“That’s all?” asked the man who appeared to be in charge.

“Bowel movements,” the young man repeated.

His audience now made their discomfort audible. Each twisted and turned. Each looked to the others and the man who appeared to be in charge. A nervous, irritable energy rose up among them. The man who appeared to be in charge spoke again. “Nothing more for us? Just ‘bowel movements’?”

The young man crunched his mouth pensively and thought of a clearer way to express himself. “Bowel,” he enunciated. Then paused. “Movements,” he completed.

“This is what we paid for?” Another man asked, clearly perturbed.

Finally the young man gave some indication that he understood the atmosphere of the room had turned against him. When he had first walked in and The Man Who Appeared To Be In Charge had whisked him around the room, everyone gave him hearty handshakes and affable smiles. The mood was positively effervescent. But after several minutes of silence and the repetition of an unseemly phrase, the tide had turned.

The young man rose and lifted his slim attaché case from the table top where it lay, unopened.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said and nodded to the room. He turned briskly to the closed glass door. Just before opening it, he faced them again. “Bowel,” he repeated, “movements.” He smiled, opened the door and left the occupants of the room confused.

The door swung shut and the occupants of the room, management and on-air talent at Channel 7 News, stared at each other with a mixture of disbelief and awe. The awe mostly broadcast from the on-air talent. Like anyone else with a manager, they individually and collectively harbored the desire to watch someone stick it to The Man. Such a sticking, they wondered, might have just taken place. But they weren’t sure. So grins were tucked away. Lips were bitten pensively. Chins were nodded.

Each chose his or her own version of a face that conveyed sober consideration. The man who appeared to be in charge leaned back in his chair and exhaled loudly. He scratched his chin. “All right,” he spoke. “Stormy,” he addressed a tall woman with voluminous blonde hair and a bright jacket. “Do a short People piece on… um… well, the topic he suggested.” The man, named Dick, reddened at the suggestion. As he often did when stories on his news program crossed a line which he considered to demarcate poor taste. Anything dealing with biological functions internal to the body crossed the line. Even digestion. It didn’t help matters that his surname was Reddened.

Stormy Buttercup, the anchoress of Channel 7’s evening broadcast, stood and shook her hair like a woman in a shampoo commercial. “I’ll get right on it,” she said dutifully.

Dick Reddened stood too. “All right, meeting’s over.” The company filed out of the…

“There’s no one on the news named Stormy Buttercup,” my dining companion said to me. She was a blonde (which I find agreeable) and she was always agreeable (which I find irritating — one does expect moods in one’s companions after all). She kind of giggled and hiccuped together as she finished her sentence.

“There most certainly is a Stormy Buttercup on Channel 7,” I rebutted. I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe it was before you moved here.”

“Why are you telling me this anyway? I thought we were talking about pancakes.”

“One must set up the story.”

“Must one?”

She smiled. Which is redundant. She never stops smiling. It’s vexatious.

“I’ll continue.” I announced.

“Please do,” she said. “One must.”

That afternoon, Stormy Buttercup did a short report on the popularity of certain over-the-counter remedies for constipation. Every “People” segment of the news always elicited a small response from Channel 7’s audience. Mostly from the elderly who would kindly inform the station, “Please don’t interview men with mustaches ever again.” Or “My nephew once ate an aluminum can. You should do a story on him.”

But that afternoon’s segment got about twice the usual response. The next afternoon, Stormy did a piece on certain new prescription medicines which — if there advertisements were to be believed — helped to untie knots within one’s intestines. Wednesday, she reported on the variety of moisturized wipes specially made for one’s backside. Thursday, she investigated the relationship between toilet height and temporary neuropathy. Friday, she interviewed a proctologist about colon health.

The ratings were in: the public could not get enough of bottoms, bowels, wipes, and fiber. Stories on toilet paper strength followed. Two-ply, three-ply, with Aloe! Public toilets! Bathroom etiquette! Those flimsy toilet seat coverings! Hemorrhoids! Prostates! Suppositories! Itching! Burning! Creams! Lotions! Colors! Shapes! Sounds! Smells!

