Laboratory”?  Aliens?  Really? I suppose if you lived in a trailer park, drove a pick-up held together by three wheels and a body of rust, and had a third grade education, yeah, I can see you being afraid of aliens.  Especially because of the anal probing.  (Not that anal probing is bad, per se; all I know is it’s not for me.  When I introduce people to my brown-eyed-girl, I’m speaking solely about my wife.)

Halloween is about more earthly frights such as vampires, werewolves, witches and the religious right.  I know I’m old and the kids need to get off my lawn and all, but remember the old sound effects albums our parents used to play?  Vinyl albums, man, those 12-inch discs of death could decapitate your brother or sister if thrown just right (Tip: also good against zombies).  That was a medium meant for Halloween.  You can’t get a-scairt much by cassettes or, for god’s sake, iPods.  “Oh, no!  My iPod has come to life and is… biting my ankle?  Also, why is it telling me I need to sign up for iTunes before it can kill me?”

Where was I?  Oh, yeah, Halloween albums from the good old days.  These suckers knew how to dampen your pants.  They had the screaming, the hollerin’, the wolves howling, the cats screeching, the bubbling cauldrons, witches’ laughs, and best of all, the moaning and groaning of the evil Count mixed in with the piercing shriek of a young (and assumedly hot) maiden.

That’s right, they sounded like they were bumping nasties.  On Halloween!  See?  A treat for the kids and the parents!

Nowadays I have to mix my own playlist of Halloween sounds if I want to avoid “Exploding Bowling Alley” (Seriously, it’s an honest-to-goodness real track), or “Underwater Madness”.  That last one’s just gonna make all the little kids take a piss.

I tell you, someone should put me in charge of the world so I can fix things.

Hey, I went to daycare when I was younger.  I learned things, so don’t blame me.  There were girls.  They were pretty… and they played hand games (stop that!).  You don’t say no to that, do you?  You take one for the team, you walk it off, you learn, for the sake of being next to the gals, shameful things like:

Miss Mary had a steamboat
The steamboat had a bell
Miss Mary went to Heaven
The steamboat went to–
— Hello, Operator
Please give me number 9
And if you disconnect me,
I’ll kick you from behind
The ‘fridgerator
There was a piece of glass
Miss Mary sat upon it
And broke her little
Ask me no more questions
I’ll tell you no more lies
The boys are in the bathroom
Zipping up their
Flies are in the meadow
The bees are in the park
The boys and girls are kissing
In the d-a-r-k, d-a-r-k, d-a-r-k
Dark, dark, dark!

My personal favorite, however, and the one I can’t believe is still floating around that great grey soup swishing about in my head, is the following:

Bo-bo, skee-ot-dot
Oon-not, oon-ney-ney
I am boom-boom
eenie-meenie, dot-dot
bo-bo, skee-ot-dot

Before you ask, no, I have no clue what it means.  But I do recall you were supposed to strike lightning-fast after the last line and pop the other person on the head.  Kids’ games, man–they’re frickin’ brutal.

I need to see if I can wrangle the Insta-Princess into working out the hand movements with me.  I’m rusty; maybe she recalls them.  If so, instant YouTube video.  Clearly, we’re meant to be Internet stars.

As a fair number of you know, Fall is my favorite season of the year.  Specifically, I get pretty wound up when October knocks on the door with its gift basket of chilly wind, gray skies, and general fear of something creepy lurking around the corner.

You know, Halloween.

This year, because of an unexpected turn of mildly unpleasant weather, the cool temperatures, sunless sky and constant drizzle have fooled me into thinking October 31st is waiting to spring at any moment.   I’m okay with that.  So, this morning (like, say, 4:00 when the Insta-Princess insists–for some silly reason–my proper place is in bed), I stumbled downstairs and starting rooting through our vast but only semi-organized collection of CDs.  Finally, after agonizing minutes of searching (where I accidentally found my long-lost Bat Out Of Hell II disc inside a Doobie Brothers case), I managed to pull free from the grabby mountain of musical clutter my Devil’s Dance CD.

Devil’s Dance isn’t entirely filled with spooky music, but it tries, and because of that attempt, the numbers chosen, and the masterful playing of Gil Shaham on his Comtesse de Polignac Stradivarius (accompanied by Jonathan Feldman on piano), it is, for me, the quintessential Halloween album.

Without a doubt its best number–and the most fitting for album–is Camille Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre.  Both Shaham and Feldman are at their best playing this selection; a dynamic duo without the tights and with slightly more diginity.  It was this playing that tripped my old desire to learn how to play the violin.  Unfotunately, I have little musical talent, which is probably why I’ll forever crush on Flora when she strokes the strings of her cello.

A slightly more bombastic tune, but still ghoul-worthy is John William’s Devil’s Dance from The Witches of Eastwick.  Yeah, I know, the guy who wrote the Star Wars theme and the Superman March hit one out of the ballpark for Satan.  That’s cool.

Of particular note is Giuseppe Tartini’s Devil’s Trill –or, Sonata in G Minor.  Supposedly the devil invaded Tartini’s dream and played a brilliant tune on his violin; upon waking, Tartini then tried to record what he heard.  The end result isn’t frightening (the legend of its origin is what ties it to this collection of musical pieces), but it is a very demanding piece, requiring almost insane speed and accuracy.  You don’t hear it very often for this reason, but Shaham takes it on and does a wonderful job.

So, Halloween, I have your soundtrack and await your arrival.  You great pumpkin, you.

As a kind gesture to those of us who enjoy a cheap sandwich, Planet Sub offers a 6″ turkey sub for $2.50 each time the KC Royals win.

“But, Skippy!” you protest.  “I don’t want to have to sit through a Royals’ game.  Or any baseball game, for that matter.  I actually enjoy life and want to do something exciting, like racing slugs.”

Fear not, for now there’s a solution!  No need to check the scores or watch the actual game.  Instead, just go to the following page and it will let you know whether today is a scrumptious-sandwich-for-cheap day, the boys in blue have lost (again), or if they’ve even bothered playing.

Planet Sub’s Gobble-Gobble

I know, awesome, right?