The Ballad of the Tom Waits Ticket – Part 2

Continued from Part 1…

That night, as one could probably imagine, after the harrowing feat of trying for a month and a half to get the perfect ticket to see Tom Waits and narrowly succeeding only a few hours before needing to get on the plane for Ohio, I could not sleep. Excitement had overtaken me, or quite possibly total madness. I didn’t even care if the show was going to be any good at this point; it was simply now about actually going there, doing this beyond insane activity, and so on.

I think I slept about 2 hours. I’m normally a very late riser but I needed to catch a rather early flight which meant awakening at around 5am.

I got ready, threw some clothes in a small suitcase, and headed off towards the airport. I had no idea what kind of mess awaited me there due to the recent change in flight regulations. Surprisingly, once I stepped into the check-in area, I was a little shocked to see what I’d consider business as usual and no bizarre lines forming at the security counter at all.

I picked up an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich and sipped on something from Caribou Coffee as I waited for my flight to arrive. The wait passed quickly, nothing unusual happened, and soon I was off to the Cleveland, OH, airport.

I must explain at this point that I had been to Cleveland just a month or so prior for work purposes. Since I didn’t know the area that well I decided to book the same hotel that I had previously stayed at in North Olmsted, a decent hotel that unfortunately had some sort of contract with the Sleep Number Bed system and had them in select rooms (repeat after me…never buy a Sleep Number Bed…never…). The strangest part was that I needed to return to Cleveland the very next week for work once again, and, as you guessed, I would be staying at the same hotel. A feeling of déjà vu was bound to erupt sooner or later.

When I had come out for work in June I was in a mild debate with the management since they for some odd reason insisted that I take a taxi around the area and would not allow me to rent a car. Having traveled many times before with a different company, this made close to no sense at all to me, and not being the taxi type it made my downright uncomfortable. The only reason for this I could get was “rental cars cost too much money”. On this trip out and it having nothing to do with work, I of course needed to rent a car since I’d be driving from North Olmsted down to Akron and then back to Cleveland. I was shocked to see that the rental car rate was exactly $13 per day. It was then I realized just how cheap my company was, or was it simply a power thing? Who knows... Either way, I no longer work for them so it doesn’t really matter anymore but I know they’re not doing the greatest financially and I’m sure it’s due to all those rental cars in the past.

I checked into the hotel and was horrified to find that I was given one of the rooms with a Sleep Number Bed. I admit I was skeptical, especially since I’ve had a top of the line Sealy for the past decade and literally swear by it, but I promised myself that I’d remain open minded. After pushing the buttons, trying different settings, etc., my mind promptly closed. The thing was completely idiotic and I wanted to change rooms but it didn’t seem worth pursuing.

I managed to sleep about an hour and then the alarm went off. I showered, got ready, ate some dinner, and headed off to the Akron Civic Theater for the evening’s festivities. Akron is only about an hour away but the speed of travel is rather slow throughout Ohio so it seemed to take longer than I was used to. The map I was using was slightly bizarre in its’ directions and I took at least 2 wrong turns, one time landing me in a rather interesting part of town. Upon correcting my path, though, I found myself in the general vicinity of the theater and due to some sort of street fair I had to park a few blocks away. My initial thought was that the street fair was in conjunction with the Tom Waits show, a sort of rejoicing in the street, if you will. Of course, only I would do something like that and I soon discovered that it was merely a coincidence.

There was a line already forming out of the theater but it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. I also had figured that there would be tons of people looking for tickets or begging to be your “buddy” if you had an extra one, but quite honestly there wasn’t much of a commotion at all. Maybe it was because it was Akron? I have no idea. I know that when I was in line in L.A. in 1999 it was close to total chaos, and there were people acting strange all around me in line. This line was almost exactly the opposite and if I didn’t know better I would have thought I was waiting to see Tony Bennett or someone similar.

I listened to a few conversations around me in line and was completely appalled. There were people who were asking each other things like “when did Waits’ last put out an album” or “yeah, I always kind of liked that…what’s it called…um, ‘Frank’s Wilder Days’ album or something like that”. These people got tickets? A lot of them didn’t seem worthy. They didn’t even know the name of his last album for cryin’ out loud! It was like I was surrounded by my nightmare anti-fan crowd, and considering how tough it was to get a ticket it simply didn’t seem right. I even heard someone’s date ask, “Who are we here to see? Who is this guy? What kind of music does he play?” I just about had a coronary. I decided to do the only safe thing - tune everyone out.

The big question in my mind, of course, was my two ticket purchase mishap. I had never received a confirmation from the second ticket (the good seat) so I was slightly paranoid. I was completely ready to start a fight if for some reason they tried to stick me with row X after all this. To my relief, though, everything worked just fine.

I entered the lobby and nearly fainted. The Akron Civic Theater lobby is simply to die for and it’ll take your breath away. No words can describe it except maybe Fantasyland in Disneyland meets Phoenix’s Orpheum Theater. Wow.

And now to finally see the seat that I was given… I walked into the theater, a gorgeous palace, of course, and could barely believe I was there after all that effort. I made my way down the aisle to the very very front. I found that my seat really wasn’t in row 4 – it was row 2, and there was my folding chair. Sure, I was sitting off to the side but I was literally about 4 feet from the stage with Wait’s being only about 8 feet away. Ah, payoff.

The gentleman next to me started up a conversation that would continue right up until Waits’ took the stage. He was a very interesting man, probably in his early 50’s, and was there with his son who was around 22. He told me how he had seen Waits’ in ’78, and then in ’83, and then again in ’85. You can probably imagine how green with envy I was. We discussed all sorts of different shows we had seen, places we had traveled to, etc. He was a true fanatic, not unlike myself, and I was grateful to not be sitting next to one of those “who are we seeing again” people.

We then got into a conversation about films, mainly films that Waits’ had starred in or composed music for. This led to talking about Jim Jarmusch, the director who had most recently done “Broken Flowers”, and as if on cue the guy next to me looks over my shoulder and says, “Speaking of which, there’s Jim Jarmusch now!” I turned my head around and sure enough, standing directly in front of me and talking to the usher was Jim Jarmusch and wife/girlfriend/friend. They kept looking sort of in my direction, as if they were expecting their seats to be right where I was sitting. Could it be that there was some sort of mistake and I ended up getting one of their seats? After discussing it a few times, the usher led them towards the middle area of the theater, not far away from row X where I would have originally sat. I got a better seat than Jim Jarmusch – go figure!

The show started about 35 minutes late. Ironically it was only about half as good as the performance that I had seen back in ’99 but for some reason that didn’t even really matter to me anymore. I was simply happy to be there. If you’re curious about the setlist there’s a different blog dedicated to that where you can get all the details. He played songs from various albums, of course, and the one’s I was most pleased to hear were “Postcard from a Hooker in Minneapolis”, “Tom Traubert’s Blues”, and “God’s Away on Business” which was without a doubt the best song he played that night. He simply looked so insane while singing it…it was priceless. Overall, the feel and style of this set and backup band was completely different from the ’99 tour, this one taking on a more bluesy lounge singer sort of appeal rather that the bizarre insane “Get Behind the Mule” Tour which seemed to showcase the more strange side of Waits’ and his music.

I had read on blogs that Waits’ had been forgetting his lyrics throughout the tour. In the middle of the song “Dead and Lovely”, he repeated a line that reads “…were never broken.” Somehow he said that line three times throughout the song by mistake, and instead of being embarrassed Waits’ laughed gruffly and adlibbed: “(heh) 3 times broken…now that’s really broken.” Of course, random people yelled out things like “I love you, Tom” and he would simply respond with a noise that was not unlike something a pig with a bellyache would make followed by a sarcastic “I love you too, man”.

