Its hard when you spot a deer to not immediately go to the image of Bambi’s mother and the emotional trauma that follows.

So it was this past weekend when a doe wandered into the field behind the family home and plopped down below a tree, that the thought occurred to me how much that deer looked liked Bambi. (Actually, all deer kind of look like Bambi.)

This doe was sitting beneath a half-fallen tree, content as can be. Shortly after laying down, a ginormous 8-point buck showed up that looked like an elephant with horns.

As an aside, years ago I was making a snowman at night. After rolling the base of my creation, I spotted a deer closing in from the side of the house, lurking in the shadows. This deer had horns and – I believed at the time and still do – that the deer was in attack formation, readying to come after me like the vicious beast it appeared to be.

Needless to say, I yelped and ran inside for cover.

However, the rest of the family laughed at me for years as no one ever spotted this elusive deer with horns…until this past Saturday. It may have taken eight years, but I finally feel vindicated!

Now back to our originally scheduled program…

This buck looked like it was checking on the doe and even sat on the ground next to it. It was…adorable. The buck eventually left, but the doe remained, sitting in the same spot. Dad believed it was resting; Mom thought it was hurt.

Either way, we let the deer be.

Throughout the day, the deer remained sitting. But soon, a scary neighborhood cat walked across the field. The deer tried to get up and run away from the pet cat – it was quite the cowardly deer – but immediately collapsed.

Clearly, it was hurt.

After trying to get a hold of the Humane Society, the policy department, Ghostbusters, Deer Removal Ltd. and the Pennsylvania Gaming Commission, we turned to the next best source – a known hunter.

He mentioned the possibility of the deer being pregnant, but admitted that it was a little late in the season for that. Apparently, deer procreation is on a very tight schedule. Since deer are most active at night, the hunter suggested waiting to see if it was still there in the morning.

The next day, the deer was there.

And the PA Gaming Commission was on their way with their “deer misery reliever” tool, which also doubles as a rifle when needed. When he arrived, I was out and about so the next section is all hearsay -

The Gaming Commission Dude spotted the deer lying motionless on the ground. It didn’t look good.

He walked across the field, getting closer and closer to the deer. When a mere five feet away, the once presumed dead deer jumped up and bolted away into the woods lining the field. All the Gaming Commission Dude could do was shrug his shoulders.

My Father joined up with the guy. The deer was still only twenty yards away when it lifted its tail and dropped a two-sie, making its feelings known on having been disturbed from its resting place.

The Gaming Commission Dude, God bless him, went up and inspected the deer dung for blood. It was a clean dump which, apparently, means the deer had no internal bleeding. Hooray for the deer.

We then learned many wonderful facts about deer and their incredible resiliency. As long as it doesn’t get gangrene and the winter isn’t particularly tough, the deer would probably survive.

When told about the buck keeping tabs on the doe – who my Mother believes was the doe’s mate – the Gaming Commission Dude had a different take on it. His theory was this buck spotted a single female and was merely trying to put the moves on the doe. While Mom holds steady in their thoughts of undying deer love romanticism, the rest of us subscribe to the “chasing skirts” theory as the buck’s main motivation for being there.

It was at this point that I returned from my errands and was told the above story. Personally, I call B.S. and doubt any of it happened. My theory is that this was a classic, “Well Jimmy, your goldfish is fine; its just in a big fish bowl up in the sky with all of its fishy friends” moment.

I’m not nearly as naïve as Jimmy so I still maintain they just put the deer out of its misery and hauled the carcass away. In the meantime, they concocted the above “miracle leap” to help soften the news of its death to Mom. However, despite my convictions, Dad did not budge on the story of the deer that looked mortally wounded before looking dead then becoming full of life and vitality as it magically lept on all fours to escape the PA Gaming Commission Dude.

Finally, we were part of a deer story without the tragedy and uncontrollable sobbing that comes with watching Bambi. Assuming the doe truly walked away on its own, I can honestly say I was involved in a moment where Mother Nature put aside her cruelty and showed that she can be compassionate to God’s creatures.

Or, it seemed that way until Mom got a phone call Monday evening saying they found the deer in a neighbor’s backyard and had to put it down since it was acting lethargic and looked to be in bad shape.

Oh well.

C’est la vie.

When I recently joined a gym, I was flooded with many welcomes as I toured the facility. During my walk through, my tour guide explained the various rules and regulations, many of which you would find at any other gym – wipe the equipment down when you’re done, wear sandals in the shower, and so on.

A couple days after joining, I soon found myself in situations that my tour guide neglected to go over.

Behind a row of cardio-equipment are some weightlifting machines. The ones I use focus on the leg muscles. I adjusted the seat, sat down, set the weight, and began pushing and lifting my legs in various directions. It was a strenuous workout that left my legs tired. As an unexpected side effect, my neck muscles got a rigorous workout as well.

You see, while sitting at the leg exercising machines, my line of sight happened to be even with the rear ends of all those increasing their heart rate on the cardio machine.

My eyes, their butts, all on an even playing field.

Whoever designed the facility neglected to consider the “pupil-to-bottoms” conundrum because, otherwise, they would have staggered the weightlifting and cardio machines. There I was, working on my quads while the focal point of my field of vision was the derriere of a woman using the stair-master in front of me.

I tried not to stare forward for too long as I was resting between reps. The last thing I wanted was to develop a reputation as a perv, even if it was an innocent mistake. I also didn’t want to keep moving my head around, left to right, up and down, fearing that the motion would bring unwanted attention my way.

As I rolled my neck, trying to vary the objects in my line of sight, I prayed that no one would come up and ask what’s wrong with my neck. Or, more awkwardly, ask me what was wrong with this woman’s bum that I kept trying to avoid looking at.

“Well there is nothing wrong with her bum and my neck is just fine, thank you very much.”