Pretty soon half the station’s afternoon broadcast was devoted to the lower intestines. As it turned out, everyone had them and everyone was concerned about their workings. The stories continued on the late edition. Channel 7’s morning news advised to “eat your fiber!”

You never heard such flatulence on television. Dick Reddened couldn’t redden any more than he had. He was positively purpled by his least favorite bodily activity resulting in his greatest success. He was alone in his embarassment though.

The executives and staff of Channel 7 had candid discussions each day about their own toilet habits. They swapped advice. They installed new, more comfortable seats in their restrooms. They stopped using industrial grade toilet paper. As did hundreds of businesses in the mid-state. People were happier. People were healthier. They spoke frankly to their doctors. They spoke frankly to their grocers. Everyone was enriched.

All because of Hugh. A young man who on a lark had pitched himself to Dick Reddened as a new kind of consultant. An Idea Man. A man who could give them direction.

Besides his straw-like hair which whooshed around his head like a crop circle, Hugh was short, perhaps five six. He was dumpy looking. His stomach seemed to protrude more than it should for a boyish-looking man in his early 30s. But it could have been an illusion of his clothes that hung around his body with no shape at all. He wore darkly-colored running shoes that were broken-in to the extent of falling apart. He wore a sport jacket that looked a size or two too large. He slightly waddled. His arrogant exit from the Channel 7 boardroom, therefore, seemed all the more ridiculous.

Hugh had…

“First of all,” Shelly giggupped. “I don’t believe for a moment that there is a man named Dick Reddened but I’ll leave that aside for now. I’m still wondering why you’re telling me this interminable story when I just asked you about pancakes.” She smiled in her annoyingly non-annoying way.

“There most certainly is a terminus to this story but you have to have patience.” I sighed. I stared beyond Shelly’s absurdly pretty head at the frosted glass behind our booth into which were etched the flags of many different nations. Not one of which, I was certain, served pancakes like those we’d just eaten.

“Well, go on,” she laughed. “Tell me more about Hugh.”

Channel 7’s success was Hugh’s success. The station was his first “real” client (he’d given away ideas for free his entire life). And with them, he practiced what he had developed as the perfect way to present an idea. The thing to do, Hugh decided, was to strip away everything but the raw idea, walk into a boardroom, say The Idea, and excuse himself. Any further talk with the clients would muddy up The Idea, he theorized. And despite the mass of it on the bottoms of his shoes at almost any given moment, mud was something Hugh strove to avoid. Professionally speaking.

Hugh’s successes continued. Sometimes companies hired him just for the novelty of it. This dumpling of a young man would waddle into a boardroom, say only a handful of words, not even part of a complete sentence, and would leave. It became performance. People cheered when Hugh proclaimed, “Adult-sized tricycles.” He received a standing-ovation when he declared, “Round televisions.”

Industries sought Hugh’s ideas on fashion, food, manufacturing, accounting, marketing, toys, cars, home electronics. Nevermind that he had no experience or training in any particular area. Nevermind that he was an ass who never bought new shoes. Everyone wanted the Idea Man’s imprimatur.

Even the…

“I think I see where this is headed,” Shelly smirked. Even the smirk was kindly.

“I’m about to tell you where his well of inspiration is located. How he makes the magic happen. How all the pieces fit. How it clicks.”

“Oh, one must tell.”

I smirked.

“Hugh’s income tripled, then quadrupled. For a man who was always a bit louche…”

“Did you just call him a douche?”

“Don’t be vulgar, Shelly. I said louche.”

“Douche isn’t vulgar. It’s a personal hygience product. Perhaps Hugh should pitch it to a radio station.”

“‘Vulgar’ comes from the Latin word for ‘common’ and your remark calling someone a douche is most certainly low and common.”

“Well douche is simply the French word for ’shower.’”

I smirked again. “Touché.”

Shelly laughed and smiled again, showing all her teeth. It was so detestably friendly. “And someday I’ll tell you about all Hugh’s douche-related ideas.” She laughed again. The pleasantness of the bubbling notes of her chuckles gave me heartburn.

In a fit of spending his newfound wealth, Hugh had acquired a motor-scooter, a little blue Vespa. He had one of those classic motor-cycle helmets that only covered the top of his head. It was an imperfect solution since even then, he couldn’t stuff all of his hair into the helmet.