In the middle of the performance, there was some sort of mild ruckus coming from around the area where I was supposed to sit. I later found out the next day that a fight had broken out in Row Z, directly behind the seat that I held in Row X. Make of that what you will.

At about 10pm I started getting edgy, knowing that I had an hour plus ride up to Cleveland. How was Tom precisely going to do this: literally run out of this show and head straight up there? It seemed absurd and yet that was evidently the plan. The Akron show ended at around 10:15pm and on my way out of the auditorium I heard almost everyone comment that they were going to the House of Blues show as well. This was going to be quite a trick.

I ran out to my car and got onto the freeway as quickly as I could but it took awhile since I was parked so far away. By then, the freeways were rather full and whereas there wasn’t exactly a traffic jam we still were moving slowly. I felt like I was with a caravan slowly making our way up the freeway to Cleveland on a quest for more Tom Waits.

I had joked with some friends a few weeks prior how it would be amusing to be following the tour bus up the freeway to the House of Blues. As I approached downtown Cleveland and again didn’t know where I was going, I noticed that I was now traveling only a couple cars behind the tour bus indeed! I decided to follow the tour bus since they should know where they’re going, right? We exited the freeway and I was lost but I just kept following the bus. Then, it turned in a direction that seemed to go against my map and so I chickened out and went in the direction that I thought I should be heading. Perhaps it wasn’t Waits’ tour bus, you know? I could just imagine me following some high school band’s bus into Pennsylvania, convinced that I was following Tom Waits’. I made a couple turns and voila, there was the bus again. It evidently was his bus; it was just that there was more than one way to get there. I again followed the bus and it lead me directly to the House of Blues where I immediately let out a “oh my freakin’ hell…” kind of statement when I saw the line wrapped around the building.

I parked in the first lot I could find. I quickly ran over and started following the line, trying to find the end of it. Every time I thought I was getting closer to finding the end I was let down to see that it turned in a different direction and simply continued on. The line in total wrapped around half of the entire block of buildings in the shape of an ‘E’ missing the middle line. It didn’t look like all the people in line could possibly even fit in the House of Blues! Worse yet, they were still coming long after I got in line. It was now 11:15pm and the show was supposed to start at midnight. It didn’t seem possible that we’d all get in by then.

Well, I called it right…at midnight we had barely moved. I was standing next to these 2 guys who were probably barely drinking age. The one guy was okay but the other was either a) completely drunk, b) high, c) had been sniffing something that wasn’t meant to be sniffed, d) all of the above, or e) was just an all around strange kid. Every time he spoke it was like listening to a record being slowed down and then sped up again in mid-sentence. I normally just smiled and nodded, not having understood a single word he said.

The line inched at a snail’s pace. I finally got inside the building at about 1:05am. The place was already mobbed and everyone was squeezing there way in. The show began at 1:15am and the place went nuts. It was hard to see but I had a semi-decent view for most of it. Believe it or not he played almost a completely different set except for only one song…amazing. The highlight of the set was “November” off of “The Black Rider”, and at the part where the drums come in and Waits’ sings, “…with my hair slicked back, with carrion shellac, and the blood from a pheasant and the bone from a hare…” he then paused, grunted, and said, “(grunt)…that was good, let’s do that again.” And so they did: “With my hair slicked back, with carrion shellac...”

The only song that bombed all evening was “The Circus”, the other spoken weird tune ala “What’s He Building in There?” It was the first time that I heard the crowd talking over the band. Otherwise, it was a good set with a completely different feel since it was in a small club and they ended up doing a couple cover tunes as well. Like before, some woman yelled out, “I love you, Tom,” and he simply responded with “Eeeeaaaaahhh” while wearing a sarcastic grin.

Shockingly, as gruff as he sings, Waits’ voice held up all night and showed no real signs of dying out, even after 4+ hours of singing. The show ended at 3:20am, a definite record for being the latest running performance that I had ever seen. As much as neither performance would make the list as some of the greatest performances that I’d ever seen nor would they come even close to comparing to his show back in ’99, it was definitely a most bizarre and yet interesting experience. Dare I say it was worth the trip.

Keep in mind that I had barely slept the night before and I had been up since 5am. Needless to say, the drive back to the hotel was interesting. I climbed into the Sleep Number Bed at 4am exactly and passed out until my alarm went off at 9am. I had the great foresight to book a 10:30am flight...hurray for me.

I dropped off my rental car and waited in the airport for my flight. It was nearly deserted, as in no one in sight. I ate another icky breakfast sandwich and sipped coffee that this time tasted like it had literally been excreted from a Caribou rather than from the popular chain.

Upon getting home, I collapsed from exhaustion, with a slight smile on my face. Against the odds and even against the pocketbook, I had achieved what I had set out to do…and I learned a lot of new words from the Ticketmaster site in the process.

I shudder to think what will happen the next time Tom Waits’ decides to perform live…

The Ballad of the Tom Waits Ticket – Part 1

(This is a 2 part entry about my struggle to see Tom Waits on his most recent tour of the South and Midwest. If these entries don’t clearly display why I should be committed, wearing a straight-jacket in a white padded room, I don’t know what would. This entry is rather long winded so depending upon your interests you might want to skim over it or possibly skip ahead.)


I love Tom Waits; I hate Tom Waits. No, no, I loooovvvveeee Tom Waits. No, definitely not, I hate Tom Waits.

Tom Waits is a god of music. Nope, Tom Waits is a total bastard. The verdict is in: the piano has not been drinking after all, and it is in fact me.

Waits’ wrote “…misery’s the river of the world…” and perhaps it is. I’m not entirely sure that I disagree with that statement wholeheartedly, but “misery” is definitely the river of getting yourself a decent ticket to one of his shows. Now that I think about it, calling it misery is putting it lightly.

I think I totally lost it the week of August 6th. I don’t know if you could call it a nervous breakdown or anything but I assuredly lost it, perhaps mentally, and at the very least ticket wise, twice to be precise.

Let me start at the beginning. Most of my friends would tell you that I’m one of the most concert or show going people they’ve ever met. I’m a true diehard when it comes to music and I treat it closer to a religious experience than anything resembling entertainment. I’ve seen so many live shows that most people would faint at the sheer number and I’m known for traveling out of state to see performances. I should also add that I’m a bit of a show snob, and after seeing so many performances I’m usually only interested in getting a seat in the first 10-15 rows of the main floor. If this can’t be accomplished for some reason, I won’t attend.

Obviously, some artists mean a lot more to me than others, especially these days after seeing almost everyone I’ve ever wanted to see. Enter Tom Waits, someone that I’ve listened to and put into the musical “god” category for nearly 2 decades now. I first stumbled upon Waits’ back in 1987 during an episode of I.R.S.’ “The Cutting Edge”, I.R.S. being a spin-off record label from the Warner Music Group whose video show aired weekly for awhile. I was waiting one evening to see a homemade video of R.E.M. singing some songs in someone’s house and, of course, due to their popularity they were pushed to the very end of the show. What popped up in the meantime was the video “Blow Wind Blow” by Tom Waits, someone I had never heard of let alone actually heard. My initial thought was, “Who the heck is this guy?” After listening and watching for about one whole minute I also came to the conclusion that he was completely insane. The song “Blow Wind Blow” resembles an old carnival or vaudeville styled tune from the ‘20’s that went wrong somewhere, with Waits sitting on a chair with a large female marionette that’s supposedly singing the song by his command. At the end of the video, Waits’ keels over and the marionette pulls out her hand from inside his back, her hand all the while dripping in blood. It was one of the most terrifying things I’d seen AND heard up until that point and I had no idea what to make of it. I never thought in a million years I’d ever listen to the guy.

