You’d Think That After Fifteen Years…

Maybe it was the wine talking, but RUABelle and I had fairly serious discussion over dinner about marriage, babies, fertility, adoption, careers, etc.

We finally decided to split the vanilla creme brulee.

Hey, it’s a start!

– Chris Chamberlain
Sent from my Treo

My Life Through Cable TV

We have Comcast Digital Cable at home and DirecTV at our cabin in Sewanee. Between the two of them, I reckon that makes about 500 channels of crap. In a moment of navel-gazing, I wondered if cable has possibly taken over my free time.

The answer is, of course, yes. But at least with TiVo, it doesn’t have to happen during real time. And it is understandable considering my history with cable TV. Allow me to elucidate. (Or hell, don’t. Here’s a link to a Jessica Alba site if you’d rather. You’re welcome.)

The first contact I ever had with something like cable was when channel 17 in Nashville was basically Ted Turner’s TBS. It was all Braves and all-Gomer Pyle all the time. In the mid 70’s Ted signed free agent pitcher Andy Messersmith. The dude’s name was so long that it took up the whole back of his jersey, with the “M” on his left shoulder, “essersmit” across his back and the “H” on his right shoulder. It looked horrible and baseball commissioner Bowie Kuhn stepped in and demanded that the Braves do something to fix the ridiculous sight. Turner refused to shrink his font, so commissioner Kuhn suggested that Messersmith put a nickname on the back of his uniform.

Remember, this was 1976 when the league was full of real characters with foot-high afros and flashy gold chains. Some teams had enough different uniforms to field an entire starting lineup of Geranimals combinations and the Chicago White Sox even had uniforms with short pants. (Bad, bad idea.) Lots of players were using their nicknames instead of their real names on the back of their jerseys, so Turner and Messersmith went along. Ted declared that Andy’s new nickname would be “Channel” and his new jersey number would be 17. After a few starts with that ridiculous billboard for TBS on his back, Messersmith just changed his jersey name to “Andy.” But the Ted Turner marketing legend was born.

The first person I knew with honest-to-God Viacom cable was my high school girlfriend. She had the cable box which was about the size of the yellow pages and sat on top of the TV with a dial that had 23 channels on it. No remote. Not many choices. Really expensive. But man, was it awesome! I remember falling asleep on her couch and waking up to ESPN and the sound of a foreign accent saying, “And that’s a rollicking uppercut to the chops!”

“Oh cool, a boxing match,” I expected as I opened my eyes. Nope, this was early ESPN and they didn’t quite have the same inventory as they have now. What I saw was some strange combination of rugby, football and “Smear the Queer” which I now recognize as Australian Rules Football. But then I had no idea what I was watching and I was fascinated. It was the first time I ever got kicked out of the room by a woman I was dating for fixating on ESPN instead of her. It was not the last time, unfortunately.

Early 80’s MTV also suffered from the same sort of limited inventory. Rod Stewart had about half the videos in rotation, but it was worth it to see Martha Quinn. Later, I would plan my whole week around scheduled showings of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” mega-video. That guy really has disappointed me.

The years from 1981-1984 was all about seeing boobies on TV. We had a Betamax, and there were only about five Beta videos at Lion’s Head video. So we rented them over and over again. “Young Frankenstein,” “Blazing Saddles,” “Stripes,” “Up in Smoke” and “Life of Brian.” I guess that probably explains a lot about me and my warped sense of humor.

But back to boobies. They were fairly limited in this small video selection, but of course we knew exactly where they were. For consistent boobage, we had to turn to our two premium channels, HBO and Showtime. God bless John Byner and the “Bizarre” show! He was always good for a naughty nurse skit or two every week. And as a bonus, we got to see Super Dave Osborne run into stuff and break some bones. From a droll humor standpoint, I always preferred the “Dave Allen Show” over Benny Hill, but the partial frontal nudity was quite a trump card for a 16-year old.