I was over at his house one evening getting a tour of all the new items he’d bought. We’d had a few cocktails mixed in a new blender and a few crepes made with his newly-purchased crepe-maker.

Hugh led me outside to the garage to show me the Vespa. He crammed the helmet on his giant head mashing his hair into his eyes. “I can’t see a damned thing with this helment on,” he shouted. And then that phrase that made him famous, “I’ve got an idea.” He ran to the back of the garage and threw open a box. From it, he withdrew a football helment. A Dallas Cowboys football helmet, to be exact. “It was Aikman’s,” he told me. The huge helmet slid over his head perfectly. He hopped on the Vespa, awkwardly started it and putted out the garage door into the driveway. As soon as the Vespa hit the gravel of the driveway, he crashed.

I don’t think he was knocked out from the fall so much as he passed out from all the excitement, booze and crepes. He lay motionless on the gravel. I knelt beside him and produced a crepe from my jacket pocket. I took a bite and stared at Hugh’s face. His hair was bunched around his face like stuffing. His eyeglasses had fallen into the facemask. I watched his eyelids flutter, then open. I took another bite and then offered the crepe to Hugh. He smiled. Then he laughed.

A week later, he was in the boardroom of an international pancake restaurant.

“Football helmet-shaped pancakes,” he said before lifting his attaché case and walking to the door.

“Football helmet-shaped pancakes.”

Of course, several days of poor eating contributed. The hot dog and peanuts at the Predators game. The bowl of melted cheese for lunch on Sunday (I am told it is called “Ro-tel”). The dozens of cookies. The pounds of Chex mix. And the gorging on huge meals in between.

The actual sickness may have been brought on by something Tuesday night. I’ve gone over what I ate to try deduce what it could have been with no luck. It was all normal stuff. And a pound of Chex mix.

Or it could have been a bug passed around at work. There was one strange event yesterday. Despite having the week off, Lady Jesus was in the office. I heard her and, more importantly, felt her presence but she didn’t see me. I didn’t put it together til this afternoon that perhaps she arrived to say hello to people (because, don’t you swing by work on your vacation days?), coughed all over my computer keyboard, and disappeared. Don’t think I’m ruling this out.

Anyway, after spending 12 hours yesterday within pants-dropping distance of my bathroom, I’m feeling a little better. Shaky, tired and completely empty, but better. Regular blogging may resume shortly. Til then, I remain

Your hollow shell of a man,
TA

I also like dogs because they usually want to hang out with you while cats are simply too retarded to understand that they owe their survival to you. Sure, cat-people will tell you that cats are superior in intelligence to dogs and too mindful to do whatever their human companions wish. But, seriously, that’s just bullshit. Cats’ brains are the size of your thumb.

If cats were so smart, why don’t they lead the blind? Or help policemen? It’s not because they have a “mind-of-their-own” or they’re “too independent.” It’s because of the peanut brain. Look it up. It’s in a science book or something.

If you’ve got a cat that’s a reasonable size (not just one of those furry bags of fat) and it’s clean and lives indoors, I can totally deal with it. I’ll scratch it and pet it and all of that crap. I just won’t think it’s as cool as a dog. (Of course, it’s automatically cooler than one of those little fuzzy dogs that is just a glorified squirrel. But that’s another subject.)

I bring all this up to preface the story that Monty’s anti-social feline has been leaping on our kitchen counters. I suspected as much yesterday when I found some things on the floor in the kitchen. But this morning, my suspicions were confirmed when not only were some paper towels knocked to the floor but my new loaf of bread was askew.

Naturally, I inspected the bread bag for tiny puncture wounds and found several. Then I began a protracted internal debate about what to do about the bread: eat it or throw it all away. Everytime I would convince myself that I was being paranoid even to consider throwing it away, I would think of the microscopic pooplet particles surely in its filthy claws from digging in its crap box. Then I would consider that those microbes were floating around the house anyway. Then I woud think, not in my bread they’re not!

This went on for far longer than it should have. In the end, I made a sandwich with bread from the middle of the loaf — as far away from the punctures as I could manage. I am now about to eat that sandwich. If I am struck ill, tell the doctors about the pooplets.

