A Call to Arms

Growing up, much of my time was spent in a school cafeteria. Most of it was spent eating lunch during the school day, a sometimes edible treat to help give my mind a break. But when the school closed for the weekend and the night sky blanketed the city, the cafeteria turned into the hottest night club in town.

The most reasonably priced DJ was set up near the stand where the little paper cups of Jell-O used to jiggle during lunch. Strobe lights were stationed on either side of the two main speakers.

The place was packed; the music was bumping – absolutely bumping, I say – and undoubtedly the boy’s bathroom was victimized by some vandal.

While out on the dance floor, there was not a hipper, cooler dance move that a person could pull off than “raising the roof.” The choreography was brilliant in its simplicity. Simply extend your arms out to the side; bend your elbows at 90 degrees; open your palms to the sky and move your arms up and down, thus raising the roof and anything else above you, including the industrial air conditioning unit.

Back when Dré and Snoop rolled straight out of Compton and into our hearts, “raising the roof” actually meant something. It was the ultimate status symbol for the youth of America and their love of structurally sound architecture. Over the years, the dance move escaped the darken school cafeterias and spread like an irony-laced wild fire, straight into the suburbs. Little old ladies who could barely lift a spoonful of soup – let alone lift the roof of a gazebo – could be seen raising the roof while playing mahjong.

When someone is looking to bust out a brief, impromptu dance move, they usually rely on raising the roof. They would never get the same, full elbow extension that we did back in the day. Instead, they would do more of a “placing a box on a high shelf” type of maneuver. Now, more than ever, “raising the roof” has been relegated as the go-to move for comedic dancing. Drew Carey has become a master of this. People like this are mere posers who got trapped below the glass ceiling. With minimal head room, the only way for the haters to escape was to take our beloved treasure and turn it into another Macarena. There are now a whole generation of kids who don’t know what it means to raise the roof with sincerity in their souls.

Before the bingo junkies and witless comedians came about, “raising the roof” was more than just a dance move. Moving our arms up and down in unison was something special to us. We didn’t gather in low-lit cafeterias, stepping over the day’s Salisbury steak stains on the floor, for nothing. (Friday’s Salisbury steak stains were usually Monday’s beef tips over noodles.) There was a roof above us and it must be raised to the beats of Diddy and Biggie and Tupacky.

Throughout history, the roof has played an important role in music. There’s the controversial pro-arson song proclaiming the roof to be on fire. Perhaps after previous generations destroyed the roof, Generations X and Y convened to rebuild the roof, thus leading the way towards raising the roof.

Limp Bizkit has performed many a concert on the roof, presumably to provide easy access to a ledge to all those who got sucked into buying Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water to jump off of (I don’t care if you did it all for the nookie; you can just take that cookie of yours and stick it in your yeah, you get the picture).

After having our dance move stolen from us and belittled by the masses, it is time to take it back. Gather in your converted cafeterias and downtown night spots! Raise the roof with pride! If your palms get sweaty and you fear that you may lose a grip on the roof, count on your fellow roofers to help share the load. By working as one, we can strip away the sarcasm and expose the ironic roof raisers while sharing in the idea that we will not be crushed by the weight of the world! By once again raising the roof, our uplifting dance move can help show that despite all the troubles that may come to cloud our hopes and dreams, the sky is still clear and blue. Those hopes and dreams are obtainable anytime we gather in a group to knock down walls and raise the roof.

United, our arms shall once again raise up towards the roof and beyond.

The Requisite Long Time, No Blog

OMG! It’s been such a long time since I last posted that I just had to blog! Not much has been going on here. I’m just sitting in my room, rockin out to some Jovi, and drinking some “Pepsi.” LOL!!!!!

I can blame so many things for going so long without blogging. I think I’m spending too much time on the YouTube. I swear I’m there every day! I’m also catching up on my summer’s reading list. Turns out my list was too long that I spent much of the time just reading my summer’s reading list instead of any of the books on it. I thought it was good, albeit a bit hackneyed.

Let’s see, what else…

I’ve just been trying to find the right balance between shampoo and conditioner. I want to moisturize my hair but sometimes I think I’m going too far. I try reading the back of the bottles to see what they say, but they’re written in three different languages and I can’t just find what I’m looking for, you know?