I was in an uncompromisable position for which there were no signs hanging on the wall, explaining what I should do. That wasn’t the only directionless situation I found myself in. There are other fears that I didn’t see disclosed on any of the brochures or posted on any of the warning signs scattered throughout the facility.

My greatest fear is that one day, I will accidentally – yes, accidentally – walk into the woman’s locker room.

There are simple signs hanging from the ceiling with one reading “Men’s Locker Room” and the other “Women’s Locker Room.” While there are arrows pointing to their respective entrances, this is all dependent on one to look up. Since my neck is usually sore from trying to avoid perceived leering, looking up is not always viable.

With a public restroom, I at least have the luxury of doors decorated with a rectangular bottom figure, indicating I’m about to walk into the men’s room. If there’s a figure with a triangular bottom representing a skirt, I know right away that I need the next door down.

At the gym, there is no door.

A small walkway, a quick left turn then a quick right and you’re in the locker room. It very much follows the layout of a highway rest stop. Unlike the highway rest stop though, there’s no urinals to greet me. There is a subtle relief when you first spot those porcelain indicators because its at that moment that you officially know you are in the right place (assuming you’re rocking an XY chromosome pair).

In the locker room, you are greeted merely by lockers. Simple, brown lockers. Having never seen the women’s locker room, I can only assume they look nearly identical. Although, it is possible the women might have pink lockers with bedazzled handles with perfume scented hinges and mirrors on the doors to help them apply their makeup.

Of course, this is all just conjecture at this point.

Before making the treacherous trek to the locker room where an embarrassing game of Russian roulette takes place as I decide which walkway to go through, I stopped by the gymnasium to shoot some hoops.

As I walked in, the court was crowded with guys stretching along the walls, lacing up their sneakers, and some shooting jumpers from the same spot on the floor. I crossed the court and noticed there was only one basketball remaining on the rack. I picked it up and noticed how small it seemed.

Was it deflated?

No, it had a good bounce to it.

Have my hands unexpectedly grown from my vigorous workouts?

Seems unlikely.

It may have been out-of-order, but there was no sign to say so.

This left only one other option – the object I was holding in my hands was the ladies’ ball.

I looked around, hoping no one would notice as I took the ladies ball. I debated in my mind for several minutes whether I should take it or leave it. There was no sign to guide me to the correct decision. If I was in a bathroom and the only available stall was the handicap one, I would probably use it – actually, I know I would use it, especially in an emergency situation. If there was a handicap person in the restroom, I would by all means let him take it.

Looking around, there were no women in the gym.

So I took the ball.

Part of my logic concluded that this could not be the only ladies’ ball in the gym; that would mean there was another dude shootin’ hoops with the chick ball. As I dribbled towards a hoop, I would occasionally pause and squeeze the ball with both hands so others could witness my frustration with being forced to use such a tiny ball. I felt more masculine, but still a little concerned by the dainty rock I was rockin’.

In between jump shots, I thought about what would happen If a woman walked into the gym. Was I obligated to give up the lady ball to her? Would that be gym protocol or just the gentlemanly thing to do?

Unfortunately, there was no sign hanging from the ceiling to point me in the right direction.

During my time there, no women walked into the gym. But soon, a group of guys started to gather around the far hoop. A voice hollered, “Do you want in?”

“Sure,” I replied, not really sure what I just agreed to. As I walked towards the group, I subtly bounced the lady’s ball towards the rack, thus discarding of the evidence. When I reached the crowd, I was directed to shoot the ball, which I missed.

Another guy shot and missed as well.

No one gave any indication what I was supposed to do next. Someone eventually bounced a ball in my direction and I took it upon myself to try another shot.

Only this time, I totally swished it!

I was told that my prize for making the shot was a spot on Team 2; I really didn’t know anything about Team 2; we haven’t really met. I was also somewhat unfamiliar with Team 1. And I have no idea if there was a Team 3 or not; this was all new to me and I was clearly undergoing a learning process.

As the players started to line up, I quickly realized we were about to play a 5-on-5 game of basketball. Okay, lets disclose this right now – I am not in the best of shape. I wasn’t in any shape at all, really. I just got done lifting weights as well as running on the elliptical bike and even walked a few laps.

Needless to say, my legs were a little tired.

I felt like I was D.J from that one Full House episode where she transformed into a gym rat and over-worked herself at the gym so she could fit in her bathing suit for an upcoming friend’s party. Unlike D.J., I didn’t have Kimmy Gibler or the suave and folliclely-tastic Uncle Jesse to save me from the pain and physical exhaustion that was surely about to come my way.

And I didn’t need a sign to tell me that.

I put my reservations aside and assumed that I could at least muster enough energy for a half court game of basketball. Unfortunately, we were going to play a full court game of basketball.

It took two possessions for my legs to give in.

After three possessions, it hurt to breathe.

By the time the fifth possession game arrived, I was jumping towards the rim in a reckless fashion, praying that I would land on top of another player’s shoes and roll my ankle, thus providing me a graceful exit from the game so that I may live to see another day.

The gym goes month-to-month so I’m not bound to any contract; whenever I want out, I give 30 days notice and I’m clean free. However, as part of my agreement, they make no mention as to how one exits a basketball game. There were no TV timeouts to save me or even substitutions to relieve me.

I thought about giving the guys a 30 second notice before walking out, but I didn’t have the wind to speak.

As my team ran back on defense, I found the slowest opponent to guard. These guys were running at full speed, making sharp cuts, and jumping with an unbridled enthusiasm for the rebound. While they were setting picks and calling out plays, yelling, “Iso! Iso!” I had my hands on my knees, screaming “Uncle! Uncle!” hoping the pain would stop, but the words left my mouth in a mere whimper.

I had to find a way out. There was an element of pride involved. I couldn’t just abandon a game right in the middle. Then again, I could barely breathe. I felt I had no other choice then to place my hand right below my belly button and say, “Oh, menopause.”

