Bone’s 3rd Annual Festivus For The Rest Of Us

I’ve written quite a bit about Festivus on this blog. Well over twenty posts make mention of the F word, with several of those dedicated solely to that greatest of all non-religious, non-commercialized holidays. So when you do a google search for “festivus traditions” guess what comes up #2, right behind Wikipedia?

That’s right, friends. Me. Number two! Behind my beloved Wikipedia! Do you realize what this means? Well, neither do I. But rest assured if I figure out what it means that I will take whatever it means very seriously. I can only hope I have made Frank Costanza very proud.

With that being said, the day is fast approaching. I sent out my Evites today. Bone’s 3rd Annual Festivus For The Rest Of Us Shindig, Banquet, and General Gathering Of Discomfited Individuals will be held Saturday, December 22nd, at 6 PM. And you’re all invited!

Sequels often leave something to be desired. But hopefully, this one will be kinda like Friday the 13th, Part 3, except without all the violence. Or the brief nudity. Or the hockey mask.

Don’t worry about bringing anything, either. Though I will need one of you to be in charge of coats. (No “man furs” please.) And I’ll need someone else to stand by Gabe Kaplan’s tank and make sure no one taps on it.

I might also recommend that you have some sort of signal in case you get into a bad conversation with someone. Head patting is good. Although personally, I prefer the slightly more subtle chicken wing.

So many great memories have already been made during the first two Festivus celebrations, most occurring during the Airing of Grievances. Like last year, when Lil Bootay said she didn’t like Three Word Wednesday.

My response? “Oh yeah? Well, the jerkstore called. They’re running outta YOU!” OK, so I didn’t really say that. I didn’t think of it until after everyone had left. But that line would’ve really smoked her! Don’t you think?

Again this year, I’m planning to serve pizza for the Festivus Dinner. We’ll watch “The Strike” episode of Seinfeld. And of course, we’ll have the Festivus Pole and the Feats of Strength. All the usual Festivus Traditions you’ve come to know and love.

Although due to an obscure city ordinance, there’ll be no cockfighting this year. So we’ll have to think of something else for the Feats Of Strength.

And now I leave you with one of the memories burned into our brains from last Festivus. And don’t worry, the party wasn’t this wild the whole night. People were just hopped up on Twix and black and white cookies at the time.

The lyrics for “Silver Pole” written by Bone. Music by Jay Livingston and Ray Evans. Proceeds from Festivus will benefit Kramerica Industries: A solitary man with a messy apartment which may or may not contain a live chicken. And the Human Fund: Money for people.

“All these worksheets, grievance worksheets, lined with blanks yet to fill. In the air there’s a feeling of terseness…”

Grillmaster B

“And so, in honor of the laborer, we do hereby create Labor Day. It shall be a day of rest, upon which the laborer may eat, watch TV, and nap liberally and unashamedly.” ~ An unknown 21st Century blogger

I hope you all had a wonderful Labor Day. My day began at the crack of 11:45 AM, with the first order of business being grill assembly. Well, actually the first order of the day was eating a toaster strudel, followed by the second order of the day, showering. But you get the idea.

Once I unpacked the grill and unfolded the instructions, I saw that there were no words, just pictures. Tiny diagrams filled with numbers, dotted lines, and arrows. It looked like a cross between a blueprint and a rebus.

Assaying the situation, I knew that what I had hoped to be a late lunch was most likely going to turn into supper. Or at the very least, lupper. It was an accurate assumption on my part.

The grill was completed around 2:00. It felt good to have assembled something and for once in my life not have any parts or pieces left over. I feel things like this prepare me for when I begin to replenish the Earth with my seed and have to assemble things like cribs, swingsets, and diapers.

Now that the grill was standing on four legs and did not appear as if it was going to fall, it was time to put on my proverbial chef’s hat and begin my transformation to Grillmaster B (not to be confused with Grandmaster B, Thighmaster B, or Bed Wetter B).

Every man believes he has an innate and extraordinary talent for grilling, that within each of us lies an ability to achieve pyro-culinary greatness. And I am no different.

There seem to be fewer opportunities in this day and age for a man to find his inner caveman, but grilling is one of those. There is something inherently manly about cooking over an open fire. Something very primitive about providing food for the entire cave.