About a year and a half later, however, I suddenly had the strange overwhelming urge to buy the album and give it a chance. I was mesmerized, blown away, and completely enchanted. I’d never heard anything like it before and never have since. Ever since that day I’ve been a mega fan. I bought every album that came out as well as older work and couldn’t get enough of the guy. I finally got to see him live in 1999 in Los Angeles, CA, at the Wiltern Theater. I had a 3rd row center ticket, directly behind James Spader, of all people. The show is still in my top 3 of all time and considering the amount of shows I’ve seen that’s saying an enormous amount. I’ve always said that if I ever had the chance to see him again I’d go to any length to do so. I didn’t realize I’d go insane in the process, though.

It should also be stated that Waits’ does not perform live very often. His last tour was in ’99, and I don’t believe he played another show until 2004. In that year I think he played only one show in the US in support of his latest album “Real Gone” which had just been released days earlier.

You can therefore imagine the excitement when I received word out of the blue that he was going on a mini tour hitting Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, and also one show in Chicago at the Auditorium Theatre. This was the biggest news for Waits’ fans in years and was sure to be a sellout within a matter of minutes.

Residing in Minnesota, the only reasonable distance for me to travel was to the Chicago performance. I therefore focused all of my attention on getting a ticket for this. My plan was simple: I only need one ticket so it should be relatively painless since I figured most people purchase in pairs. All I’d have to do is be one of the first people in the Ticketmaster queue and I should do fine. Ah, if only life was this easy…

A couple things to note: first, the promoters of this tour had put a two ticket limit per household for all ticket sales and if you didn’t follow this rule your order was subject to being cancelled. No biggie, I’m only one person, at least physically speaking. The tricky part though was that all sales for “premium” seats, meaning anything I’d want, were available via will call only, and only the person who actually purchased the seat(s) could pick it up the day of the show. This was in order to prevent scalping, Ebay sales, etc.

Now, let me recap what happened in ’99. I was living in Phoenix trying to get a ticket for one of the three L.A. performances, mind you, and I had this bright idea that I should go to Tower Records in person, talk to the clerk a few minutes beforehand, and convince him to be the first person to pull the tickets from their Ticketmaster system. At that time, I thought my plan was quite flawless considering I’d be the only person in Phoenix pulling a ticket for an L.A. show at that exact moment and I’d therefore be first in line. The internet was sort of new to me back then so I didn’t understand that buying tickets in that manner was probably more sensible. Anyhow, I got to Tower about 5 minutes before the sale began, I talked to the guy behind the counter, and he slowly made his way over to the Ticketmaster desk. I didn’t want to be pushy but I began pleading with him and trying to explain the sense of urgency here, how important it was to me, how I expected tickets to sell out very quickly, and he still moved pretty slowly regardless. I began to get a little nervous and couldn’t help but glance at my watch every 30 seconds or so. He finally got to the Ticketmaster computer and nonchalantly asked me once again, “Ok, what did you need a ticket for?” “Tom Waits”, I said rather impatiently, “at the Wiltern Theater, in L.A.” He grimaced and said, “Never heard of ‘em”, as if his stamp of approval meant anything at all to me. I thought to myself, “Good! Now just pull the freakin’ tickets, will ya? And hurry!”

Still obsessed with looking at my watch, I noticed that there was only about a minute to go before the tickets were opened up for sale and yet the guy was still taking his sweet time. I was beyond nervous now, starting to sweat, and suddenly needed to use the bathroom for no apparent reason. The clerk hit some buttons and then asked, “Oh yeah, here it is. How many tickets do you need?” I told him the number again and thought “thank goodness”, believing that we had made it just in time. Upon looking at my watch I realized that tickets were now definitely on sale, and I felt reasonably safe in thinking that he was pulling them for me. My dream was shattered when he suddenly yelled out across the floor, “Hey Bob, this thing isn’t working! What’s goin’ on?” I nearly fainted. The next 10 minutes were spent with these two guys trying to get their Ticketmaster computer to work and of course I knew that the show was probably completely sold out by then. In a sheer panic, I persuaded the guy to let me into the backroom so I could call Ticketmaster directly over the phone. I had to wait through all the various menu’s, etc., and by the time I talked to a shadow of a human being, of course all that was left were individual seats 3 rows from the very back of the balcony. I think I cried.

In the end, I was beyond lucky by finding someone that had bought two tickets from a scalper when she only needed one (ticket agencies usually sell all tickets in pairs). She advertised in the Sunday L.A. paper and stated she just wanted what she paid for the ticket and that the first caller would be the victor. By some stroke of luck I was the first caller, or perhaps it was my pleading on her answering machine that won her over. Either way, it all worked out in the end and was worth every single cent and ounce of energy.

Still, you’d think this would have been a tip off to me that tickets on this go round could also somehow get messed up. Needless to say, I didn’t get the tip and pure hell arose.

This time I thought I had it all planned out perfectly. Tickets went on sale for the Chicago show on Saturday, July 15th. I decided I’d go into work that day and use their high speed connection since I only have dial-up currently at home (I know, I know…don’t say it!). I got there 30 minutes early, opened up my Ticketmaster windows, relaxed, tried to maintain my composure, and patiently awaited the beginning of the sale. Nothing could possibly go wrong…except that I’m an idiot.

Usually, Ticketmaster lets tickets trickle out a little at a time, in other words the first released tickets are normally not the best available. You kind of have to work it, keep pulling tickets until you land upon what you think you should be getting. Also, in all of my years of pulling tickets over the internet, Ticketmaster has never been on time for anything. If it says tickets go on sale at noon, they’ll assuredly open up around 12:06pm.

And so, it’s 11:59am. I occasionally refresh the page and nothing looks different. I’m not expecting anything to change for another 2-4 minutes. I hit refresh a couple more times rather calmly and then notice that very little changed on the page but indeed something did in fact change that I hadn’t previously noticed. Holy crap, they opened the tickets at 11:59am! In a blind panic I utilize my 100 wpm typing speed and get into the queue via 5-6 opened windows. I’ve never in my life seen Ticketmaster so jammed, so much so that the “searching for tickets” page remains on my screens for about 1-2 minutes before any results come back. I’m beyond nervous and scared to see what tickets the system chooses for me. To my horror, they’re all seats in the balcony, and not even very good seats, for that matter. It’s only then that I look closer and realize that the front page had 2 options, one for “standard seating” and one for “premium”. The whole thing happened so fast that I hadn’t realized this and simply chose the first option available, which, you guessed it, would normally have been the most expensive offering but of course, with my luck, not this time. I mistakenly chose “standard seating”, hence the balcony selections, and by the time I figured it out all the tickets were sold out. Again, I was ready to cry. Déjà vu!

To make matters even worse, Chicago was the last show to go on sale and so there weren’t even any other on-sale options if I wanted them at that point. And, of course, there wasn’t an option of buying from a ticket broker this time around due to the anti-scalping policies. I did look on Ebay and I’ve had enough issues in the past that I don’t trust the “send me the money up front and I’ll meet you at the venue” situation. It just sounded way too risky to me, considering the drive and all. There was only one option…to hope that Ticketmaster would release some decent seats closer to the actual show date that were reserved for VIP’s that for some reason, at the last moment, couldn’t make the show. This is pretty standard practice and almost every performance has some seats that get opened up later on; the trick is to be online at the precise moment that the seats are opened up.