HBO movies provided grown-up entertainment for me and my friends as well, but occasionally with embarrassing results. I was sitting on the couch with my girlfriend’s father (you know him, Busy Mom) watching “Kentucky Fried Movie” on HBO while she took a shower before we went out on a date. It was uncomfortable enough to watch some of the potty humor with him, but then the clincher came on. It was a short trailer for a mythical film called “Catholic High School Girls in Trouble.” Two minutes of utter debauchery including three naked girls getting whipped by a dwarf and (oh joy!) another nubile young lass getting ravaged in, you guessed it, the shower. When his sweet young Catholic daughter emerged after her ablutions, she wondered why her father was so pissed and suspicious of me. I had her home by 9:30 that night. I won’t post that clip here, but if you want to see what sort of trouble I was in, go here.

1985-1989 In college. No money=no cable. I missed out on the Paula Abdul MTV years, apparently.

When I got out of college, I had to start paying for cable on my own for the first time. So the DogDoc and I made watching cable an additional full-time job to go along with bartending, playing in a cover band and chasing waitresses. Since we spent so much time watching TV, I had to substitute reality TV for reality. That’s when I got hooked on the Real World and Road Rules. “Hi, I’m CeeElCee, and I have a reality TV problem.” I think my addiction to Road Rules comes from the fact that I should have been a contestant, but I was too old by the time it started. “Amazing Race” still awaits me.

1995-1997 was spent watching TNT or whatever the hell channel “American Gladiators” was on. I had no interest in competing on that one, but watching it passed as exercise for me.

1998-2002 were the golden years which I spent focusing on the Oilers/Titans before they started to suck. Saturday college and Sunday pro football made for an easy way to schedule a weekend.

As our 75 year old Craftsman Bungalow started to slowly fall down around us, RUABelle and my viewing habits turned to Home and Garden and TLC. Somehow procrastinating tasks around the house by watching other people fix up their domiciles made us feel better. I do have an envelope full of Home Depot receipts, but I’m not exactly sure what we did with any of that stuff.

Fast forward to today, and the favorite channels around the old Cee household are Fine Living and the Food Network. So now instead of watching other people do remodeling projects while we sit on our asses, we watch other people cook, eat and travel while we sit on our asses. I think that’s progress.

Where are we headed? There’s no doubt in my mind. I figure I’m about five years away from becoming an inveterate Weather Channel watcher. What with all the hurricanes, winter storms and Joe Cantore, it’s already some of the most compelling programming on television.

I’ve heard that the Weather Channel is considered “MTV for old people.” Funny, I always thought that VH1 was supposed to take that space. I guess there’s no room for videos what with the “Surreal Life” and “Celebrity Fit Club.” Maybe I can watch somebody else lose weight while I sit around on my ass.

Pass the Doritos.

Ode to My Lawn

I’ve stopped mowing you.

I’ve stopped weedeating you.

I’ve stopped watering you.

Why won’t you just DIE?!

Die, damn you, DIE!

It’s too fu*kin’ hot to do yard work, and it’s just fescue and Bermuda. It’ll be back next year, despite my best efforts.

115411405913156307

I Guess THAT Didn’t Work Very Well

Busy Mom says I now have Henningitis.

Well, Crap!

eom.

“Devil, Come Owwwwwwwt!”

Am I the only one who remembers Ernest Angley’s on-air exorcisms? He had a real talent for deaf people and the wheelchair-bound.

Well, I need his (and all of your) help. One more post and the nefarious “He whose name shall not be spoken but who is hovering over there——–>” dude is off my site, hopefully forever.

So, let’s all concentrate. I know you’re all sick of his pale visage appearing in your comments sections attached to my snarky banter. You want to see him gone, too!

Begone!
Begone!
Begone!

Or as Steve Martin used to say, “I break with thee. I break with thee. I break with thee. And then I throw poopie on their shoes.”

Whatever it takes. Fingers crossed!

Abracadabra-alakazam-vamoose!

I’m sure nobody else has noticed, (except maybe for Kat Coble since she shares my revulsion for him), but a certain magician is about to roll off the bottom of my blog again.

Yeah, that guy. Over there. ———->

Shhhh! Speak not his name. Maybe if we all concentrate quietly on wishing him away, we can finally banish him from my site.

“I do believe in fairies! I do believe in fairies!”

Porkapalooza

11:30 lunch at the Mothership today should include some seldom seen celebrities.

Besides Knuck, Kerry Woo and myself, Sista Smiff is planning to bring #2 son. The often-lurking, previously seldom-posting Fishwreck is making his virgin voyage to the Mothership along with his friend and compatriot, the JagerBomber.

