Grab
a cup of mud once again, sit back and enjoy yourself for a few minutes before
you get involved
with your duties as a responsible worker bee on this crazy spinning basketball
we call "Earth"
(Some credit must be given to Eddie Van Halen for that heavy basketball/Earth
metaphor).
It's official, the pressure of this column's "gettin' to me". This is only my 3rd week and I just had my first bad dream about missing a deadline. It's funny how dreams have their own soundtracks and this particular scene was accompanied by the deceptively soothing sounds of Brick by Ben Fold's Five. Of course, dream soundtracks are usually scored by the alarm clock set to music and not always integral to the plot of the dream. That differs greatly from the modern movie soundtrack whereby highly paid motion picture marketing executives spend months and months sandblasting the nasal cavities of the Goo Goo Dolls with cocaine while screaming over and over "I said catchy, CATCHY!!!!!!!!!!!!"
The first dream soundtrack I can recall was as a young Tenderfoot in the BSA stationed at Camp McKinley right outside Columbus, Georgia in the early 70's. The days were filled with a soundtrack of their own, carving Cochise neckerchief slides and dodging bees while the AM radio blasted out memorable hits like Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, The Night the Lights When Out in Georgia and Walk on the Wild Side, which really reminds me of the incohesive nature of Top 40 radio.
Anyway, one early morn I was having one of those typical dreams that a 12 year old boy would have while lying on a cot in a tent in the wilderness of Georgia 100 miles from home ... I dreamt that I was in an air conditioned split-level watching the Tonight Show. Doc was going for a particularly long trumpet solo, his eyes, red from the demon weed, bulging out of his sockets as if they were ready to explode, his face turning shades of purple unknown even to jersey buyers of the Vikings; Ed's incessant low frequency chuckling slowed down to a smooth idle, then stopped completely with only an occasional whimper from a Bushmill's Irish whiskey-induced body spasm; Johnny, decked out in a spiffy plaid sport coat, had even quit tapping his pencil, his jaw dropped in amazement watching as Doc was getting ready to explode right on national TV. Yes, Doc had taken the challenge, "Play the high note Doc, you can do it, come on, Dizzy can do it, let's hear it!"
Then as I began to awake from this horrific nightmare I saw the dismal khaki tones of the canvas tent over me, smelled the sweet Georgia morning dew drifting up from some old holler where some Snuffy's still had been in production through the night; felt the sting of chigger bites on the back folds of my legs ... then I recognized the sound of the distant trumpet, a little tune we know as Revelry.
It was my first known experience with dream soundtracks but not my last, my early morning dreams have been shaped by popular music with some of my most traumatic experiences centered on the early to mid 80's (which was kind of ok since I didn't have cable) nightmares that I can still remember by name, Der Kommissar was particularly eerie accompanied by The Safety Dance, 99 Luft Balloons, and the one that I think about in horror each night as I close my eyes from those lovable dream weavers aka The Dream Academy ... Life in a Northern Town. Oh well, Yippy Skippy, it's time to move on ...
Sgt. Snorkel's Secret Code
I've received a couple subtle comments about the excessive use of profanity in the first couple issues of the Mud and though I think it's been pretty tame by Internet standards, it's probably a good idea to nip it in the fuckin' bud, if you know what I'm saying. I always appreciate humor that doesn't abuse the colorful four-letter words that first made their appearance on Earth as the Old Testamenteers were constructing the infamous Tower of Babel ...
"What? They want us to add another tier ... ? Listen Shithead, you tell those fuckin' bastards to stick it up their ass!"
Relevant flashback alert ... Back in 10th grade there was a peaceful transfer student whose father was the new minister at some fuckin' house of worship in our town. His name was Michael Thorncrowner and, in the cruel spirit of the high school years, he was nicknamed Preacher Boy. He was so goddamned pious it didn't even bother him.
Unlike many Goody-Two-Shoes-types, he mingled with the green-army-jacketed-roachclip-carrying-types as if our school had no caste-system at all. Me and eleven other guys who liked to fish together began to respect this guy who was so different, yet so charismatic, and listen to his teachings.
I remember one Spring day, we were sitting by the toking tree out by the back parking lot behind the school. Michael was perched up on a rock and we sat in the grass firing questions at him, perhaps trying to trap him in some web of contradictions but he was too good. A classmate of mine, Judas O'Leary (man, did that guy turn out to be a narc!) was sitting there in his Alice Cooper Welcome to My Nightmare Tour T-shirt and he asked "So, Preacher Boy, how come you never fuckin' swear?"
Preacher Boy looked down for a moment, then raised his right index finger up toward the sky and said "My Grandfather once told me, 'a man who swears, is a man with a small mind."
There was a moment of silence that was broken only by the sound of 12 high school students exhaling at the same time. It was one of the biggest clouds of smoke I'd ever seen. Judas said "Whoa, that is fuckin' heavy, that's some serious shit!"
A year later during gym class we were playing football on a beautiful Spring day. I was on the line facing Preacher Boy who was probably one of the bigger kids in school. Right after the snap he came barreling across the line and in some half-hearted interest in playing the game, I knocked him right on his holy ass. As he hit the earth I heard him utter the Cadillac of the four-letter words ... "FUCK!" I looked at him in shock and disbelief and he smiled and said "Come on Gather T., this is football." At that point I walked off the field never to play the game again ... my work here was done.