And so begins the insanity. The show was three weeks away from the on sale date and I looked every single day, every moment I remembered, for a ticket to the Chicago show. I became completely obsessed with getting a decent ticket for this performance and it quickly completely consumed me. The week of the show arrived and I knew I had to look every chance I got. I kid you not, I hit the Ticketmaster site more times than McDonald’s Big Mac’s have been sold. I’ve now seen every single “word verification” (when you search for tickets on their site, you have to type in a word that’s displayed in order to proceed) that they have on their site, all the way from “fungian” to “unlaid” to “myopsis”. I’ve seen the “Sorry, no tickets match your request” page more times that I ever should have in my entire life. I’m still having nightmares about it, in fact.

Two days before the Chicago show I’m in a total panic. No tickets have opened up at all up until now, most likely due to Chicago being a higher profile city. I’ve seen great seats open up for Louisville, Memphis, etc. but I pass them up truly believing that I’ll get a seat for the Chicago show. The day of the show arrives and I’m beyond nervous. I didn’t sleep well that night due to having nightmares of getting a bad ticket. The plan is to literally get a ticket and run out the door, quickly driving down to Chicago from Minneapolis (it’s about a 5-6 hour ride). I obviously have to leave by about 1pm in order to make it.

10am…nothing. 10:30am…nothing. 11:00am…still nothing. 11:30am…more nothing, and I’m really getting worried. 11:45am…tickets pop up! Alas, they’re in the back of the venue, not what I want. I keep searching and a couple more come up but still not what I’m looking for. Suddenly, a weird one pops up, I think located in the box level of the venue but I’m not entirely sure. This would work! I hit “seating map” and the page clears. Oh shit! I didn’t HIT seating map, I hit “search again” out of sheer force of habit! I frantically try to pull up this seat again and unbelievably a few minutes later I do. This time I do hit “seating map” to see where it’s located specifically and the page doesn’t come up. I’m confused by this but still concerned that the seat isn’t where I think it is, and I want confirmation before I actually purchase it and get on the road. I try to access the Chicago Auditorium website but it won’t come up either. What’s going on? None of my internet windows work except the one that’s holding the ticket, and I have only 3 minutes before the ticket automatically gets put back in the queue for someone else to purchase. I’m confused, panicked, and truly don’t know what to do. I’m on the last page before I actually purchase the ticket and for some stupid reason think that maybe I reached the threshold for open windows or refreshes on Ticketmaster’s site. I close out of all of my windows, restart my computer, and sure enough…the internet connection had broken, hence the windows not opening up. What are the odds of the internet connection breaking at that exact moment of success? In near hysterics, I decide to drive to the nearest alternative internet connection. I speed down the highway, login, and proceed to sit at the computer for the next 4 hours trying to get a ticket. Nothing at all comes up. To add insult to injury, I finally get to look at the seating map and the ticket that I did have reserved momentarily in the box section of the auditorium would have indeed been fine if I had only been able to confirm the location. Sigh. Somehow this seems like poetic justice in some cruel way, and evidently some other lucky bastard got to enjoy my seat that night, the one that I should have just clicked one more time and it would have been mine. My luck had run out. The ballad of the Tom Waits ticket was over.

Or was it? After being thoroughly depressed about what had happened, I spent the next 12 hours trying to adjust to the fact that I wasn’t going to see Waits’ perform this time around. I had almost completely accepted this fact when the most bizarre announcement was posted on a blog: Waits’ would play one more show at midnight at the Cleveland House of Blues, ironically the same night as the Akron show! At first I completely doubted this and thought someone was playing a joke on me. Could this be? Waits’ doesn’t play club shows and hasn’t for years. Are you serious? 2 shows in one night? Indeed, it was serious, and so the madness began again, just as I had accepted not going. My new idea was to go to both the Akron and the HOB show on the same night. It seemed like insanity, would cost me a fortune…but who cares! The plan was simple: as long as I could get a ticket to the HOB show, I would then spend night and day on the Ticketmaster site trying to get a seat to the Akron performance. This sounds insane to any normal person; for me, though, this was totally logical and sensible, and a challenge I couldn’t resist.

I figured I’d fly out to Ohio, and just as I had decided to do this the London thwarted airline terrorist threat was announced. The news states that flights are grounded, new security guidelines are in place, the lines through security are hours long, etc. Clearly someone doesn’t want me to go to this show!

I top my own madness with yet another crazy idea…I could drive to Akron! Heck, it’s only a 10 hour ride one way! It would depend upon when I actually got a ticket for the Akron show, of course, but it is a possibility.

The tickets for the HOB show went on sale the next day and I easily got a general admission ticket, probably because no one was aware that they went on sale due to the short notice. And now only one task left…to get a ticket to the Akron show, and a decent ticket is really what I want. And so, the madness continues, and I search, and I search, and my last ditch effort is to spend all day Saturday (the shows being the very next day) looking for one decent ticket. My plan is that upon getting one I’m out the door and on the road (sound familiar?).

10:00am…nothing. 11:00am…nothing. 12:00pm…nothing. 1:00pm…nothing. 2:00pm…nothing. 3:00pm…nothing. Evidently no tickets were going to be released and perhaps I underestimated the popularity of this last show of the tour. I give up. I call it quits. I have failed yet again. It’s time to drink heavily. I’m totally depressed.

Just then, at 3:45pm, some tickets finally open up. They’re in Row X of the main floor, a bit further back than I wanted, but something is better than nothing and perhaps this is livable. I think on it awhile and finally decide to purchase the ticket. I can’t believe it…I’m going to see Waits, after all of this! I’ve never spent so many hours on any show in my entire life and I certainly hope I never have to again!

It’s too late to drive now and I’m already tired. I book my airfare which costs close to most people’s rent payment, hoping for the best at the airport with the increased security and all. I’m ready to expect anything, such as my flight being cancelled, myself sitting in the airport knowing that I actually do have tickets to both shows but can’t go due to the airport shuffle, or something like that.

I’m still not really pleased about the Row X seat, and so for some odd reason I decide to look one last time for a ticket at 4:15pm. I can legitimately buy 2 tickets for the show, remember, but no more than that. I tell myself before I hit search that I’m only going to look one more time and then after that I need to walk away. I shake on it (with myself). I hit “search”…and 4th row Main Floor comes up. It is located way off to the side but still…I swear I heard angels singing. I’m beaming, and I decide to hit “seat map” just to verify where the seat’s located…and I hit “search again” AGAIN out of force of habit! I scream, starting to yell every obscenity I know out loud at my computer! I can’t believe I had the very thing that I had just spent 200+ hours looking for and like a total idiot lost it again! I start trying to pull it up again frantically, still swearing, but it’s not coming up.

6 minutes later, by some miracle, as if the gods decided that they had played enough cruel jokes on me, the 4th row seat comes up again. Clearly someone else had pulled the ticket and decided against it. This time I do actually buy it. Believe it or not, 200+ hours later, after hours and hours of lost sleep, hysteria, and total madness, as President Bush would say: “Mission accomplished”.

As unlikely and insane as it is, I’m unbelievably off to Ohio.



To Be Continued…

“Big Sale Last Week”…Why Advertise?

“Head On…apply directly to the forehead! Head On…apply directly to the forehead! Head On…apply directly to the forehead!!!”

Yeah, I don’t get it either. This is a commercial that I see frequently for a product called (you guessed it) “Head On”. I’m not entirely sure but I think it’s for headache pain. It’s such a successful commercial campaign that I walk away not even knowing what the heck the product is used for. Go figure.

Still, I now walk around town and at random intervals a message surges through my brain waves like an emergency call: “Head On…apply directly to the forehead!!!” Now that’s what I call advertising power.