I imagine the other guys would be slightly confused, but they also wouldn’t argue with me. I may even be able to solicit a sympathetic nod.

As baskets were made, I kept hoping that each one was a game winner. While running down the court, I was pulling additional hamstrings I didn’t even knew I had.

Eventually, someone made the game winning shot – was it my team? I don’t remember. As the other players headed for the water fountain, I bolted to the locker room to gather my things.

My shirt was marinated in sweat and I could feel my body encased in an impermeable shell of BO. With my bag draped over my shoulder, I slowly limped away like a battered old rat towards that gorgeous, beautiful glowing red exit sign.

I recently caught up with some old friends of ours from a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

After a careful viewing of Stars Wars Episode IV, something profound revealed itself to me. Something that for so long I and many others have overlooked despite how obvious it all was. Audiences around the world were enamored with the characters as they embarked on a fantastical adventure with strange aliens, classical heroes and villains, and phallic looking glowy sticks.

The film had so much going on thematically, that any perceived plot hole was dismissed as mere nitpicking from an outsider that didn’t “get it.”

After watching Star Wars for the umpteenth time, it occurred to me that it was never adequately explained just why the audience should hate the Empire and root for the Rebels.

Quite frankly, the Empire wasn’t all that bad.

The film opens with the Empire chasing a seemingly innocent spaceship occupied by supposed diplomats. This opening scene, coupled with the appearance of a man dressed in black stepping onto the ship while ominous music played led audiences everywhere to assume that these were the bad guys. Based purely on appearances, the Empire was given a bad rap from the beginning. That’s pure stereotyping and one we, as a culture, should not condone even in outer space.

I thought we evolved beyond that. But I guess not.

Our opinions were formed before we fully understood what was at stake. It was never explained why this diplomatic ship was being chased. The implications of the information smuggled aboard R2D2 was never fully disclosed.

The only thing presented to the viewers was this black machine wearing a big helmet who went by the name Darth Vader. The reality is that ole Darth could have just been a robotic brotha cruising the galaxy with his crew.

If he was named Ron instead, we would have a different movie on our hands. The fact the guy’s name was Darth didn’t necessarily make him a bad person nor did it justify us hating the Empire. Sure, Ron Vader may sound more huggable than Darth Vader. But we must put aside our preconceived notions if we want to consider ourselves enlightened.

Hug Darth too.

I guess if the Empire were the bad guys, then our heroes of this story must surely be the Rebel Alliance, the faction in the galaxy that the audience was destined to throw their support behind. The blonde haired kid looking out at the setting suns after his aunt and uncle were brutally murdered in the desert? How could you not root for that guy and his band of cohorts.

The problem that I have is that we truly never know what the Rebel Alliance was rebelling against. Yes, we know they were fighting the Empire, but what were their motives? I think we the audience deserved a more detailed explanation for what the Rebel Alliance was fighting for. Perhaps they wanted more representation to go long with the increased taxation, a popular axiom for all rebelling colonies. But George Lucas, that nutty old goose, neglected to adequately explain the tax structure that the Empire had in place.

Quite frankly, I think the Rebels missed the star cruiser on this one. If they ever took the time to see what the Empire was accomplishing, the Rebels may have been more inclined to help in the efforts as opposed to killing innocent citizens and impeding galactic development.

It was apparent that the Empire was clearly a government focused on the galactic economy. There was no greater symbol of this than the Death Star project. Do you know how many jobs that created? That’s just to build the base too; we’re not even counting the jobs needed to occupy and run the ship as well as the maintenance and upkeep. In addition, these were all reoccurring costs thanks to the Rebel Alliance who kept blowing the darned thing up.

Some loyal fanboys may argue that the complete destruction of the planet Alderaan proved the Empire was truly evil, but I must disagree. The Rebels stole vital plans concerning the Death Star, which they intended to use for destructive purposes. Lives were at stake and the Empire clearly had a stance of not negotiating with terrorists.

And if it hasn’t occurred to you yet, let me break it to you Yoda style – Terrorist, Luke Skywalker was.

He lived in the desert; hung out with an old man with a suspiciously long beard; banded with a known smuggler and criminal in Hans Solo; and sneaked onto the Death Star and other Empire facilities with the intent to cause harm and take lives.

Terrorism, that is!

When the Death Star blew up Alderaan, some may argue that the Empire used excessive force. I for one fully support the Empire’s stance on not negotiating with terrorists. While the destruction of the planet took lives, the action was done to help prevent the further lose of life elsewhere in the galaxy.

I admit that things weren’t all fine and dandy with the Empire though. For one, their uniforms were a little drab, but I wouldn’t start a rebellion over the dress code. Despite their bland look, you can’t deny that their halls were quite neat in their star cruisers despite the heavy amount of foot traffic and robo-wheel traffic from the droids.

Despite paying close attention to the film, I found no reason to rebel against the Empire. While some may question their tactics, the worst you could say was that Darth Vader and the stormtroopers were simply misunderstood.

If you listen to a conversation at the beginning of the film, General Tarkin – the Eminem to Vader’s Dre – explained the Emperor’s plan to dissolve the government and return power to the individual galactic governments. Instead of focusing on a big government having to rule over separate and distinct galaxies, the Emperor was smart enough to recognize that impossibility and opted for a smaller government. The Emperor realized that each star systems had their own needs that could be best met by a local government.

During this transition of power, the Empire had most of their budget focused on defense spending. Again, nothing worth rebelling over. If the Rebellion ever dissolved, then the Empire would be able to cut defense spending and perhaps divert some funds towards education and other admirable projects.