Standing there yesterday donning my khaki Gilligan hat, wielding a set of tongs in one hand and wearing a decorative pot holder on the other, I can honestly say that I’ve rarely felt more like a man.

For yesterday, I grilled.

Then I napped.

I am man. Hear me snore.

“And as I think back, makes me wonder how the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia…”

September Saturdays

Football season starts today! In celebration–and also thanks to Labor Day–I’m in the midst of a four-day weekend. By the way, how long does a weekend have to be before it stops becoming a weekend? I mean, if I took Tuesday off as well, would that be a five-day weekend? At some point, don’t you just have to say you took a week off?

Football doesn’t signal the beginning of Fall, but serves more as a harbinger of it. Summer is slowly tiring. The weather is still hot, but the days are growing shorter. Today, we’ll be in shorts and short sleeves. But soon, we’ll be in jeans and long sleeves, the familiar autumn chill evoking thoughts and memories and feelings as only it can.

Today the population of Tuscaloosa will swell from 80,000 to 180,000 or more. People will arrive hours before kickoff. Some arrived days in advance. The streets will be buzzing with activity, the campus redolent with the smell of barbecue and burgers.

The stadium will be packed in anticipation not just of a new season, but of a new coach and a new era, hopefully one that awakens feelings and memories of an earlier time.

They’ll strike up the band and the players will run onto the field, a sea of crimson spreading across the lush green. Both occurrences will elicit cheers from the crowd while at the same time bringing chill bumps to many in attendance.

There will be sons and daughters attending their very first game, and others who haven’t missed a game in years. They’ll sit next to each other, young and young at heart, decked out in their crimson, gray, and white, donning their houndstooth caps.

But all will share the same burning hope and desire. To watch the Tide roll on a Saturday evening in Tuscaloosa.

“Well, there’s a football in the air, across a leaf blown field. Yeah, and there’s your first car on the road, and the girl you’d steal…”

Bachelor on Aisle Seven

If by some rare cosmic occurrence the stars do indeed align at some point in the future and I get married, I have a feeling I will not be allowed to do the grocery shopping for the family.

I really should live blog a trip to the grocery store one day. Despite what you might think, it’s not all reaching items on the top shelf for attractive female shoppers. Rather, I think a typical shopping trip for me would best be described as laid back chaos.

For starters, I don’t make a list. Ever. I mean, that’d be like Hendrix playing with a capo, or Van Gogh painting by numbers. The art and freedom of expression would be lost.

I did employ a no buggy rule for a long while, only purchasing those items I could carry in my arms, hands, and balanced on my head. But lately, I’ve been fudging on that rule and going with the cursed shopping cart, and it’s been costing me.

Saturday, I came home with a jar of bacon bits. Nevermind that I had no lettuce, nothing with which to make a salad, nor anything else on which bacon bits could be used. They just looked good. This is a perfect microcosm of my grocery issues. By the way, I got Hormel real bacon bits, not imitation bits. That’s important, somehow, for when I’m eating them out of my hand.

I failed to purchase milk because I thought I had some at home. Well, I did have some at home, only it had expired one day earlier. I’ll drink it up to two days past expiration. After that, it’s a crap shoot. No pun intended.

I also purchased a half loaf of bread. I always purchase a half loaf of bread. When I came home, I threw away my previous half loaf of bread which had expired about a week earlier, and of which I had only used five slices.

Five slices is probably the most I’ve used out of a loaf of bread in five years, and one of those I tore up and fed to a cat who has taken up residence beneath cars in the parking lot.

And don’t even get me started on produce. It’s good for two days, max. And when you’re only going to the grocery store once every ten to fourteen days, that doesn’t work so well. I’ve thrown away enough bananas over the years to feed every monkey in Malaysia.

Even when there is a product I’m absolutely sure I need, there are usually several options to choose from. There’s skim milk, 1%, 2%, whole, and even something called half and half, which personally I find a bit offensive, but whatever.

With many items, there are name brands and store brands and generic brands. Depending on the item, the difference in quality may be great or it may be negligible. How’s a bachelor to know?