Last, but not least, I am introducing my lovely RUABelle to more of my blogger friends.

Y’all come! (And don’t scare her off.)

Now It’s PERSONAL, Darn It!

I try to keep politics out of my posts and I have traditionally walked the line between isolationism and support of Israel. But I just read that the Israelis have been bombing and destroying the rail lines into Lebanon.

We haven’t even had a chance to ride the Music City Star yet and the darned Israelis are blowing up the railroad tracks my tax dollars went to build. That settles it, I’m definitely buying a pork sandwich tomorrow at the Mothership…

Liveblogging from the #18 Elm Hill Pike Bus

So I’ve been trying to ride the bus to work once a week. It’s actually two buses to anywhere in Nashville unless you live or work downtown. (Which I don’t.)

My normal commute is less than 10 miles and generally takes about fifteen minutes. Even though I drive an eight year old SUV, at $5.00 per day, the MTA bus isn’t any cheaper and takes three times as long.

But I think it’s an important gesture to make, and my employees think it is hilarious to see one of the owners of the company walking a few blocks to stand at the bus stop on the corner. I’m hoping I can change a few attitudes.

Or maybe I’m just peculiar.

But I figure it should provide some good blog fodder.

Ralph Cramden, out.
–
Sent from my Treo

When Wonderdawg Says Jump…

I say, “No way. I’ve got a bum ankle.”

But I will join the monitor chain gang. If you look really closely in the background to the left of my monitor, you can see a picture of the president of my publishing division standing next to a huge wild pig he shot. Classy.

Photograph this blog post (including your monitor and its immediate surroundings), and post the resulting pic on your blog. Then, the next person photographs your blog post and posts it, and so on. Leave your post URL in the comments so people will be able to follow the chain, and link your image to the post you photographed… this way people will be able to zoom into the monitors by clicking.

Via Kerry Woo

Black Water

Senor Knucklehead has got an amusing post about his mom doing the laundry and leaving damp clothes in the washer. It brought to mind yet another embarrasing story about myself that I (always) feel compelled to share with you, dear readers.

When the DogDoc and I lived together on 33rd Avenue, we had a “donated” avocado green washer and dryer in our kitchen. After almost a year of sporadic use, the washer finally quit midway through a cycle while still full of water. We both ignored it for a couple of days until one of us, or maybe it was a visiting chick, finally fished out the clothes with a broomstick.

They stunk to high heaven, but we still had no way to drain the washer. And neither one of us wanted to bail out the stank-water. So we just kept a can of Lysol on top of the washing machine and sprayed it whenever we walked through the kitchen.

Eventually, the larvae which were swimming in the washer hatched and we found ourselves with a swarm of flies and mosquitos hovering over the machine and circling the kitchen. So we finally buckled down and did the only thing we could think of to remedy the situation.

We moved out.

Oops, I voted…

…in the early election yesterday. And, true to my promise, I voted for my bud, Rex L. Camino. But I didn’t really want to see him leave town, so I wrote him in for Governor instead of Senator. I figured that the Governor’s mansion is a phat pad and Bredesen’s not using it anyway. If Rex is Governor, I’m sure they’ll let him into the Smithsonian for free anyway.

(Shhh, I know the Smithsonian’s free for everyone, but don’t tell Rex. Let the man dream.)

Fear and Chafing in Las Vegas

One of my all-time favorite books is Hunter S. Thompson’s “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” When my high school senior English teacher assigned it as a summer reading book I thought she was the coolest teacher ever. I still try to read the same dog-eared copy I bought at Mill’s Book Store way back then every summer. I also have a Gideon’s Bible autographed by the good Doctor Gonzo, but that’s a story for a future post.

One of the best chapters was the transcript of a tape recording of a lost evening which reveals the addled, disjointed, crazy tableau that can be Las Vegas. It begins with a disclaimer:

“EDITOR’S NOTE: At this point in the chronology, Dr. Duke appears to have broken down completely; the original manuscript is so splintered that we were forced to seek out the original tape recording and transcribe it verbatim. We made no attempt to edit this section, and Dr. Duke refused even to read it. There was only one way to reach him. The only address/contact we had, during this period, was a mobile phone unit somewhere on Highway 61—and all efforts to reach Duke at that number proved futile. In the interests of journalistic purity, we are publishing the following section just as it came off the tape—one of many that Duke submitted for purposes of verification—along with manuscript.”