For example, I was just in Madison, WI, last weekend over 4th of July. I checked into a Super 8 Motel and noticed that the guy behind the desk had something stuck all over his hair. At first I thought that perhaps someone threw up on him but that didn’t seem quite right. Looking closer I could only guess that he shoved his head into a pile of lint, or perhaps he got into a fist fight with a rabid Dyson vacuum and evidently lost. In hindsight I should have asked, “Excuse me, sir, but what have you got all over your doo and what in heaven’s name were you doing?” I’m sure the answer would have been worth the asking. Instead, what does pulse through my head upon looking at him is: “Head On…apply directly to the forehead!” although I think this guy took the application a bit further than expected. On second thought, maybe I don’t want to know what it is in his hair. Ick.

Speaking of advertising, down the road from the hotel in Madison I saw the most insane, asinine, and hypocritical thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes and hopefully it’s not a trend. Are you ready for this? “Pizza Hut Italian Bistro”. No kidding, that’s what the sign said. It was an old style red roofed Pizza Hut with the added text “Italian Bistro” on the sign. Italian? Bistro??? Are these words that have ANY association whatsoever with the so called product that Pizza Hut sells? Someone clearly either a) was playing a practical joke, b) wanted to see if anyone at all ever looked at the sign (the first suggestion was to instead hang up “Ominous Shithole” but there were possible legal implications), or c) offered brownies with an added extra special ingredient to the owners of the establishment, causing them to first run around the neighborhood wearing nothing but a strategically placed bunch of Hostess products and suffer from delusions that their product actually has it’s roots in the Italian culture. No matter how you slice it (ha…a bit of pizza humor there), this is just wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s bad enough that Olive Garden was chosen “Best Italian Restaurant” in Phoenix for multiple years in a row but this just defies all taste and sensibility. Next thing you know Taco Bell will be a “Mexican Fusion Café”.

This leads me into my obsession with the Quizno’s cup. Yes, that’s right, here in Woodbury, standing on a street corner in the middle of suburbia is a larger than life size Quizno’s cup, you know, one of those grand ideas that a business owner gets to try and generate new business. Basically, he pays some young sap $5 an hour to stand outside in a large rubber suit mimicking a giant version of a Coca-Cola on the rocks while waving at the passing cars who clearly don’t give a damn one way or the other. Now, last time I checked Quizno’s was famous for their sandwiches so I’m not sure how the cup plays into it. I guess it didn’t seem politically correct to have a 10 foot ham on rye waving instead. Still, I have to admit that it’s better than the Santa Claus in Phoenix that stood outside in the middle of summer in east Mesa pointing towards the jewelry store. If you ask me he’s where they got the idea for the film “Bad Santa”. I wouldn’t sit on his lap if you paid me a million dollars.

I don’t like the Quizno’s cup. I’m not sure why but something about him makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I’m intimidated by large oversized soft drinks, I don’t know. I want to approach him, ask him if he’s ever applied anything directly to his forehead, and then run like heck, leaving him puzzled beyond belief. Or, I want to tip him a bit in order to see if I can hear the sound of fake ice cubes inside. Basically, I just want to mess with him. I know, how mean, right? Then again, he’s posing as an 8 ft. tall cup that’s not only waving at passersby but also dancing in the process, doing this interesting little spin that by rights and weight proportions should knock him on his arse in a matter of moments. Given that, still he spins and stays right side up. Damn, I don’t like the Quizno’s cup.

As a distraction, I just recently decided to take the leap and buy my first bicycle after not owning one for approximately 16 years. I live right in between two lakes and figured with all the paths running around the neighborhood that it was time to get out and explore. Also, after living in Phoenix, AZ, for 21 years, I realized that I had completely grown accustomed to never leaving the house due to the heat of the largest oven in the entire universe beating down upon me, otherwise known as the desert sun. It was time to attempt to break this habit. Thank the heavens for the simple invention called clouds.

The old saying goes that “it’s like riding a bicycle…you never forget how to do it.” For some reason, whenever I hear this phrase I can only think that it’s about having sex. I know, Freud would have a field day with this but so be it. I’m sure I’d puzzle him even more with the ink blot test, being the only poor sap that claims to see a large multicolored crab wearing a suit and sunglasses when it’s clearly a picture of an anxiety prone badger’s uterus.

I was shocked to see that I indeed hadn’t forgotten how to ride a bike although for a split second there clearly was panic on my part. I began exploring my neighborhood for the first time ever, riding the various paths and such that encircle the lake and stretch throughout the neighborhood in every direction possible. I found that more people walk the paths than ride them, and it wasn’t long before a couple not paying attention caused me to miss the path altogether and land in the trees, the couple looking at me in an unsure manner on whether they should laugh or perhaps call the authorities.

I also learned an interesting trick. Let’s say for some reason you’re short on cash and you’re skimping on food for a month. Never fear! Not wanting to eat Ramen noodle every day, if you own a bike, simply ride it quickly through the trees and your mouth will promptly fill up with every bug imaginable. One even flew up my nose and caused me to sneeze like an allergic in a feather factory. I sort of imagined that when I finally got to use a tissue that the bug would simply come flying out as if it was the most natural and efficient means of transport to come along yet. Worse yet, what if I met someone and started talking to them on the bike trail and it came flying out at random? I’m sure it’s a great way to meet women, let me tell ya. They don’t call me Mr. Charm for nothing.

I’ve since concocted a brilliant idea: I’m going to ride my bike over to the shopping center, and then nonchalantly with full force run smack into the Quizno’s cup. It would be worthy of a stunt from an episode of Jackass only I’d be doing the neighborhood a big favor. With a bit of luck perhaps after hitting him and being knocked over myself a bug might fly out of my left nostril. Can you think of anything more perfect than this? Anyone got a video camera???

But seriously, I’d never do anything to harm someone, let alone an 8 ft. tall Quizno’s cup. Heck, the guy’s got to be in pain enough wearing a large suit of rubber in the 85 degree heat with moderate humidity. If I was the Quizno’s cup I’d probably pass out within an hour, and kids in the backseat of something like a Dodge Caravan passing by would suddenly cry out, “Daddy!!! The Quizno’s cup just rolled into the street!” Due to the shape and size of the outfit I’d probably roll unconscious from heat exhaustion down the road and end up in the Mississippi River. With that being said, peace to you, Mr. Quizno’s cup. Long may you spin.

The moral of the story is that there’s clearly some highly interesting advertising tactics in our society these days. Some of these are brilliant while others need their originators to be beaten to a pulp with a steel plated super-sized Twinkie.

And, of course, when you’re giving them the beating they so richly deserve, don’t forget to apply it directly to the forehead.

If You Beep at Me Again I'm Going to Kill You...

“Do you want me to beat you?”

I’m sure you can imagine the puzzled look on my face along with the complete lack of knowing how to respond.

The lady shuffled slightly, looking agitated, and then repeated more sternly, “Do you want me to beat you?”

What exactly is the correct response to this sort of question? I guess if we were in an adult toy shop or something similar it might be expected, but not in a (choke) bowling alley. To make it even more disturbing, it was the lady that hands out the bowling shoes asking this, completely out of the blue, and I had absolutely no clue what exactly she meant by this. I was scared to ask for I might end up with a demonstration. The scariest part was that she did sort of resemble the steakhouse waitress towards the end of “Sideways” so the way I was interpreting this comment seemed rather viable.

Not everyone wants to beat me, though, thankfully. Some prefer to just make me completely insane: enter the phone company.

A couple months ago I awoke shortly after going to sleep to a horridly annoying beeping sound. I put it off for quite some time since it only beeped about once every five minutes and I was terribly tired. Eventually the beep would win and I would become annoyed enough to wake up just to the extent of being annoyed at the fact that I was waking up. Hopefully you followed that sentence since I don’t think I could possibly write it again.