Of course, we may never know what other projects and plans that the Empire had in store. Whatever they were, I’m sure the Rebels would find something wrong with it and neglect to let anyone know what their alternatives are. However, that wouldn’t stop audiences everywhere from blindly rooting for the Rebels to destroy the Empire’s well-intentioned programs while neglecting to realize just how well the rest of the galaxy could have had it if only they would have given the Empire a fair chance.

INGREDIENTS

1 Long-haired Nicolas “Nick” Cage.

1 Blonde babe.

1 Blazer.

2 1/2 Chase scenes.

1 Mysterious object.

3 Goons wearing suits.

1 Older, crew cut evil mastermind.

1 Burger King toy tie-in and/or talk show appearance.

7 Months of hype.

DIRECTIONS

Season Nicolas Cage by having wardrobe fit the long-haired thespian with a navy blue blazer.

Slowly stir in a mysterious object – a box with strange inscriptions? A tablet of sorts? – that in someway conveys the impending end of the world about to occur in 90 to 120 minutes, depending on the script. Let that simmer on a low heat.

Place Cage aside for a moment and whisk in a blonde babe in an unbelievable job position, such as the pinup girl theoretical physicist. Add large hooters for flavor and mix thoroughly.

Meanwhile, in a medium length scene, combine the goons with the evil mastermind in a delightful criminal caper. After letting that saute for a bit in a non-stick pan, top with the Cage and blonde babe mixture from earlier. Garnish with a young, comic-relief actor full of contrived jokes and a whimsical obliviousness to all of the plot holes.

Top with a melon salsa and lemon wedge.

Serve warm with a Conan O’Brien appearance.

This recipe could easily yield $150 million.

]]> http://canteenoil.wordpress.com/2009/07/01/a-cagen-recipe/feed/ 0 ajstarr http://canteenoil.wordpress.com/2009/05/28/thinking-of-the-impossible/ http://canteenoil.wordpress.com/2009/05/28/thinking-of-the-impossible/#comments Fri, 29 May 2009 02:56:24 +0000 ajstarr http://canteenoil.wordpress.com/?p=559 ]]>

I thought about my childhood before getting bored with the familiarity of it all. Instead, I moved in the opposite direction and started to ponder about the future. I thought about where I could end up, what I might be doing and who I may be with.

ButI didn’t dwell too much on those details. Rather, I was more interested in what my future self thought about his (my) life. I thought of my future self thinking back to the past (my present) and listing all of the things that he never did and that I will never do.

Most people like to talk about their life goals and dreams. Some feel compelled to brag about them, harping about the things they’ve never done but will definitely do when the time is right or the money is available. They hold onto these hopes believing, whether realistically or not, that they will all come true. In fact, some of them do come true. After all, not all of these goals are big aspirations; some hope simply for a painless trip to the dentist or sunshine on Saturday.

As I thought about myself in the future, I wanted to think about the life goals that managed to slip away. The first thing I recognized as I looked back is how I never made it to the NBA. As of today, I find myself with no other choice but to accept that my professional basketball career will never get off the ground. Even though I would be just entering my prime, the NBA draft is no longer realistic.

Growing up, I would shoot hoops out on the driveway, shouting “Reggie Miller!” as the ball left my hands, clanged around the rim awhile, and occasionally fell through the net very Reggie Miller-like. Sometimes I would post up with my back to the basket and hit a jump hook, shouting “Hakeem!” so kids in the neighborhood knew I was just like Hakeem Olajuwan, outside of the whole African thing.

Back in the day, I assumed playing in the NBA was an inalienable right granted to me upon my birth. I was destined for hoops greatness.

Turns out, I was mistaken.

Now I sit at a desk, occasionally shouting “Jack Welch!” so that those in the cubicles next to me would recognize that I am just like the former CEO of General Electric, brokering multimillion dollar deals while appeasing the shareholders. Sitting at my desk, people would think Jack Welch was sitting right there. Shave a few billions from Welch’s net worth and we’re practically twins.

As I reflected on my non-existent and never-beginning basketball career, I thought about how that means I’ll never play in an All Star game, win an MVP award, or play for the Dream Team. I also will not become a professional baseball, hockey, or football player either, now that I think about it.

I don’t even own a tennis racket so Wimbledon seems like a long shot at this point too.

Once past the sporting world, I wondered about what other things will never come true. Things that I always wanted to do when I was a kid.

Growing up, my career path was always changing. Now that I’m in the working world, I’ve realized that I will never be a cop or a fireman. I won’t be a doctor, a fighter pilot, a lawyer, or a spy.

While there’s still time for me to become an astronaut, I just can’t see it happening. My future self has been stuck on Terra Firma with no hope of leaving ground this whole time. Of course, there are probably some things I could still do that could lead to my astronauting. But I don’t think I have the energy. You need to take specific steps to become an astronaut and I haven’t even got the ball rolling, let alone looked at the hill I have to push the darned thing down.

Also, I’ll never try frog legs. My future self is okay with that. My present self has no complaints either.

I can’t picture any situation where I end up in South Dakota either. I don’t know what’s there. Beautiful countryside? The greatest burger joint? Maybe that’s where the world’s largest pie pan resides?

But I’ll never see any of that.

At no point in my life will I have bought a South Dakotan bumper sticker or a lovely South Dakotan t-shirt with a funny South Dakotan saying printed on it. My future self can only dream about what South Dakota looks like because he will have never experienced it first hand.

And you know what?

I’m okay with that.

I really don’t think I’m missing anything. Then again, I’ll never get to find out what I’m missing.

My livelong dream of spending a summer at Camp Anawanna – a place I hold in my heart and which, when thinking about it, makes me want to fart – will never come to fruition. I suppose I could go outside and salute my own shorts, but that would be weird. Right?

People say they want to learn a foreign language, but I don’t see it happening at this point. I won’t see an elephant out in the wild either. And I doubt I’ll ever have a cup of coffee with Jeff Goldblum. I’m 50/50 on this. On the one hand, it’s Jeff Goldblum; on the other it is just Jeff Goldblum, you know?