Flashback over, back to it ... Well folks, that was the last of the carefree use of the English language. From this point on I will be using the S.S.S.C. Filter which is now available with the latest version of Microsoft (www.microsoft.com) Word 6.5.9.1&1/16th for the evil Mac. For the uninitiated, the acronym stands for Sgt. Snorkel's Secret Code which is a filter that automatically converts questionable language to symbols (as seen for decades in the cartoon strip Beetle Bailey.)
Coincidentally, I had cracked that code as a young Sunday comics fan back in the turbulent 60's but it never occurred to me to develop a filter and donate the technology to Bill Gates' Empire. For those of you who haven't purchased the conversion chart from Microsoft I'll take a chance on being shut down and post it here. You can use your web browser's print feature to run out a copy and keep it handy for future reference:
A = !
B = <
C = #
D = $
E = ^
F = %
G = &
H = *
I = +
J = )
K = $
L = =
M = ]
N = ;
O = ?
P = {
Q = }
R = [
S = $
T = ~
U = @ (this is the one that stumped the Soviets)
V = >
W = /
X = `
Y = \
Z = |
You know, on second thought, there may be some translation trouble between Macs & PCs for this conversion formula so for those PC users out there, I'd recommend picking up a Mac, and while you're at it, maybe a tube of Clearasel (oops, I think I just lost 95% of my readers, all 15). In the meantime I'll work on a conversion chart that works for both platforms.
Just as a side note, most people probably don't know that the Sgt. Snorkel character was based on a real person. Turns out my uncle was stationed with him and the Beetle Bailey cartoonist Mort Walker during dubba-yuh-dubba-yuh-two. They were stationed right outside Sai-Hyguoen on the northeast coast of China, not far from the sheet-rocked section of the Great Wall.
Demitri Snorkelopagus ran the motor pool and he was strikingly similar to the character you're all familiar with. He actually had a front-lower tooth that was about an inch wide and nearly 2 inches high. It didn't even fit under his upper lip so it was always visible and it created a very intimidating presence. The local villagers were fearful of him and had nicknamed him Tsien-tao-chiang-deng which, roughly translated meant The Guy Who Looks Like a Cartoon Character.
My uncle doesn't remember too much about him except that he really loved pizza and walking around in his polka dotted boxer shorts. He just went about his work for the most part complaining how difficult it was to find a pizza in China and wishing someone would issue him a pair of pants ...
... ok, I think I'm done with that one.
Jesse on Letterman
I really hate to talk about stuff I saw on TV since that's usually covered by professionals on morning radio shows but I have to talk about "the incident." I've been a Letterman fan since I saw him interview Ian Anderson back in '82(?) and Jethro Tull was never even mentioned but ... I just don't watch the show much anymore.
But ... I did happen to catch the show where Jesse made a joke about the drunken Irish and it just seemed about as lame as the rest the patter that was being exchanged. By coincidence I'm 3/4 Irish and 1/4 Slovak (Swanson comes from a mixup at Ellis Island) so by the standards set by the International Consortium of Ethnic Humor, I have the legal right to make a statement ...
"I, Gather T. Swanson, being of Irish heritage, feel that in an effort to be funny and not fall back on yet another Navy SEAL punchline (which he did anyway), the Governor, who I voted for while under the influence of alcohol, meant no intentional harm to my people and was just making, what they used to call, a joke. Of course, what would I know, I'm $*+~-faced 3/4s of the time and not thinking straight 1/4 of the time.
Good High at Ruby Tuesdays
In a related story, I had lunch today at Ruby Tuesdays and wondered why it was called that and if the Stones had given the approval on the name (did I just channel Larry King again?).
Since I avoid malls like the plague I really have no Ruby Tuesday experience and I felt like some unfrozen caveman perplexed by the bicycles hanging from the ceiling and junk of all shapes and sizes attached to the walls. I'm desperately searching for the theme here and feel disoriented "Umm, bikes, antiques, the Stones ... wait, I think I get it, antiques are old, the Stones are old, is the junk British, is it British junk? Let's see, Keith was a junkie ... Hmmm, what about the Timberwolves pictures? Timberwolves, the Stones ... they both play at Target Center ... ahh, screw it!"
The waitress asks if I want a drink and though I'm a purist who usually mainlines beer, wine or Scotch on the rocks; I had seen a picture of their colorful drinks outside and was drawn in by them. There was a picture of some blue drink in a big goblet with blue granules around the rim and a damn fish swimming in it. I know I can't make that one at home.
Before I get to utter "Me want blue drink with fish in it." she's rattling off the drink specials with gusto. Then she pauses and hits me with the clincher ... "The Alabama Slamma' on special for $4.25."
My wife says "How much does it normally cost?"
With a radiant beam she says "$4.25."
Now I'm intrigued. "What's in it?" I ask.
"Southern Comfort, Sloe Gin, Peppermint Schnapps, Creme de Menthé, Seagrams 7, Coors, Old Style and Tahitian Treat." She retorts with a gleam in her eye.
"Wow! I look at my wife and say "Honey, that's everything I ever puked on in high school, I gotta try it!"
She says, "Oh Gather T., you're such a card, why don't you just have a martini or something?"
"No, Hon, I have to face my personal demons and what better place than Ruby Tuesdays in Rosedale ..."
Hey, I'm sorry to break in the middle of a story but I just checked my word count and I'm sittin' at 2,175. I'm only allowed to do 1,500 and I'm sorry but I have to fly!
Corrections from Last Week
It was Whirlpool, not Maytag.
So, that's it for this week, see you next Monday!
Hey! Now We Have Archives!
Monday Mud 02/15/99 Orientation
Monday Mud 02/22/99 Smoke on the Water, Billy
Ocean & EBay
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