Buy it at Amazon, Barnes & Nobel, iUniverse, Amazon UK or WH Smith. Buy the pocket edition at Lulu.

The plan for the evening was live music from the Nashville Star band and current contestants til 9 and then the viewing of the first episode of the new season on the big screens from 9 to 10.30. Because I was bringing my roommate, Lil’ Smell, and her definition of “on time” is “an hour late”, we missed the performances. Well, we saw the last few notes of the last one. This didn’t really phase me since the music is really sort of a distraction from the spectacle of Nashville Star.

We headed immediately to the VIP section on the third floor to check out the freebies. We cruised by the food tables without anything catching our eyes. Lil’ Smell zoomed past probably because she had a date later that evening and wanted to avoid some dodgy craft services. I zoomed past because I have a thing against saloon food. We cashed in some drink coupons and wandered around in search of a perch from which to people watch.

We found some empty seats overlooking the dance floor below (way below; hello, vertigo). To get to those seats, we had to saunter past Cowboy Troy, in the flesh. For some reason, the Troy gave the Smell all sorts of shivers. I don’t know if it was simply his rugged masculinity or his dope flow, but she was like a deer in the proverbial headlights. I didn’t understand the problem; just say “excuse me” and walk past him. But she was mesmerized. At least momentarily.

We did get past him and oogled the riff-raff far below us on the main floor. Somehow they seemed to be enjoying themselves far more than we VIPs. But that’s econ 101 for you: when you have to pay for something, you’ll value it more. I killed my free beer and we went back to the bar to refill and chuckle at the other VIPs.

It was semi-decent freak show: sequins, mohawks, sunglasses, silicon, collagen, hair gel and plenty of good ole fashioned T&A. (Well, not “plenty” but enough.) I don’t know if these folks were “industry” or what “industry” that might have been, but they were certainly silly-looking. We left before 10.

I may see if I can get into a taping of the show because that’s where the really interesting stuff happens. You gotta work to put a tv show together. And it’s the work of show-biz that’s always more entertaining to me than the people who show up at the parties.

Now as far as I’m concerned I’ve faced my fear of the attic and the C.H.A.D.. So I made my case to Smell that it was her turn. And well…I could tell the rest of the story, but I just found that she told her own version on her MySpace “blog”:

C.H.A.D.

That’s right…I’m talking about a Cannibalistic Humanoid Attic Dweller. We have one, although it sounds like a gang having a rumble at 7am every morning above my head. So…this evening…the roommate (Felix) and I notice that it’s a tad chilly in the house. That the heat hasn’t come on in the past two hours. We shove the thing to 80 degrees and still nothing. Immediately we both freeze with fear because we know what comes next – one of us must brave the attic and it’s unwelcome inhabitants to see if the fuse had blown. Shitballs.

Now, Felix refuses to go up there as he was determined to be in bed with a book by 10pm, and well…it’s ten minutes past his bed time and that would mean putting on different clothes and then taking 3 crying game showers to get the attic smell off and wash out any bites from the presumably rabies infested C.H.A.D. Blahblahblah…horseshit.

So there I was at 10:30pm, wearing pink rainboots with my pants tucked in the top, a hoodie with the drawstring drawn tight enough so only my eyes and schnozz show, a pair of industrial work gloves, and the ensemble was topped off with science goggles from Felix’s closet. I didn’t ask.

With a promise of a Xanax to calm my already frayed nerves, I crawled up into the deep dark depths of the attic with only my GI Joe flashlight and rubber boots to protect me from the wrestlemania obsessed things that live in the attic. I had to crawl to the other end of the fucking roof to get to the panel, and guess what? No bloody fuses had blown.

So, I’m on my hands and knees. Covered in insulation and dust. Wearing leather gloves, rubber boots, and some science goggles. Normally this means I had a good Saturday night, alas on this occasion it means I got to crawl into the dank dark terrifying attic with a rabid inhabitant for nothing.

It was, if I may say so, hilarious. Chivalrous? No. But really funny. Poor Smell almost had a panic attack.