I’ll never be able to pull off wearing a tank-top unironically.

At no point do I see myself taking karate lessons.

I sincerely believe I fill visit other countries, but not nearly as many as I want.

I will never be a bus driver. I will never learn to drive a bus. Hell, I will never even sit in the driver seat of a parked school bus. There are billions upon billions of people on this planet and only a small percentage can drive a bus. If my future self keeps up with his math skills (he won’t), he would be able to calculate the percentage of humans that are bus drivers, a percentage that doesn’t include him.

Despite owning several hats, I don’t see myself ever regularly wearing a baseball cap.

I can learn to juggle, but I won’t.

I can buy a cat, but I won’t.

I can get a tattoo, but I won’t and I can’t for I would pass out at the sight of the colored tipped needle moving towards my exposed skin. My future self will have the same color skin that I live with now.

I won’t dye my hair a different color or go through this weird stage where I walk around wearing black eye liner.

As my future self does a self body-scan, he would notice that he went through life – and that I will go through life – having never gotten a nipple ring (society, you’re welcome).

When my future self is done dwelling on the missed opportunities, he will surely reminiscence about all of the exciting and thrilling things that he did manage to do. The people he met; the food he tried; the things he did and learned; and the all of the places that he went, albeit without Jeff Goldbum.

And probably without the Swedish bikini team either, but you never know. Some dreams are worth hanging onto.

Allow me to share a dream I had:

I was golfing down in Florida. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon; there were no clouds in the sky. The green leaves hanging from the trees seemed to glisten. While walking down the fairway, I ran into none other than Hulk Hogan and Jimmy “The Mouth of the South” Hart. We get to talking and start hanging out at this unnamed resort.

After we complete our round – I don’t recall what I shot, but I imagine that even in my dreams I shanked a few dozen into the woods – we head to the clubhouse for lunch. As we walk into the crowded restaurant, we run into Hogan’s ex-wife, Linda.

It was awwwwkward.

I could definitely feel the tension in the room. Things were so tense, I almost woke up.

The Mouth of the South and myself both thought it would be wise to steer the Hulkster away from his ex-wife. However, he was in a confrontational mood; I suspect that’s what made him such an excellent wrestler. While they argued at first, that quickly blew over. Soon Hogan started talking amicably with his ex-wife.

Before you know it, they decided to get back together.

To make their re-coupling official, they decide to hold a wedding reception – without the wedding part – at the resort. They planned to hold the reception in an outdoor courtyard. The area was enclosed with huge arches that were wrapped in vines. It really was a sight to behold. To further accentuate the bright blue skies and glimmering greenery, the Hogans brought in a famous decorator to dress up the courtyard. While the decorator was preparing the courtyard for the big non-wedding wedding reception, the resort owner entered and asked to see Hogan’s ex-wife’s wedding dress.

She didn’t have one.

We quickly discovered that this particular resort had this rule that anyone who used the courtyard must wear a wedding dress. Since there was to be no wedding, she didn’t have a wedding dress. Naturally, she tried to play the “Hogan card” to get an exception made, but that didn’t work with this owner. I suspected that he was more of an Ultimate Warrior fan growing up.

Hogan was quiet the whole time the owner and the ex-wife argued. I suspected this was his way of keeping the new-found peace. The argument with the owner ended with the ex-wife refusing to wear a wedding dress. This, in turn, ticked off the decorator because now all of his work was done for not. He really did have an impressive amount done in what seemed to be three minutes top.

The centerpiece on all of the tables were these white vases holding pink flowers that you could just tell the ex-wife did not like; and the decorator could tell too. I don’t know if it was the color or the simplicity of the pieces that Linda despised. I’m not too up on this stuff, whether it be in my dreams or in real life, but from what I remember, the centerpieces looked fine to me.

However, Linda clearly did not share my opinion. There was this unspoken tension brewing with the decorator. While nothing was ever explicitly said, I got the feeling there was some history between these two. They went back a ways, no doubt about it. I was curious if Hulk Hogan knew this. Part of me believed that if he did, he would have never agreed to let this particular decorator work his second wedding reception. On the other hand, love can make a man do crazy things and perhaps the thought of getting back together with his ex-wife was enough to prevent Hulkamania from doing a leg drop on the chap.

Anyways…

The ex-wife eventually agreed to get a wedding dress from a Jamaican dress designer who created her original wedding dress. It should be noted that I’m not sure if that meant she was ordering a dress from Jamaica or having a Jamaican woman fly in and create one.

Linda even agreed to keep the pink flowers and this, in turn, made the decorator happy. The pieces were starting to fall into place.

Despite the positive turn of events, something still seemed off. I gave Jimmy Hart a look and we were thinking the same thing – this reunion will never last.

You could just tell by the subtexts that there was still some unresolved conflict between Hogan and his ex-wife. We just knew that Hogan would end up getting hurt in the long run. And based on his body language, I think Hogan realized that too. But even if there was pain later, he deserved this one day of happiness and neither Jimmy Hart or myself were going to take that away from him.

After deciding to let Hogan attempt to reconcile with his wife, I awoke.

My dream was complex than most that I remember. This particular one was built using some classic sitcom plot devices. There was the “where’s the wedding dress?” conundrum that almost prevented the non-wedding from happening. And of course there was the “oh no, we pissed off the decorator! My wedding is going to be ruined!”

Despite the traditional boy meets girl plot, the dream put a little twist on these otherwise popular conventions. The ending even took a much different tone than most would have expected. Even though Hogan was getting back together with his ex-wife, you would think that would mean a happy ending.

But really, it was quite bittersweet.

I know that that happy ending would only be temporary. But my dream wasn’t about six months down the line. It was about that one moment when two botox babies came together to reconciles their differences in the name of love.