And then there is tissue. To me, the issue of tissue comes down to one basic choice, comfort versus quantity. For a similar price, one may procure a 4-pack of durable 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott tissue, or a 4-pack of soft, velvety 300-sheets-per-roll Charmin Ultra.

Early on in my bachelorhood, I opted for the latter. They lure you in with commericials filled with clouds and feathers and teddy bears. But those tiny rolls run out fast! Pretty soon, you’ve got a two-pack-a-week habit. I felt like a chain smoker.

There are few things a bachelor hates more than leaving the house, er, going grocery shopping. So I changed philosophies to the more economical solution of quantity over comfort.

Let me tell you something, they shouldn’t even be allowed to call that Scott stuff “tissue.” It should be called construction paper on a roll, because that’s what it is. It’s a tad abrasive. I think it may be the same stuff they use to dry off elephants in the circus after they wash them.

Now I’m as rugged as the next guy, but we all have our limits. Needless to say, I’m back on the feather and cloud wagon, and my happy tail is back to buying a four-roll-pack a week.

Some might ask, “Bone, why not buy in bulk?” And to those I give a squinty-eyed look of confusion and say, “…Huh?”

I am Bone, the disorganized, disoriented shopper. Look for me in the frozen foods section of your favorite grocery store or supermarket. I’ll most likely be wearing that same squinty-eyed look of confusion.

“I got rice cooking in the microwave. Got a three day beard I don’t plan to shave…”

A man’s couch is his castle

The first year and a half I lived away from home I had a roommate. It was the first time for both of us to be on our own. Each of us had a bed, a small TV, a chest of drawers, and that was pretty much it. We basically had nothing.

People don’t really throw formal housewarmings where they shower you with gifts from the Martha Stewart home collection for single heterosexual guys. At least no one did for us. Then again, we didn’t register anywhere, so maybe it was our fault.

My parents gave me their kitchen table and bought me a small microwave. I also received a plaque from my girlfriend’s sister which read: “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.” I proudly hung it over the toilet, though I still sprinkled occasionally. I think it was the only thing hanging on the walls in the apartment for, um, a lengthy and indefinite period of time.

Since we now had at least one piece of furniture in the kitchen and both bedrooms, that left only the living room remaining to be furnished. I put my 13-inch-TV and small TV stand in there. But still, the room seemed empty somehow, like something was missing.

Ah, yes. A place to sit. A couch, love seat, lawn chair, milk crate, something in that vein.

My favorite aunt happened to have an old couch in her basement which she gave to us. The edges of the cushions had begun to tear, but we didn’t really care. Oh, and did I mention it was not exactly the manliest of colors?

The fabric consisted of a floral pattern largely made up of pastel pinks and greens. So there we were, two young, strapping, virile, well-dressed bachelors, welcoming guests into our home to sit on our pink and green couch. Look out, ladies.

Still, we were in no position to be picky. It was something to sit on, and we were thankful to have it. Thrilled, actually. At that time in my life, free used furniture seemed like about the best thing in the world.

I happened to have an old red bean bag which had seen it’s better days that I placed in the living room as well. Now you might think that a bright red bean bag would clash with the soft pastels of the couch. And you would not be incorrect. But when you’re first moving out, things like that really do not matter so much.

That feeling of being on your own, learning to make ends meet, discovering the culinary and financial advantages of Chef Boyardee and Ramen, running out of clean underwear for the first time in your life, those are priceless life lessons.

Priceless, not unlike a free pink and green couch.

“I hate coming home to this old broken down apartment. I wish I had a dime for every hole that’s in the carpet…”

…But somebody’s gotta do it

From Seinfeld episode #70, The Lip Reader:
Kramer: “Hey Jerry, do me a favor. The next time you see that lineswoman ask her how those ball boys get those jobs. I would love to be able to do that.”
Jerry: “Kramer, I think perhaps you’ve overlooked one of the key aspects of this activity. It’s ball boys, not ball men. There are no ball men.”
Kramer: “Well, there ought to be ball men.”

Lately, I’ve been considering looking for a new career. Or, as some might say, looking for a career. Obviously, my first choice would be to go from being the unpaid-disseminator-of-three-words to a well-paid-comfortably-living-writer. But what if that doesn’t happen? I don’t want to be sitting around in my mid-30’s playing Nintendo and not knowing what I want to do with my life.