Ever since working nightshift for two and half years a decade ago I simply can’t wake up without getting a good seven hours worth of sleep, and if I attempt to I almost immediately have a pounding headache. My head hurt more than normal since not only was I tired but annoyed on top of it. I quickly traced the beep to my security system in the house, one panel being in my bedroom. The interesting part is that I don’t pay for a security service so I’m not even sure what the system does, what its’ point is, etc., and quite frankly I’d turn it off if only I could find a switch labeled “power”.

It also didn’t take long for me to remember that I had previously heard this annoying beeping noise coming from the security system the day I moved in. Upon inquiring about it the previous owner had explained that whenever the phone line went down that the system would beep to alert you to the issue and the only solution she was aware of was to “hit random buttons until it stops”. Very techy remedy, isn’t it? Either way, it was all I had to go on.

And so at 1:30am I start pressing random buttons like I was instructed. After a few pushes the system gives a different pitched “beep!” I assume that this means it’ll shut its’ trap now. I then promptly go back to sleep.

Probably about one hour later the beeping returns and I start the whole process all over again, the slowly being annoyed enough to awaken just enough to be annoyed, and so on. I hit the “random buttons” again and the system gives me that “beep!” like it understands the task at hand. This time, however, I’m doubting the system and I’m thinking it just might be a liar. I also decide to pursue further and pick up the phone; sure enough there isn’t a dial tone. Surprise, surprise!

I return to my bed and nearly pass out from annoyance and sleep exhaustion. 30 minutes later the beeping begins again almost as if it’s taunting me, sort of like an older sibling pulling away your favorite toy every time you grab for it. Now I’m ticked and push the buttons on the system rather hard. The system still gives the obligatory “beep!’. Yeah, right! You just don’t get it, do you?!

I have no idea how many times I did this that night but somehow I eventually got to sleep peacefully. In the morning the phone line was still down and it wasn’t until I returned that evening from work that I first heard it come back on.

The next day I had a ticket to see a show downtown so I ended up getting home rather late. I was dead tired, or maybe dog tired…I get those two confused. I’m really much more of a cat person but I’ve never heard of anyone being “cat tired” so I’m not sure if that applies or not. Either way, I think I actually fell asleep as my body was in mid-air heading towards landing on the mattress.

Two hours later, I hear the blasted beeping again. It doesn’t take long to awaken me this time and I promptly yell out, “Oh no, not this sh*t again!!!” I slam my hand against the security panel and grumble as I return back to my bed. The system says “beep!” as if it’s trying to give me a sense of comfort. I can almost imagine it muttering in an evil robotic voice: “Yes, that’s right, relax, fall asleep, get comfortable. I won’t interrupt you…hah, hah! Sucker!!!”

I decide I’m not going to play this game again. I’m too freakin’ tired, I’m not in the mood, and furthermore if I have to press those buttons one more time I think I’m going to slam my head through the wall trying to press them. No, instead, get a screwdriver and figure out how the heck to turn the power off to this thing.

I remove the screws and pull the panel off the wall, half expecting a power switch (yeah, I know, don’t say it). My only option is to pull 1 – 4 random colored wires out of the unit and hope that it doesn’t have a battery backup. I don’t like the idea of leaving unprotected wires in my wall, however, and none of the wire nuts that I have will catch on these thin wires. I ultimately have no choice but to leave the wires dangling. Also, just for good measure, I decided to check the phone and sure enough it was out again. What’s with this city? It wasn’t even raining any more at the time so does the slightest wind blow the lines down? Odd.

I get back into bed but now I can’t sleep because I’m paranoid that the house is going to catch on fire from the bare wires in the wall. Eventually, though, I pass out and I’m still alive when I awake in the morning. I reconnected the wires and put everything back as it was before heading off to work.

A couple days of silent nights go by and I forget all about the beeping entirely. Then, one weekend night, once again somewhere around 3:00am, it’s happening again. At this point I decide that I’ve had enough and I need to investigate further.

I had now deduced the following: a) the phone line is always down approximately 18 hours before coming back online, b) it usually happens in the middle of the night, and c) I do believe that it happens always after a rain storm. Hmm…it’s clearly time to call the phone company, at least to figure out if it’s just my house having the issue or if the entire city’s being beeped at.

I call the phone company from work the next day. After navigating through countless pointless menu’s that never even hint at the possibility of a human being answering the phone, I finally just persistently hit ‘0’. The automated voice says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your request.” I again hit ‘0’: “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your request.” After repeating this multiple times it gives up and transfers me to an actual human being.

A middle aged sounding lady answers the phone and she already sounds annoyed before I even say anything. We go through the usual 20 questions about my name, address, mother’s maiden name, shoe size, underwear preference, etc. and finally get to the real business. “Can you tell me if you’re having any issues in my city recently?” I ask. “My phone line keeps going down and I’m trying to figure out if it’s just me or if everyone’s having a similar problem.”

“I have no idea, sir,” the lady says.

“You don’t keep records or have any log of repairs?”

“No, sir, we don’t keep track of that information.”

I’m slightly shocked. “So, you’re saying that when you repair fallen lines, you don’t keep any sort of record of that?”

“We simply don’t track that information, sir.”

Clearly a different tactic was needed. “Well, then how do I figure out if it’s just my phone line or if others are having the same problem?”

The lady paused. “You need to call us when you’re line is down and we can tell you.”

Now I’m confused. “You want me to call you when the phone’s not working, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, you need to call us at that time.”

Is it just me or does this make absolutely no sense? “But ma’am, the phone line is down.”

“Exactly, sir, that’s why you need to call us at that time.” She seemed satisfied by this but it still sounded like pure insanity to me.

“How can I call you if I don’t have a phone line???”

At this point, the operator changed the approach. “Sir, what happens when you call yourself? Do you get a busy signal or does the phone ring?”

I did a phone double take. “I don’t know, ma’am, I don’t normally make a habit of calling myself, not to mention the fact that I can’t since I don’t have a phone line.”

She sighed heavily. “Here’s what you want to do: next time the line goes down, get a single line phone and plug it directly into the jack that’s on the side of your house. If you get a dial tone there but you don’t get one in your house it’s your line only. If there’s no dial tone there call us at that time so we can diagnose it.”

So, allow me to reiterate: basically, if I don’t get a dial tone at the main jack I’m supposed to call the phone company, however, I won’t have a dial tone to make the phone call. Do you see how this works? This was apparently the best advice I was going to receive and so I thanked her for making me feel completely off my rocker and hung up the phone.

A few days later, the phone line went down once again and, against my better judgment, I decided to do what the lady had advised. I grabbed a phone and made my way to the front door. There was but one minor problem…it was raining outside. I wasn’t exactly sure if I should continue but after some debate I thought, screw it, let’s get this over with. And so, there I am, standing in muddy grass by the side of my house in the pouring rain, holding a phone in my right hand and listening for a dial tone. Of course, my neighbors are driving by on the street and I can see their puzzled faces staring at me in complete confusion, most likely saying to one another, “Man, that new guy’s a weirdo!”

Low and behold, I did get a dial tone. Luckily I wasn’t holding a metal rod in my other hand or wearing a metal helmet, posing as the perfect lightning rod. That would be just my luck, of course…just as I figure out that I have a dial tone I’m struck by lightning.

A couple days later, a man wearing a big floppy hat exactly like the one worn by the guy that put his friend’s foot through the woodchipper at the end of “Fargo” fixed the line issue in about 5 minutes. All that lost sleep for 5 minutes worth of work. Sigh. At least I got to see an actual human being wearing one of those hats. And here I thought it was just an exaggeration!