Despite the storm clouds looming over the horizon, I still have hope that the two can get back together and be happy, if only in my dreams.

They say that to truly know where you are heading, you have to first look back at where you came from. If we look back today, we can see that it has been almost ten years since the last major transition in songwriting. While the iPod may have irrevocably changed how we get and listen to our music, the turn of the century saw music move away from cheery pop songs about that special girl and, instead, zoomed in on the posterior of all the honeys in the house, the hiz house, as well as da heezy, fo’ sheezy.

Before one man led this shift in musical subject matter, songs focused on the actual derrière itself. Musical compositions such as Juvenile’s Back that Azz Up, Mystikal’s Shake Ya Ass, and Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping all extolled the virtues of the fanny, especially in its jiggling movement. These songs all harkened back to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s seminal piece on the topic.

However, in 1999, Sisqo became the first artist to truly take that common subject matter in a new and exciting direction by focusing on the female undergarments and the alluring cover they provide. Instead of going straight to the deed, this booty pioneer’s lyrics were centered around the suspense and buildup to the anticipated unveiling when boom! there dem hams be.

What better way to celebrate the 10^th anniversary of The Thong Song then to explore the song’s lyrics to get a proper prospective on how Sisqo managed to immensely glorify such a skimpy article of clothing. If one takes a closer look at the lyrics, one will find that this tune is not just a misogynistic anthem. It’s more nuanced than anyone has ever realized.

Aware of the inherent lowbrow nature of the subject matter, Sisqo embarks on this musical journey with a vocal introduction where he whispers – quite provocatively, might I add – about the things guys talk about, such as “the finer things in life.” It is clear that Sisqo, like a lot of people, enjoys a good pun. Notice the use of the word finer. It not only describes the types of things men like; it also alludes to the fine string that is the centerpiece of the thong. This little wordplay is what truly separates Sisqo from his peers. This linguistic twist puts the listener on his heels and provides a warning that there is more to this song than just sexy bottoms.

While the subject matter lends itself to criticism and snickering, Sisqo breaks down many of our preconceived notions. In fact, between the bass lines and phat beats lies a rather complex song.

One of the overall messages of the song is that we as a society can no longer hang onto our preconceived notions of race. The thong-wearing ladies are described as “just not urban, but pop cuz she was livin la vida loca.” He’s not just sampling a lyrical snippet from a radio hit; he’s breaking down racial stereotypes. It’s not only the urban crowd gawking at the thongs, but also the pop crowd and the Hispanic crowd. Together, they all enjoy a good thong. This is an article of clothing that doesn’t see color. People of all races and creeds can come together, even over a minor thing like a thong. If only more people could be like that.

It’s an optimistic song at its core.

If you only focus on the music video, themes such as racial harmony get lost amongst such vivid imagery like the beach babes shaking their hips and a hot dog being mustard. Sometimes you have to look beyond the words to see the true meaning of any song. One thing that Sisqo does to help people get past the lurid subject matter is to use the song’s structure to communicate with the listener.

One of the literary techniques used in the song is repetition. Constant singing of the phrase “da na da na” in the chorus conveys how widespread the thong phenomenon is. This phrase is also used as a metaphor to represent the similarities between thongs. The first couplet of “da na” is symmetrical to the second “da na.” This is not a mere coincidence. The dichotomy between the sets shows that in the macro-environment, all thongs are similar. The fact that this small phrase precedes each line in the chorus further represents the high number of thongs currently in use.

When you move away from the big picture and focus in on the micro-environment of this particular piece of lingerie, the “da na” and the other “da na” represents the similarities of the right and left side of the thong, if you know what I’m talking about.

Unlike other musicians, Sisqo avoids explicitly singing about the rear. Instead, he talks about everything up to that point. In this anticipatory plot about the thong and what mysteries lie underneath, Sisqo sings about the area around the thong, including the “dumps like a truck” and the “thighs like what what what.” The repeated “what” is interesting because it would almost seem like Sisqo is literally at a lose for words.

Its as if Sisqo spotted a woman wearing boxer briefs. Confused, he thinks that while biologically she may not need them for the added support, there is certainly an undeniable comfort level to them. This contrasts with the idea that a thong looks uncomfortable to wear, almost like a self-inflicted wedgie. Not to be deterred, Sisqo howls, not sings, but howls “let me see that thong!” He might as well have been telling the beach crowd to put away the granny panties for good. It’s excellent advice from the bard himself.

As part of the chorus – as well as the section that soccer moms and desktop dads alike lip sync with no shame – Sisqo sings about “that thong th thong thong thong.” It’s a little misleading what he is referring to here. On the one hand, the multiple appearances of the word “thong” could signify that the singer is focused on multiple thongs in his field of vision. Since there could be so many to choose from, he can’t afford to dwell on the brand and color of each individual pair. Instead, he speaks of the collective. The repeated use of “thong,” with no adjective to interject the sequence, shows that all thongs just aren’t alike, but rather they all hold equal value. While the color and amount of lace trim may vary widely, each thong is looked upon favorably.

Despite the strong evidence that Sisqo is singing about all the thongs in the area, it cannot be ruled out that Sisqo is singing about a specific woman and her undies instead. Repeated use of the word “thong” in the chorus could point to a low pressure system moving through the area, lowering the temperature and thus requiring this unnamed arctic babe to dress in layers by putting on multiple thongs. Listen closely and the sultry and risqué symbolism really comes through the speakers. This theory has been gaining in popularity recently as lyrical theorists point to “dat dress” that looks “so scandalous” and argue that he is singing about one dress and not multiple ones.

Then again, there may be only one dress since the other thong ladies in the club could have been wearing jeans. This, of course, does not take into account the “commando corollary” and all the titillating theories that conjures up.

These conflicting opinions is just further proof that after ten years, we’re still not truly sure of the underlying message of The Thong Song. Sisqo clearly was ahead of his time at that time, but, in due time, I feel that time will tell all about that thong th thong thong thong.