So I’ve been keeping my eyes open, and I’ve discovered there are a ton of fascinating career opportunities out there. And though I’m not quite sure how one would go about obtaining any of these jobs, let’s look at a few now:

Career Option #1: Lindsay Lohan’s driver

I was watching a VH-1 special this morning on the troubles of the voluptuous one. Now as I see it, the majority of Miss Lohan’s legal troubles stem from driving under the influence.

Solution? Stop her from driving. And who better to drive around one of the great, misunderstood thespians of our time than yours truly?

The advantages would be tremendous. I’d live in California, could serve as both her father figure and trusted confidant, and in all likelihood I would be credited with helping to save her career and she would owe me big time.

Career Option #2: Commercial Lobster Fisherman

Last night, I was watching Lobster Wars on Discovery. Now I’ve heard people say this is a dangerous job requiring you to risk your life every single day. Friends, I risk my life everytime I sprint up and down the stairs in my apartment, running from whatever might be chasing me. Believe me, I’ve had a number of close calls!

Besides, not everyone on these boats are leaning over the railing risking their lives, right? I’m sure they have people who remain solidly in the center of the boat. Maybe I could work down in the hull, in the boiler room or something.

Wonder if I could get a note from my Mom. “Bone has a bit of an equilibrium problem. Please excuse him from hanging over the side of the boat and any other activities in which he might possibly die. Also, he dislikes loud noises and sometimes gets a tummy ache after he eats Mexican food.” Wonder if that would work.

Career Option #3: Women’s Pro Beach Volleyball Linesman

I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh on TV last weekend when the camera panned to this guy just standing at the corner of the court, signaling whether balls were in or out.

Where do I sign up! I could do that. I’m already sitting here in my underwear eating Doritos watching them. Why not put on my board shorts and watch them in person while getting some sun. Heck I could even apply sunscreen to the girls and get water for them during breaks in the action. I’m nothing if not a multi-tasker.

Don’t discount this idea. Someone is doing this job right now. Why shouldn’t it be me? They wouldn’t even have to pay me.

Career Option #4: Sideline Cord & Wire Untangler

I go to a good number of college football games. Anytime the games are televised, there are several people who follow the camera operators and reporters around on the sidelines, holding their cords and keeping them straight.

I’m not sure what the prerequisites for this job would be, but I’ve always been good at getting shoe laces unknotted. I keep my garden hose coiled nicely when not in use, and I have braided a girl’s hair before, in a standard, three-strand braid.

The benefits to this job would be tremendous. I’d get to travel around the country, take in a little football, and might even bump into Erin Andrews. Again, salary optional.

Career Option #5: Reality TV Show Star

This is probably the most obvious and natural career move for me to make. Here’s the premise of the show. I would play the protege of a big-name celebrity, say for example, Scott Baio. The show could be called something catchy like, oh I don’t know, Scott Baio Is 46 & A Mentor.

Scott would serve as my relationship mentor, with Nicole Eggert starring as my love interest. Since Scott is already unknowingly my relationship mentor, the transition would be seamless. Season one guest stars would include Henry Winkler and Willie Aames. Who wouldn’t watch that!

There you have it, just a few of the career options stretched out before me on that vast horizon known as tomorrow. As you can see, the future looks bright for Bone.

“I study nuclear science. I love my classes. I got a crazy teacher. He wears dark glasses…”

Joe Namath, Mom, & Existential Questions

28 days until the first Alabama football game!

I suppose I have reached the point in my life where I have begun to ask myself certain questions. What is life? What is real? Who am I? How in the world is Jimmy Kimmel’s talk show still on the air?

While we may never know the answer to that last one, today I want to focus on the Who Am I question. Or more precisely, why am I the way I am?

I have written before about my love for Crimson Tide football. And while I know this trait largely comes directly from my mother, I’ve never known where she got it. So this week I decided to ask her. Why does she love Alabama football, and who did she get it from?