The best part of the story is that the heat actually did stop working because of the C.H.A.D.. We got a repairman out the next day and after this huge dude spent nearly an hour in our cramped attic, we had heat again. When he emerged, he reported that squirrels had chewed through a conduit.

The squirrels will get theirs. Oh yes they will.

I will leave it to you, dear readers, to determine what’s more fearsome: some tiny squirrels or Lil’ Smell in her anti-C.H.A.D. hazmat gear.

My apologies for the poor photos. Smell wasn’t in a vogue-ing mood and I had the flash turned off accidentally.

For a year or so, probably from age 15 to 16, I took guitar lessons at a little music store in Green Hills. It was one of those tiny, stereotypical stores where the sheet music took up most of the space.

I had been playing an acoustic guitar for a few months but my parents had given me an electric and the lessons for Christmas. I don’t think I’d ever changed the strings on the acoustic so I was a little unfamiliar with the process. The electric was a Stratocaster copy with a typically dinky whammy bar setup (for the non-technical, that’s the thing that makes it go “whooow” by loosening the strings) and I didn’t know what I was doing so I was breaking strings like an idiot. And changing them like an idiot.

I went to the store one day and complained that I seemed to be breaking strings quite often. The guy behind the counter took my guitar and plucked a string and was totally startled. Of course I was breaking them, he explained, because I had tuned it an entire octave too high. So the strings were unbelievably tight and when I dive-bombed on the whammy bar, I inflicted casualties.

If you’re not a guitar player, you may not be able to appreciate how stupid this made me look. But trust me, it made me look really stupid.

One day when I was browsing through the store waiting for my lesson, a tall, blonde dude walked in and looked vaguely familiar but for the normal haircut and (I think) mustache. It took me a while to place him, but eventually I realized it was John Schneider (aka Bo Duke, aka my hero). And though the string-breaking occured at a different time from the Bo Duke encounter, they are somehow connected in my brain and in others’. (Todd K tells the story with me breaking the strings in front of Bo. Not the case.)

Okay, not very exciting, but on balance with this next story, it’s moderately interesting.

A few years ago, I was getting a guitar repaired at Corner Music. I was talking with their tech who probably thought I was a complete idiot because I was repairing a $90 guitar. Or perhaps because my guitar was sparkly blue. Or perhaps because it smelled like cat urine. I don’t know. Take your pick. There were plenty of reasons for this guy to have been giving me the crook eye.

Anyway, he’s explaining to me something totally elementary most likely (because that’s usually what happens to me in guitar stores) and I notice there’s all this commotion in the store. Some clerk is walking around introducing some guy to every other employee and the interruption is moving in my direction. I just want to get my transaction over with. As I recall it was a simple repair that the dude could have done while I waited as long as he didn’t get distracted…

“Joe!” The clerk dude says to the tech who’s helping me. Joe looks up. “Joe, I’d like to introduce you to Tom Wopat.”

Goodbye, quick repair. Hello, Luke Duke.

Both Duke boys. Two guitar stores in Nashville. It beat all I ever saw.

Anyway, I was on one such cleaning mission with a particularly messy family–and I mean in every way. No control over their kids, house, pets, least of all their computer. It was completely screwed from the oldest near-teenage boy running every P2P program he heard about and in the process dumping spyware onto their harddrive daily. I was too much of a neophyte in the biz at that point to say, “You’re screwed; buy a new computer.” I’ve since been schooled. So I dug in and got ready for an afternoon of slowly repairing every fragment of memory on this dying machine.

Pets and kids trotted in and out of the room I was in. The door remained open. Behind the door, blocked by its openess, was the most disgusting litter box you’ve ever seen. Two feet deep of cat shit.

As it became apparent that this wasn’t a quick fix and the family had to run in and out to deliver their spawn to soccer practice or whatever, the mother came in the room to tell me their plans with a giant bird on her shoulder.

Birds are the filthiest animals ever and, quite frankly, people who keep them for pets are demented. This family couldn’t even empty the box of cat crap in their “play room” and they’ve got another pet that can poop from above? I was simply mortified.