I’m losing pants at an alarming rate.

Let me get you up to speed on my investigation:

First, I have no idea at what point in the supply line my pants are getting lost. My routine is pretty standard. Once I take my clothes off, I toss them in the laundry basket. Maybe 5-7 days later, I gather a batch of clothes and take them down to the laundry room where I promptly dump the batch into the washing machine.

After 50 minutes going through the various washing cycles, I transfer the clothes to the dryer. Once dried, they end up on my bed until I decide to put the clothes away. There have been times when my clothes are placed in a temporary holding spot on my desk chair as I go to bed in my bed; my missing pants are not on my desk chair.

Eventually, my dress pants get hung up in my closet.

Somewhere in that process, I have lost two pairs of dress pants.

Like most laundry aficionados, I am well aware of the Missing Sock Phenomenon. No matter how close I pay attention, I always end up with an odd number of socks. Sooner or later, I will find a sock stuck in a pant leg or hiding inside a shirt right next to a dyer sheet. More than once, I have left the house wearing a sock on my right foot with a gray heel and on my left foot would be a sock with yellow stitching going across my toes. While they’re not an exact match, they are close enough. Besides, most people hardly notice. If they do, they rarely say anything because they’re in the same position I am.

It’s one thing to lose a sock though; it’s another to misplace a pair of trousers.

Right after Christmas, I used the sale opportunities to restock my dress pants’ inventory. Most of mine were worn at the seams and frayed at the edges. So I bought seven new pairs of pants – what can I say, I’m a sucker for the “buy ones, get ones.”

Several laundry cycles later, I was down to just six pair of pants. I was positive that I purchased two black pair of pants. However, after looking in my closet, I only spotted one. Since you normally don’t lose a pair of pants like you would a sock, I doubted my original seven and assumed that perhaps I only bought six.

But I was just lying to myself. Deep down, I knew I bought seven.

A couple weeks later, I felt like wearing my gray pants. It just felt like a gray pants kind of day, you know?

Lo and behold, my gray pants were missing too.

Something was going on.

Whoever was behind the Missing Sock Phenomenon must be to blame for my Disappearing Trouser Incident! I’m convinced that somewhere out there, there is some human being walking around in my gray pants while wearing my mismatched socks.

This whole situation is giving me a headache. I haven’t been this confused since spotting the ice cube display stand at the local Wal-Mart. Near the front, there’s a typical two door freezer with bags of ice for sale. On the front, in bright colors and fancy fonts, was a sign advertising these bags of ice as being “Healthier than Homemade!” Last I checked, ice cubes were still just frozen water. I didn’t see anyway for the Wal-Mart water to be any healthier than water at home.

They had another sign declaring “From Our Freezer to Yours!” Despite these tough economic times, it seems like these people are going through a lot of trouble to sell frozen water.

Despite being utterly baffled over Wal-Mart’s ice cube sales pitch, there was at least a valid motivation behind it – to sell more frozen water in bags.

But to steal pants?

Who would want to steal my pants? What’s the motivation for such a deed?

I went on a scavenger hunt looking for my gray pants. While I couldn’t locate those, I did find my second pair of black pants, stuck between two dress shirts.

With my second black pants found and back in the rotation, my focus was on retrieving my gray pants. I really liked them, especially how they presented my magnanimous gluts. You can’t easily ignore a benefit such as that; I had to find those gray pants!

As I thought more about it, I started to wonder if this was God’s way of telling me to dress sluttier by showing off some leg. For not working out much, I do have some pretty well-defined calf muscles. I suppose I could resort to rockin’ some shorts, but this weather is not conducive to showing off my thigh dermis.

I last wore my gray pants a couple weeks ago. I remember this because when I went home for lunch, I spilled some leftover spaghetti sauce and had to change my pants. I was curious if anyone at work would notice. Nobody noticed.

More importantly, that was the last time I saw my gray pants. They went into my dirty laundry pile, then simply vanished.

Last weekend, I did do some house cleaning and picked out several items of clothing that I intended to donate to the Salvation Army. I distinctly remember throwing my old clothes on the other side of my bedroom so as not to have them intermingle with the clothes I intended to keep.

It has been hypothesized that perhaps I accidentally threw my gray pants into the Salvation Army pile. I summarily rejected this theory as my Salvation Army pile consisted of items that I took out of my dresser; my gray pants were in the dirty laundry pile as a result of the spaghetti sauce splotch.

To this day, I have no idea where my gray pants went. Lost? Stolen? Something even more sinister at play here?

I don’t know. I have a real mystery on my hands.

I just wish I had some pants on my legs.

While Charlie Brown has always had a red head to lust after, I have finally found the cherry-topped girl of my dreams.

She’s beautiful – not in an overly sexual way, but more of a classical beauty as seen in a black and white head shot sort of way. Behind that gorgeous exterior lies a talented woman with a diverse acting range. Sadly, despite all that this red-hair babe has to offer, she is merely a one-hit wonder.

While the phrase is almost always used in reference to musicians, it still applies to the red head from Dumb and Dumber – the one true apple of my eye. Her appearance in the public was so brief, we didn’t even have time to catch her name.

Swim? Swammi?

Perhaps.

Slippy? Slappy?

Could be, but not quite…

Sweson?

Swason?

Close…

Samsonite?

Maybe.

I can never remember; I only knows it starts with an S, a vivacious letter fitting for such a bombshell.

Once the Red Head waved goodbye to Harry at the end of Dumb and Dumber, in a way, she was waving goodbye to her beloved fans as well. If I ever run into her and build up the courage to approach her, I will surely ask her where she’s been all this time. She will probably tell me how movies weren’t really her thing. She tried, but didn’t like it.