In summary, when given the choice between being beaten by the bowling alley lady or driven insane by the mad beeping of the security system which I’m sure was incahoots with the phone company, I’m not precisely sure which is worse.

In the meantime, I’ve got to get myself one of those hats. Beep!

What the Heck is this White Stuff and Where's it Coming From?

One thing I’ve learned since moving back to the Midwest is never ever comment on the weather as if you have some sort of inside scoop on what Mother Nature has in store. This can only lead to bad things and some sort of pain.

I did exactly that in early March. I commented more than once how spring had come to Minnesota, how nice it was to see the greenery, and how winter was definitely over. I went to sleep one evening with the grass in my yard showing and was shocked to see nothing but big white mounds the very next morning. I don’t normally watch the news so I had no idea this was even coming nor did I hear the storm in the middle of the night. After scanning the yard, noting the height of the snow mounds and more than likely using a few expletives, I quickly deduced that any normal person would have awaken earlier than normal in order to allow extra time both for shoveling and the morning commute. I, of course, am not that bright and tend to live on the edge.

I estimated looking out my front window that the snow was probably about 5 inches high and more than likely I’d need to shovel somewhat to get my car out of the garage. Once the garage door was raised, it looked more like about 7-9 inches, at least in the path of my car, and shoveling was absolutely necessary. There’s simply nothing like waking up and immediately having to physically exert yourself while being blown with cold air. Well, perhaps it depends on the circumstances, but in this case…

The shoveling went by relatively fast since the snow was rather light and airy. Feeling confident, I pulled the car out of my driveway and started the morning commute. I made it to the end of the block and promptly got stuck while turning right at the stop light. This was mildly concerning since I could only get about 2 feet into the intersection before the light turned red again, and so I had to back up and then retry for the next green light. I sort of felt like the Little Engine that Could.

Getting to the highway didn’t seem to be too bad provided that you drive slowly. As I made my way on I-94 towards St. Paul I noticed a very bizarre sight…multiple city busses stuck diagonally on the side of the freeway, fully loaded with passengers staring blankly out the window. Perhaps it was the sight of all the white snow everywhere but for some reason it reminded me of a bus to heaven, perhaps carrying loads of individuals that were maybe in the “undecided” category, that is, not sure whether they were ascending upward to heaven or downward to that other place with weather like Arizona. Needless to say it was rather surreal. I later heard from the local news that over 100 city busses were stuck in the snow that morning.

My morning ride in to work was nearly over and all I needed to do was park my car in the parking lot. There’s one minor issue here, though, since they never ever plow the parking lot at all, and to make matters worse the lot entrance is on a tight right turn with a car on the right and a brick wall on the left. This made for a very anti-climatic end to the morning commute...I got stuck…completely stuck…and couldn’t move either forward or backward. Luckily (I use this term loosely), a man just happened to be walking on the sidewalk toward me.

“Are you stuck?” he asked. I looked at him like ‘Naw, I normally like to spin my tires for 5 minutes and move about ¾ of an inch. It’s fun!’ He crouched in front of my car and started pushing me backward, um, out into oncoming street traffic, that is. I was sure that someone was going to rear-end me so I immediately started trying to go forward again, which of course prompted this gentleman to bark at me. We did this for awhile, back and forth, and then finally he yelled out, “I don’t know why you people just don’t take the day off!” I know why, I thought, because I like to eat?! Instead of being a smart alec (my normal habit), however, I just smiled back, like he had just complemented me on my lovely new hairdo. He decided to get one more jab in and yelled out, “I don’t understand why you people don’t buy trucks!” This man evidently hasn’t bought gasoline in awhile, or perhaps his truck runs on the Fred Flintstone foot through the bottom of the vehicle principal.

My car finally got dislodged and the man that pushed my car yelled out “go around and make another pass”, sort of as if he was a member of my pit crew at the Indy 500. I didn’t want to argue and took his advice. This time I entered in a much more fast and erratic manner and made it through the threshold of the parking lot. It never felt so good to have my vehicle parked in a proper parking spot in all of my life.

The work day was rather uneventful and passed quickly. I just happened to have a ticket to see jazz vocalist Stacey Kent in downtown Minneapolis that evening and I wasn’t about to let the snow get in the way of it. I left work and headed out on the freeway. Immediately I noticed that my car was making a horrid ‘clunk, clunk, clunk’ noise that jerked the entire vehicle. I assumed that my tire was flat and promptly pulled off the road. Upon examination, all four tires were perfectly fine. I proceeded back on the freeway and still my car was thumping like crazy, especially over 60 mph. I decided to keep my speed around 50, something unheard of for me, and simply made the best of it. (I later found out that chunks of ice and snow will cake on to the inside of the wheel and in essence ruin the balancing of your tires. Once it got warm out again, about 2 days later, all was fine.)

After sliding around the streets of a nearly deserted downtown Minneapolis, I parked my car and made my way to the Dakota Jazz Club. The last time I attended a show here I was placed rather far from the stage so I had my hopes up that I’d have a better seat this time. I ended up with the opposite…I wasn’t near the stage, I was practically on it.

When the band walked on stage, they were almost standing in my dinner. In fact, to be totally honest, at one point I thought one of the guys was going to do exactly that, and he would have if he’d taken another step backward. Something tells me that my gnocchi wouldn’t have complimented his leather shoes and at least the colors would have clashed. At one point the band did a little instrumental and so Stacey Kent sort of walked off center stage and stood in the corner, my corner, and her butt was literally right in my face. I wasn’t too sure what to make of the whole thing or how to act. Should I look away out of respect or should I try to look cool while basically staring at this woman’s hiney? I wanted to be close to the stage, of course, but this was simply ridiculous!

The meal was a feast from the heavens. It started with beer cheese soup with truffled popcorn and Serrano pesto. The main dish was herb encrusted gnocchi with wild mushrooms, and for dessert none other than coffee and crème brulee. It was a tad pricey but worth every penny. After the first set, both Stacey Kent and her husband Jim Tomlinson were outside signing CD’s and I decided to pick up a copy of the new album. Jim looked at me and said, “Man, you’re mushrooms smelled so tantalizing!” Luckily I knew what he meant. He also signed my CD cover with “thanks for the mushrooms” so this event will live in history, at least in my CD collection. I also asked Stacey to play a request, a beyond lovely song called “Say It Isn’t So” and nearly fell over when she actually played it in the next set. In all of my years of concerts no one has EVER played a song that I requested, quite possibly because I tend to request obscure songs and not the trendier ones. Hearing it live was purely sublime and after it was over she said, “Gosh, I’ve forgotten how gorgeous that song is. Thanks for the request.” I think I melted and the waiter had to clean up the seat.

Both sets of the show were fabulous but unfortunately the end of the evening had come. I made my trek once again back home to Woodbury through the snow, the “clunk, clunk” of my wheels driving me nuts all the way. As I made my approach to my street I started wondering how much snow had accumulated since I had left. My guess was about 2 inches. I drove up to find that I couldn’t drive up…there was more like 9 inches of snow completely covering my driveway.

And so, at about 11:30pm, completely tired from a very very long day, I’m outside shoveling my driveway so that I can get my car in the garage. The snow from the morning was rather light; this snow, however, felt like shoveling big bags of ice due to it being so wet with moisture. As I shoveled I could remember my realtor telling me how I wouldn’t need a snowblower this year since we were having a mild winter. I must have cursed her name out loud in between the grunts of shoveling at least a half dozen times.

With a path finally cleared, I pulled my car into my garage, trying hard not to overshoot and end up in my living room. I was cold, exhausted, my back was killing me, and I couldn’t wait to get to sleep. Still, call me sick but it was a damn fine day.