Oh! I can’t believe what happened. I went to the store, you know. Right there in the mall and this shoe was totally on the ground and people were walking by it, pretending not even to see it. Then I saw it was a size 10.5 and I knew it wouldn’t fit so I just left in there. Can you believe that? I barely can and I just wrote the thing.

I went to dinner and as I was looking over the menu, nothing really caught my attention. There was certainly items I would eat and even enjoy, but not a real go-to dish. So I decided to get the hamburger. For a $1 more, I totally made that a cheeseburger. Any ways, the waitress comes by the table to take our order; she asks for my side dish. Without even thinking, I said onion rings. But the more I thought about it, I realized that there will be onions on my cheeseburger. Do I really need two servings of onions?

I tried to justify it at first by saying that the onions on the burger will be raw while my onion rings will be cooked and deep fried. In the end though, both sets of onions are going to have ketchup on them. At this point in my life, I don’t really need that much onion. I waved the waitress over and changed my order to a side of French fries and to this day I am completely satisfied with that decision.

Peace out.

Post Race Interview With Someone Probably Named Daryl

we were runnin’ hot at the beginn’ right there felt like a convoy all packed up there right there we started to pull ahead of the pack we started off good in the first turn it was pullin’ us up but we kept it down and the guys in the pit did a good job on the lug nuts when we rolled into the pits going down the stretch near turn three i saw daryl coming up but the playtex chevrolet 57 car was runnin’ heavy today especially this time of the season i was able to get roun’ the track was slick especially when we rolled into the pits the carburetor was lubed well pistons i heard good i saw them wave the yellow flag back back on lap 35 i think the chevy was runnin’ good still goin’ around turn four i couldn’t see what happened at the time with all the smoke i thought dale swerved to avoid tony there comin up on the bank some oil on the track as kyle slowed it looked like the rear wheel confibulator was conflused off the shaft as the chevy pulled up i swerved to avoid the caliper or else i would have to roll into the pits the sun was bright going down the stretch the spotter could barely see and i saw the lead comin’ up near the front as i took that turn the bugs were splatterin’ on the windshield but my crew chief dale called off wanted to hold off so i took off right down the stretch till i rolled into the pits i thought it was good race leadin’ right there in the chase ran well on gas i saw the air flow was light comin’ into turn two at lap 78 but i knew we had the gas to get through lap 80 when the tracks were still pullin’ up on the bank the volume knob fell off goin’ on down right thru the pass n’ surprised when I saw the dang ole white flag wavin’ while the engines were out runnin with their woo woo woo so i play cowboy to ‘em ‘ngines dale hear the bang bang bang and daryl daryl and the guys in the pit come right there saw some back fire with the exhaust so we roll right back into the pits i tell ya

The Devil Went Down to Georgia…and He Took a Penske!

There are differing opinions on when a boy becomes a man. Scientists will say a boy reaches puberty around 13 years old and continues through high school. Psychologists will point to certain psychological bench marks of human development that occur with every boy. Philosophers, meanwhile, will say a boy becomes a man when he does.

I don’t know what the prevailing theory is at the moment, but ladies and gentlemen, I can make a strong case that one doesn’t truly become a man until they are thrust upon the captain’s chair of a Penske truck.

When my brother moved to Ohio, I had the pleasure of grabbing hold of one of these wheels. You stick the key into the ignition and can feel hairs just growing out of your chest. It was unadulterated testosterone.

If it had a diesel engine, anyone in the vicinity would be in danger of getting pregnant.

Oh, it was quite manly.

Outside of the high manliness factor, this truck had many wonderful features. There was the rearview mirror that looked back upon a wall of the school bus yellow of the cargo bay.

It had the type of shocks and springs that sent every bump in the road, every minuet crack, and every rumble strip trickling up my spin and scattered throughout my body. My nerves now have a permanent tattoo of the topography of route 271 thanks to the big Penske truck.

There was no navigation system, no CD player, not even cruise control. But there was plenty of oxygen and blind spots that were about the size of a midsized sedan. Which was unfortunate…

While driving this big truck, I couldn’t feel manlier. As I shifted the Penske into drive, I could hear Tim Allen grunting in the background.

It took awhile to get a feel for the truck, including getting used to the fact it took twenty miles of road before the truck got up to speed. But once rolling, there was nothing I looked forward to more than passing other cars on the highway. While most drivers reserved the left lane for passing, I used the right lane to pass a Prius so I could have my exhaust pipe puffing smoke right in the hybrid’s grill. I would watch in the side view mirror as plumes of smog poured out and stained the Toyota’s “Solar-Powered Yellow” paint job.