In the spirit of this chapter, here are the unedited combined random observations of RUABelle and me culled from our scrawled notes on various cocktail napkins, matchbooks and losing CFL betting slips. (Hey, it’s the off-season…there wasn’t much to bet on and video poker was kicking my ass!)

We met two interesting scary blonde alcoholic chicks at the Monte Carlo Brew Pub the first night we were there to see the Prince Tribute Show. The first was a woman named Kristina whose schtick was “the endless vodka tonic.” As she prattled on to us about her three kids she had left at her mom’s house for the night while she and a friend cruised predatorily for male drink sponsors, she would wait until the bartender walked away to get us another beer and then refill her glass out of a flask she kept in her purse. After this had happened five or six times, we started to really feel like enablers. However, by that time, she and her friend had already hooked their talons into two guys who looked like they had huge expense accounts with whom they left soon after.

The second poor soul was a young woman whose hair and skin was so pale that she looked like an x-ray of herself. I did notice she had a tattoo on the back of her neck that read “Daddy’s Little Girl.” Tragic. She sat down next to me and ordered a glass of white zinfandel with four olives. When she saw RUABelle and I grimace at her order (being the straight-from-Napa wine snobs that we apparently are now), she ate the olives off the toothpick and said, “Dinner.” We asked her what she did for a living, and she replied “I just got to town so I do pretty much whatever I want or whatever anybody will pay me to do.”

Uh-huh. It took about an hour to realize that she was asking if we wanted to pay for a threesome and that we weren’t interested and the band wasn’t going to pay “Little Red Corvette” again. Once we were all on the same page again, we had a pleasant conversation and I even bought her another three olives for a buck. Mmmmm, dessert.

We noticed that the thermometer in our rental PT Cruiser (a piece of crap not worth it even at $16.00/day) read 100 degrees in the parking garage at MIDNIGHT! That just ain’t right. Yet even in those conditions, there was still a contingent of tourists who considered deodorant to be optional.

The heat made it very difficult to balance drinking enough water to avoid dehydration with the need to pee every 20 minutes. We opted to overhydrate because we knew from past experience that if you get behind on your fluids, you’ll feel crappy for days afterwards.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas unless it involves a tattoo or a viral infection.

The lobby of a casino is a really unfortunate location to choose to breastfeed.

Apparently money does matter in some relationships because we saw a lot more hot chicks with really ugly guys than vice versa. At least the ugly guys had nice clothes and a lot of bling.

According to the billboard we saw at the Las Vegas Hilton, now that Reba Macintyre has cut her hair, she is a spitting image of Willow from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.” There must be a really good cosmetic surgeon somewhere in Goodlettsville.

I discovered that playing $1.00 video poker it is actually possible to lose fifty bucks during one commercial break of “SportsCenter.”

Chafing should be covered by Medicare in Nevada.

When did shirts become optional for hipster dudes walking down a sidewalk?

Drinking a plastic football filled with 180 octane daiquiris is rarely a good idea.

All those pictures everyone was taking of that bachelorette sitting on the face of a blow-up doll will probably come back to haunt her some day.

Could there be a more useless souvenir than the plastic yard margarita glasses that everybody was bringing on the plane as carry-on? What are you gonna do with those? Drink your 4-5 glasses of water per day at work out of a Hooters Casino glass?

The fact that it was 108 degrees and all the casinos left their front doors wide open air conditioning the sidewalks is a really good indication that you can’t make money gambling.

Vegas does not think the Titans will win more than five games this year.

When you’re thirsty and hot enough, a $6.00 Miller Lite sounds reasonable.

We saw a guy actually practicing his Zoolander “Blue Steel” look in a bar. He went home alone while the fat guys buying drinks for hot chicks appeared to actually hook up.

I’d rather lose my money to a smiling Tunica dealer named Melba than to a dour Vegas dealer named Phuc.

If hemlines get any higher and necklines get any lower, apparently the “couture de rigueur” in Vegas for women will just a belt.