Oh, but the mother explained, this wasn’t even her bird. It was her sister’s. She was keeping it for while since the sister something something something. I couldn’t even concentrate because there was this hideously disgusting, feathery rat on her shoulder. If I thought bird owners were crazy, she just upped the ante. A bird-sitter? You have got to be nuts.

So anyway, she tells me what’s going on, that she has to run some kids somewhere and her husband will be home in a minute with lunch for the other kids and me. This was unexpected and quite nice of them. She gets the kids out of the play room behind me and leaves and soon the husband brings me a sandwich. It was chicken. That may be a significant detail. Then he leaves and the house is empty.

I sit in front of the computer with a little miniature Fresca can in front of me and a grilled chicken sandwich and some fries on a paper plate in my lap, staring at the computer that’s still struggling to complete a virus scan. And a moment later, I hear this whooshing. Well, not so much a whooshing as a flapping but I didn’t put that together til too late. The air whooshes behind me and I have enough time to think “What the…” before it hits me. I mean, literally. The goddam bird flies into the back of my head.

This freaks me the hell out. Firstly, it startles me so much that I jump up and launch the burger and fries across the room into the dirty carpet. Secondly, I’m just grossed out beyond repair that a bird has touched me. My head even. Not like a hand that I could go wash. The back of my head. Is there poop on me? On my back?

Thirdly, where did it go?

So, I start picking up the fries and chicken sandwich pieces from a carpet that seriously has its own ecosystem in the fibers. Then I try to get my life back together. I look all around the room and satisfy myself that the bird is no longer here. I sit down at the computer and I hear the flapping noise from elsewhere in the house. They’ve left the house with a bird flying around in it. I am so disgusted. I close the door to keep the bird from flying back in but that just reveals the mountain of cat poo in the corner.

Finally, the mother comes home and is so embarassed at the cat poo scene that she props the door back open. I don’t even know if I finished the job. I just got the hell out, went home and showered. And believe me, I rinsed and repeated.

And rinsed and repeated.

And rinsed and repeated.

Secondly, she compares her Stephen Dorff-starring flick S.F.W. to Clerks, calling them “…the same movie, essentially.” If you’re me, and you’ve seen S.F.W., this is tantamount to saying Clerks licks balls.

Clerks does lick balls, Kev.

Anyway, obviously I have no idea how Reese is these days, but she went to high school at my school’s “sister school.” I was in a play at her high school (since they had no dudes of their own) with my brother. Reese was working on the play as some sort of assistant director or something. She wasn’t super-famous yet, but we all knew her. Man in the Moon and probably A Far Off Place had come out and so, you know, as far as we were concerned she was a movie star. But it was still no real big deal. It was a crappy high school play.

However, to one of our friends who was not in the play, it was a large deal. He begged Eric and me to take him to rehearsal one night and introduce him to Reese. We just thought this was kind of silly. I mean, what was going to happen? “Hey Reese, this is Nate.” “Great. See you later.” We were pretty jaded about the whole thing.

Nonetheless, we brought him along thinking we probably wouldn’t even get a chance to introduce him to her. Well, we walk in the theatre and as we’re walking down the aisle towards the stage, Reese comes walking up the aisle towards us. We stop and say, “Hi Reese, this is our friend Nate.” And Reese smiles and looks up and says, “Hi, I’m Reese” and pours some Reese’s Pieces into his hand.

How cool is that?

For starters, there is now no way you will be able to convince anyone that you are remotely sober, even when it was legitimately the chair’s goddam fault. (Not to mention the slippery deck.) I suppose you could start laughing. I mean, it is pretty funny. You could roll out of the chair and dust yourself off. You could sort of awkwardly reach for help since you’re kind of trapped in the chair now.

But you’re not going to be able to make an hilarious off-the-cuff crack about it. Because there’s something about the sudden shift from vertical to horizontal that will catch you the hell off guard.

So here’s what I’ve found–and mind you, I’m not admitting to anything. One of those slow falls back in a decently soft chair with a half bottle of wine in you is actually pretty damn fun. So while other party-goers may think you’re trashed in an admittedly gauche way, you’re like “let’s go again.” Even though you’ll never recapture that initial surprise that you felt as you leaned back and just kept going.

So don’t say anything. Because you already look like an idiot.