Here, to the best of my recollection, is her answer in her words:

“I don’t know. The earliest memory I have is watching them when Joe Namath was quarterback. I remember one year we lost to Tennessee and it tore me up. I was down in the floor crying and I remember Momma saying, ‘Child, you don’t need to let a football game affect you like that. Win or lose, the sun’s gonna come up tomorrow.’

Sunday morning when I woke up, it was pouring down rain. And I knew then the sun doesn’t come up when Alabama loses.”

Indeed.

Oh, I would have asked her the Jimmy Kimmel question as well, but I’m pretty sure her answer would have been, “Jimmy who?” Mom flips back and forth between Letterman and Leno, and only knows Craig Ferguson as that “crazy man who looks like a gorilla.”

Don’t ask me. I don’t analyze it, I just report it.

“From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll, Tide, Roll…”

Nine iron over the starboard side

I consider myself to be somewhat athletic. I try and go running at least two or three times a week, I’ve played on several slow-pitch softball teams over the years, I’ve bowled my share of 200+ games, etc. I enjoy sports, whether watching or participating. And I feel that with time and practice I’ve been able to become at least decent at every sport I’ve tried.

Every sport that is, except one.

An old joke says, “Golf is a four-letter word.” Another says, “Golf can best be described as an endless series of tragedies obscured by the occasional miracle.”

Truer words have never been spoken. I took up golf several years ago and found it to be by far the most difficult sport I’ve ever tried to learn. It has, in a sense, become my white whale.

When I was golfing, I measured my progress less by scorecard and more by the number of balls I lost per round. When I began, losing six balls a round in the water, woods, or across the street in someone’s front yard was commonplace. By the time I stopped playing, I was finishing most rounds with all my balls present and accounted for.

I haven’t been golfing in six or seven years. My clubs, of which I never broke a single one, sit in one corner of my office. Some days they seem to taunt me, reminding me that I never conquered this game.

Also, for some odd reason, I’ve had an abnormal number of dreams about golf over the years. Even though I was never very good, and never even played that much, I would dream about it. And I would wake up wanting to go golfing. Why? I suck at it. So why do I enjoy it so much? What is the allure of golf?

I may not be able to answer that question, but the simple fact is that for whatever reason, men love golf. Golf and cars. Think about when man walked on the moon. What are two of the things you remember most about that? They hit a golf ball and they drove around in that little car.

I have a feeling the golf thing wasn’t even approved by NASA. It probably went something like this:

Buzz: “Dude, you’re bringing golf clubs on the space capsule?”
Neil: “Yeah, you know, in case we get bored. Have you seen those moon pictures? It’s so barren and gray. Don’t mention this to anyone, but honestly, it looks kinda lame.”

And that US flag they brought? That wasn’t some stake of claim. That was a flagstick so Neil would know where the hole was.

(Yes, I’m aware Alan Shepard is the astronaut who golfed on the moon, but I workshopped this using Alan. Not as funny as Buzz and Neil.)

So this past weekend, I loaded my harpoons in the back of the Pequod and went to the driving range in pursuit yet again of my white whale. After spending roughly an hour spraying a bucketful of dimpled projectiles in a variety of directions and distances, one thing became crystal clear. I suck.

But also, I’ve got the fever again. I’m back on the wagon, or golf cart, as the case may be. And no water hazard is safe.

Standing there after I shanked my first shot off the tee Sunday, those immortal words from 38 years ago wafted through my mind. Slightly altered, of course.

One small swing for man, one giant slice for Bone.

“Swing, swing, swing, from the tangles of, my heart is crushed by a former love. Can you help me find a way to carry on again?”

The voice of a not-so-new generation

According to Wikipedia, my personal source for all things relevant and otherwise, Generation X refers to persons born between the years 1961 and 1981.

I’ve never cared for the term myself. For years, I didn’t even know what it was supposed to mean. When I finally looked it up, I did not feel it described me well at all. Much like my high school code of conduct, I do not think it applies to me. So I set out to redefine, and rename, my generation.

It is a generation who purchased cassette singles and understood the emotional value of a mix tape; who generally have a great appreciation and longing for 80’s music, television, and movies; who went to arcades to play video games; who know that Alf is from Melmac and Mork is from Ork; and who can scarcely remember a time when Vanna White was not on TV.