There were plenty of trucks on the road, but naturally, I held a certain affection for my fellow Penske drivers. As I would pass one on the road, I would turn to look out the window with a wide grin on my face as I waved frantically to my Penske Pals. They wouldn’t always respond, but I knew that they knew if I had a CB radio, we would have totally been homeys. Holla!

However, one of the trucks on the road that was keeping up with my brisk, 60 mph pace was a Dodge Sprinter. The driver thought we could be truck buddies, but that wasn’t possible. This was a Dodge Sprinter. A glorified minivan driven by a soccer mom who couldn’t appreciate life on the road like me and my Penske Pals could. She was a wannabe and I couldn’t help but try to drive her off the road, if only the Penske had the proper steering capabilities.

After spending hours in the truck, I felt I got to know it intimately. Sadly, it was time to return the truck. I didn’t spend too much time thinking about where we were returning it. However, I just assumed that it would return to a giant lot full of Penske trucks. As it turns out, that couldn’t be further from the truth.

The place we dropped the Penske truck off at was a storage center with plenty of garages for rent as well as a sign that they now rent boxes!!! Also, they rent Penske trucks. We walked into the cabin, only to spot the Dude and the Dude’s wife. We handed over the keys and the Dude’s wife, in a chipper voice, grabbed her clipboard and said, “Let’s go look at the truck!”

Indeed.

Out we went and the Dude’s wife walked around the trunk, turned it on, jotted some notes on her board. Everything one would expect from a respectable Penske renter.  She came over and said, “Everything looks fine, except…”

Oh? I drove the truck. I knew it better than anyone and I saw nothing wrong with it.

“You actually got the truck with a full tank of gas and right now it is only 7/8^th filled.”

Excuse me? We just came from a gas station. We filled the big ole truck up. It was filled. It was passed the F line.

The thing was, the Dude’s wife didn’t have an electronic device to detect how much gas was in the tank. There certainly wasn’t a console that displayed such information. She obviously didn’t siphon the gas out to manually measure to a 1/8 how much of the tank was filled. This woman was looking for a few extra bucks. After all, she was about to head off to lunch.

The gas gauge wasn’t even broken up into 1/8ths. Perhaps I should have been more suspicious when I noticed the Fractions for Dummies book sitting on her desk.

Life Lesson #135: Just Back Off

I have been told that there are some people you just can’t put a saddle on. You can try and throw a saddle on them, but they just run away.

For some, you really can’t blame them for running. What if a fat guy threw the saddle and was looking for a free ride? Nothing against fat dudes, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea to have that much weight pressing down on your back. The local chiropractic association clearly frowns upon such behavior.

For those people that can be saddled, stand next to the individual, grab the saddle with both hands, twist your body slightly, and then twist back while tossing the saddle onto the upper back of the saddle-accepting person, or SAP. The saddle should slide slightly down the SAP’s torso before coming to a complete spot, at which time you can get on the saddle if you so choose.

If there is no SAP nearby, you are to be advised to chuck one of those saddles onto a mule. I have yet to meet a mule you couldn’t throw a saddle over. On a related note, I have also yet to actually meet a mule and so I’m not entirely sure what one looks like. While thinking that I’m in the process of throwing a saddle on a mule, I may actually end up saddling a hippopotamus, an animal that is not too fond of being saddled.

A mule, on the other hand, is accustomed to having saddles thrown on its back. It’s the good thing about mules – their easy saddle-ability. Although, they smell. So it’s best to buy an odor-free saddle to throw onto your newly acquired mule. Alas, poor mule. But luckily, you are getting something to throw a saddle on.

Unlike a mule and some people, fishes do not lend themselves to being saddled. If you catch a forty-pounder and that fish swallows the hook, all you have is one wounded and very distraught fish – not the kind of conditions one looks for in a saddle target. Combine that with the fish-out-of-water syndrome and there is nothing about this that screams ideal saddle throwing conditions.

Since we are being honest here, let me just say that I have never come across any situation, involving any animal – fish or otherwise – that screams “Ideal saddle throwing conditions. Hey everyone! We have ideal saddle throwing conditions over here!”

Knowing that really makes this whole argument a moot point.