Red Head is more focused on avant garde stuff these days, the off-Broadway productions, she would say, somewhat unconvincingly. But my love for this actress would look past the lies and I would see before me the best experimental actor this world has ever seen.

It takes a special actor to gaze upon a snowman with a carrot and two pieces of coal arranged in the form of male genitalia while conveying the confusion not only of her character, but of the whole audience. Red Head was our moral compass in Dumb and Dumber. While Harry and Lloyd were the main characters of the movie, Red Head was our captain. The one character that led us into that wacky world and showed us the way – how to feel and how to react.

When she was disgusted upon hearing news of headless parrots being sold to blind wheelchair-bound kids, we were disgusted too.

When she was taken back by Lloyd complementing her nice set of hooters, we found ourselves taken aback too (but still impressed by the hooters).

And when her eyes bore deep into Harry’s while in that hotel room and she whispered softly in his ear that there was more like a one in a million chance of them getting together, she was speaking those words to us, assuring her fans that there was still a chance that the silver screen would one day turn red, painted from her flowing crimson hair.

Sadly, that day has not come.

I still hold hope that we will one day see the return of Red Head in a role fitting for this glamorous actress; the seductress with the natural red head of hair. I made her imdb.com page my home page, hoping each time I log onto the Internet that I will spot an update to her filmography to include a film that I’ve actually heard of and is being shown in theaters everywhere.

Even though she is a one-hit wonder, TBS, TNT, USA Network and the like owe their ratings bonanza to the Red Head and Dumb and Dumber. Without her and her film, the cable network’s schedule would be a little light on occupied time slots.

While driving at night with the radio turned down, my mind goes straight to Red Head. I imagine us standing by a roaring fire, looking into each other’s eyes. She slowly takes off her shirt and my eyes wander south, only to be interrupted by the headlights of oncoming traffic as I swerve back onto the right side of the yellow line and the memories of our moment drift away. As I focus back on the road ahead, I hope my mind once again mimics the same daydream that Harry had in the movie.

There’s no reasonable explanation for her to exist only in my fantasies and in a one-hit wonder, nor any sign of her cold streak coming to an end. While I’m sure her role in The Chumbscrubber was just as memorable as her cameo in Becker, I will not be satisfied with anything but another starring role fit for a red head.

Most actors who appear in a one-hit wonder soon find themselves type-casted in a similar role, but not so for the Red Head. You couldn’t pin just one role on her. Picture the mountain scene. The Red Head, dressed for winter, darting down the side of a mountain. Her knees bent at a slight angle as she raced down the slope and gracefully turned her hips to come to a stop for a wide angle shot, showing off her Bond babe potential. A poster shot if there was ever one, only interrupted by the realization that her companion’s tongue was stuck on a frosted pole.

When not engrossed in an action scene, Red Head showed the necessary timing and free will needed for physical comedy as seen in her race to the top of the stairs with Harry. Walking up the stairs is not inherently funny, but with the Red Head’s primp posture and short steps, she turned the mundane task into brilliant comedy that brought back memories of vintage Vaudeville with men in hats moving out to piano playing shysters every time it comes on air.

From action to comedy, Red Head was more than capable of performing in a dramatic role as evidence by her concern for a briefcase. With thoughts of a mere inanimate object hovering overhead, she successfully transferred concern over her abducted husband onto a briefcase. The subtle twitch of her forehead when thinking about the location of the missing ransom money conveyed such emotion and displayed such a dramatic flair that if you look closely, you could spot the faint glimmer of Oscar.

Somewhere out there is this nameless, one-hit wonder. Maybe she became a recluse, wanting to avoid the cameras. But that twinkle in her eyes that millions of cinema fans saw when she listened intently as Harry explained his life goal of one day owning a worm store with his best bud Lloyd was enough to have everyone in the audience convinced that she would return some day. After all these years, I still have hope that she will break out of this one-hit wonder shell. While Charlie Brown could never get his red head, I remain steadfast.

Perhaps one day I will be united with my Red Head as she makes a grand return to film. Audiences around the world will flock to the theaters to adore her, leaving me to fight my way through the ticket lines and box office bullies in order to catch a fleeting glimpse of this starlit before her hair begins to gray.

I was trying to come up with something new to write about. Something amusing, maybe a little funny. Ideally, I would like to offend certain sections of the populace if I could. It’s been awhile and I wanted to write the perfect post that hit all the right chords.

As I thought about it, something became immediately clear – this world is ready for another Lenny Kravitz album. I was going to write about Lenny reappearing on the music scene with his long hair and shirtless aura. I was going to talk about the ladies letting their eyes wander towards Lenny’s groin cleavage as his pants were always sitting a little below his waist. What better way to celebrate the new year than with a guitar wielding, radio-friendly Lenny Kravitz just doing his thing.

In order to have a fully engaging “Web log” entry, I did my research as to when ole Lenny last released an album.

1998?

2002?

I turned to my trusty discography to see when Mr. American Woman himself last had an album out. I wasn’t sure the exact date, but it felt like its been a long time. As it turns out, that son of a bitch released an album last year.

On February 5, 2008, the world was introduced to “Its Time For a Love Revolution” and so ended my dream of having a smorgasbord of “Fly Away” puns. Here am I, getting ready to make a plea for the return of Lenny Kravitz only to find out that he not only made an appearance, but also released a halfway decent album from what I could gather from the reviews.

The intended post would have had a healthy dose of nostalgia with a smattering of sarcasm. I was also planning to use some nifty adverbs too. Unfortunately, you’ll never get to experience them thanks to a bad decision made by the 2001 Blockbuster Entertainment Award winner.

You may have been America’s favorite male artist back then Lenny, but because of your actions on 2/5/2008, you just disappointed an avid music lover. Now, when “Are You Gonna Go My Way” comes on the radio, I press the mute button, turn my back to the speaker and walk the other way.