It saddens me to think the next generation will never know the utter joy of purchasing a cassette single. They’ll never know the experience of listening to the B-side and hearing either a totally crap song, or a song you wind up liking better than the A-side. Heck, they may not even know what an A-side is.

Sure, spending $3.49 for one or two songs rather than $8.99 for the entire album might seem impractical. But with artists like Deon Estus, Sheriff, and Right Said Fred, you typically didn’t want the whole album.

Also, when you were only making $3.85 an hour stocking shelves and collecting buggies at the grocery store, you knew that extra five bucks meant a meal at Taco Bell and two dollars gas to get you home.

It saddens me that the next generation may never know the thrill of having a numeric-only pager. There were no ringtones. Your only two options were tone or vibrate. And unlimited paging was $9.95 per month, also known as, the price of cool.

How will they survive never knowing what 143 means? Not to mention the life skills learned when you got a page followed by “911” and had to drive around and find a payphone to call the person back. I would venture a guess that a significant percentage of the population today have never even used a payphone. What a frightening thought.

It saddens me to think the next generation never got to enjoy Must See TV, the pinnacle of prime time television. To them, Cliff Huxtable, Alex P. Keaton, and Sam Malone are just characters dressed in out-of-style clothes that they might occasionally flip past on TVLand or Nick At Nite. They probably think Reality TV is good TV. Danny Tanner getting caught kissing DJ’s teacher at school. That’s good TV.

The Cosby Show, Newhart, Cheers, Growing Pains, Family Ties, The Hogan Family, Silver Spoons, Perfect Strangers, Who’s The Boss, Head Of The Class, Charles In Charge, Night Court, and on and on–the 80’s was the sitcom decade.

Wait a second… I think that’s it!

Yes. That’s it.

I, Bone, in front of God, bloggers everywhere, and bitter ex-girlfriends who lurk on my blog, do hereby coin the phrase, The Sitcom Generation.

We may be forced to watch reality TV, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it. You can kill the sitcom, but you cannot kill us. Why? Because we learned how to obtain infinite lives on Super Mario Brothers.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe VH-1 is about to replay the most recent episode of Scott Baio Is 45 & Single.

143 all.

“When did reality become TV? Whatever happened to sitcoms, game shows? And on the radio Springsteen, Madonna. Way before Nirvana, there was U2, and Blondie,
and music still on MTV…”

The next "first thing to go"

I am 34 years old. I wear glasses or contacts. My vision started going when I was in high school. My first pair of glasses were bright yellow gold and ugly, so I only wore them for a few months, then they broke. Accidentally, of course.

In college, my vision problems resurfaced. Anytime we had to copy notes off the board, I’d be forced to move from my typical seat near the back of the classroom to a chair near the front where I could see. In one class, there was a girl who always had to do the same thing, which made me feel better. I almost asked her out because I figured we shared some kind of warped cornea bond.

The thing about worsening vision is that it’s typically so gradual, you don’t realize it’s happening. For the longest time, I just thought the blackboard looked blurry to everyone.

Zoom forward to 2007.

I was watching TV with a friend recently. The volume was so low that I could only understand like every sixth or seventh word. And only then if I strained. I kept waiting for my friend to turn up the volume, but it never happened. After a couple of minutes of unintelligible TV viewing, it hit me.

“Can you hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah. It’s a little low, but I can hear it. Can you not?”

“Nope!”

And there it was, in black and white. Or more accurately, in mumbling and white noise. I guess this is what comes from wearing earphones for much of the past seventeen years. I’m losing my hearing.

Well that’s just great!

First my vision. Then my memory. Then my knees started aching occasionally when I went running. And now this. I’m only 34 years old, for crying out loud. Kenny Rogers has wives older than me.

What’s next? Crow’s feet? My butt disappears? Enlarged prostate? I tell you one thing, if I start experiencing weak stream or incomplete emptying, I may be googling Kevorkian. Or at the very least, Wilfred Brimley.

In the meantime, maybe I should stop so thoughtlessly discarding those mail-outs I keep getting from the Scooter Store.

“What’s the matter girl, well don’t you think I’m bright enough? This old man had a hard time getting here. You can leave your number at the door…”