“It’s a dry heat.” So’s my oven, but I wouldn’t want to live there…

Sad in Vegas

I was going to write my regularly snarky post about all the wacky people RUABelle and I encountered last night in Sin City. But then Sista Smiff let me know about Busy Mom’s mom, so I think the smart-alecness should wait a day or so.

I lost my father after a long battle with Parkinson’s last year, so I have great empathy with what B Mo has been going through. I am comforted (and I hope she is too) by the fact that the great folks at Alive Hospice were there to aid with the transition to a more peaceful and painless place.

Busy Mom, I don’t have your email address with me on this trip, but if you stumble across this post please know that I’m thinking of you. Hang tight to your family and call somebody you haven’t talked to in a while to tell them you love them. That helped me a lot.

Take care.
C

–
Sent from my Treo

Slackers

RUABelle and I put our heads together and counted how many wines we’ve tasted in the past two days.

Yesterday-41
Today-21

It’s only a swallow or so at a time, but at 100+ degrees, it’s certainly taking its toll on us. The good news is that we leave tomorrow AM for Vegas, so the wine intake should slack off. The bad news is that it was 114 in Vegas today. Between the heat and the sin, we should have a pretty good snapshot of Hades.

I know, cry me a river. We’re having fun and hope everybody in Nashville has access to A/C. Have fun at the Mothership blogger meat-up.

Don’t Hate Me

RUABelle and I leave tomorrow for three days in Napa and three days in Vegas. We’re unmarried and childless, so consider this vacation to be like a honeymoon without ever actually getting married. She heads back to work in a few weeks and it look like she’s going to have a pretty challenging class of first-graders to teach next year, so I’m hoping to spoil her like she deserves.

I’ll do my best to send some interesting posts from the road and add some pictures when we get back. But if it’s gonna piss you off, just give the ole Dry Spot a miss for the next week.

Don’t hate the playa. Hate the game.

Update from Sewanee

If anybody cares, it’s 2:45 and 76 degrees on top of the mountain. How’s the weather in Nashville?

I live in Nashville why again?
–
Sent from my Treo

Liveblogging from Highway 127

I decided to take a ridiculously long way home from Knoxville so as to spend as much time on top of the Cumberland Plateau as possible.

So I’m driving down the country roads, diggin’ on some bluegrass and comparing the heights of cornfields. It’s blissful with one small problem.

The farm truck I’m following has had its right blinker on for 20 miles now. If anyone knows the owner of a primer-colored piece of crap Ford pickup truck, license#AVP665, please call him on his CB and ask him to cut it off. It’s busting on my buzz! (Natural high, of course. I’m driving.)

Come to think of it, I reckon the guy riding behind me is probably complaing about the erratic driving of the guy in front of him who’s typing on his Treo with one hand. Fuggem and feed ‘em fish, I say.

I consider this little jaunt to be uniquely American, like drag races and tractor pulls, because it’s loud, senseless and consumes fossil fuels.

Next stop, Gruetli-Laager.
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Sent from my Treo

It’s a Small World

Sorry, this isn’t for you, Coble or the other Disneyphiles cruising the web for Mickey references.

So I’m sitting on the sofa in my hotel room in Johnson City eating a chili dog from Pal’s Rapid Eats while the one pair of khakis I brought is draped over the back of the desk chair so I can wear them again tomorrow. I know that may be a disturbing visual, but such is the glamorous life of the business traveler…

I’m leafing through the local entertainment listing rag looking for something to do tonight, even though I know I’ll most probably end up watching a six square inch screen-sized episode of “Arrested Development” on my iPod.

Then what to my wondering eye should appear? “Hey the lanky dude in that picture looks familiar. That’s Sista’s Mista.”

Sure enough, the Grascals starring Mista Smiff on basso profundo are the headliners tomorrow at the Tazwell Fiddlers Convention in Crab Orchard. Unfortunately, I’ll be headed west while they’re coming east so I’ll miss them again like I did during last week’s blogger meet-up.

I guess I’ll have to actually buy their new CD from iTunes if I’m actually gonna hear them. Sista, I’ll do my part and check the parking lot at all the nearby strip clubs for their tour bus.

I know the truth, though. I probably wouldn’t leave this hotel room if the fire alarm went off. CSI’s on.