What I meant was...

Here’s the scene: I walk into a Subway (the sub making chain, not the mass transit system) with the intent of picking up my dinner. I don’t eat fast food very often so there’s always an element of discomfort lingering within my brain whenever I walk into such an establishment. This makes little sense, really, since I’m a vegetarian and the average number of items that I can actually order from any fast food menu hovers right around, well, usually one. Even considering my bad short term memory, I still feel that I should be able to remember the name of that one available item and yet I can’t. I’d love to say that I have items of the utmost importance rattling through my brain that leave me little use for such trivial knowledge but as this column will clearly demonstrate that’s simply not the case.

I walk in, take my place in line, and start looking over the numerous menu selections for that one available item of which I can order. I know it’s a veggie something…ahh, there it is, the famed veggie delight. I’m more hungry than usual so I decide to further step out of my comfort zone and order the bigger sandwich. A moment of mild panic ensues: is it called a large, or a 12 inch, or what? Nope, it’s listed as a “footlong” whereas my usual smaller meal would be a 6 inch. There must be some sort of appeal to the word footlong that I’m simply missing. Strangely, the word makes me a bit uncomfortable.

I’ve always been more nervous than usual in Subway due to their multi-person sandwich compiling method. I guess it’s more efficient for them to have multiple people pass the sandwich down to one another before completion but personally I feel that it’s like sharing my lunch with half the neighborhood. Quite honestly, do I really need to see the sandwich being put together? Is this really a plus? Can’t I just tell you what I want and then you can go off and do it…magically? Furthermore, does everyone need to know what I’m ordering and what I want on it? There’s no privacy, I tell you. I could maybe understand if there was a gimmick of sorts to it, such as the workers throw the sandwich in the air to one another, occasionally allowing it to do a complete flip upside down and yet land still intact, but this probably has logistical issues to it.

Of course, all of these things are floating through my mind as my big moment of ordering approaches. It’s now my turn and I walk up to the young lady taking the orders, now saying out loud my rehearsed request. Confidently, I tell the young lady, “Yes, I’d like a football…” Football? Where the heck did that come from? Did I just tell this girl that I wanted a football??! I realize my error almost immediately, stopping mid-sentence as panic changes to mild humiliation. The girl looks at me, eyes widened in disbelief, and then basically busts out in laughter, myself doing about the same at this point. After explaining that what I really want is a footlong veggie delight the joke continues, literally all the way down the sandwich passing chain of command. The cashier was particularly confused when she asked what I ordered and the original order taker yelled down, “It’s not a sandwich, it’s a football! Well, that’s what he wanted!” The girl was still saying “football” and laughing even as I exited the building. Something tells me that I made her day.

The strangest thing is that I don’t even like football. This was clearly a “what I meant was…” moment, something that happens a bit too often for me these days. Maybe it’s old age starting to settle in? Perhaps it’s all that soy milk that I insisted drinking over the past couple of years slowly devouring my brain cells? Regardless of its’ source, it’s quite obvious that I’m starting to lose it.

A couple days ago I attended a rock concert downtown at a club called First Avenue. Whereas their albums tend to be quite fantastic, I can now say with a certain amount of confidence that the band Stereolab is one of the most awful and boring live bands in existence and I’d much rather watch two mummies attempting to play soccer. All that aside, one of the louder songs that they played that evening ended rather abruptly, leaving the audience surprised and not ready to give the usual obligatory applause. Right as the music stopped, the guy next to me evidently also wasn’t prepared for the few seconds of silence that suddenly filled the room and the tail end of his discussion became very audible to me: “…so I guess I should pee more often.” This isn’t really a “what I meant was…” moment at all but I’ll turn it around a bit: what exactly did he mean by that? What were they talking about, and can I or should I attempt to join the conversation??! I couldn’t help but wonder for the remainder of the show, especially since that phrase was in my opinion ten times more intriguing than the performance on the stage. Perhaps this guy should go on tour instead, saying short incomplete bizarre phrases followed by bouts of silence so as to leave the audience wondering? There could be money in that sort of thing, I’d guess.

My very ultimate “what I meant was…” moment was a few years ago and it’s a true classic, one that I have yet to beat and I’m certainly not trying to. I was out to lunch with a few of my coworkers at a local Mexican restaurant and we had just finished eating. We all paid our share at the register and started filing one by one outside. As I exited the restaurant, I was talking and kidding about something of which I can’t remember with a friend of mine. Now, let me explain that I grew up in a household where the term “bum” was used quite often, such as “you look like a bum”, “you bum”, or the still confusing to this day “I’m going bummin’” which somehow means you’re going shopping (don’t ask me how, just accept it, and remember I didn’t come up with it). Anyhow, the word has stuck with me unfortunately through the years and as I’m talking back and forth with my friend, walking past a pillar, I say to him “You big bum!” Literally only milliseconds later I clear the pillar and standing there is a homeless person, shopping cart and all, with a look of pure shock on her face. A mixture of panic, embarrassment, and a need to clear things up embraces me and yet my mouth just hangs open limply, no words coming out, sort of like the look Donald Sutherland gave in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. What can I say at this point? “Er, sorry, I didn’t mean you, I meant him…” or perhaps I should attempt to explain my parents’ version of the word, doing a true Woody Allen or Larry David attempt at clarification that’s bound to end in total disaster? No, none of these seemed like they’d help and there was simply no way out. Meanwhile, the woman keeps her eyes locked on me, all the while grimacing as we pass and continue towards our car. As we drive away I feel horrid and yet I’m totally innocent. Well, what I meant was…

My last account happened two weeks ago right in front of my workplace. I parked my car in the parking lot as usual and casually made my way to the crosswalk, patiently waiting for the light to change. I finally got the walk sign and as I’m about to enter the roadway the car to my left decides it’s going to turn right, literally right into me, in essence cutting me off and nearly running me over. I smartly lag behind allowing him to do his rude behavior and then enter the roadway, all the while thinking about how some people are in such a hurry that they’ll mow you down in the crosswalk. Just then, the very next car also turns but this time right into me! Albeit he’s moving extremely slowly, he’s still more or less following me with the front end of his car, sort of like the Three Stooges “…slowly I turn, step by step…” routine. I’m in total shock and look up at the light again just in case I’m being excessively spacey. Low and behold I am in the crosswalk and I do have the signal to walk so I have not lost my mind. I continue walking and finally get past the guy’s car and make the horrid mistake of turning my head to see if he’s also sped off down the road like his predecessor. Well, he’s not and instead he slows even further, rolls down his window (keep in mind it’s about 15 degrees outside), and starts yelling obscenities at me such as “…next time you better move your f***in’ *ss…”, and so on. Let’s go over this one more time: I’m in the crosswalk and I have the “WALK” sign!!! Have I suddenly been transported to another planet where the rules are reversed? I don’t get it. Most people I work with prefer to jaywalk, some even to the extent that they stop traffic because they’re in the middle of the street with cars rightfully approaching. I on the other hand am following the rules and I’m cussed out in the middle of the road in front of all of St. Paul. There’s clearly no justice. If only Judge Judy had been there to set the guy straight: “He’s in the sidewalk, you ninny!!! You’re not stupid, are you?!”

Yes, you’re right, this last anecdote really has nothing to do with “what I meant was…”, especially since I think what the guy meant was precisely what he said! As for his mental condition, though, I can only hope that he seeks the help that he’s in so dire need of…

In the meantime, I’ve got to remember to cut down on that soy milk.

Can you Bake a Cherry Pie, Smelly Boy, Smelly Boy?

Here’s the question: just what is it that makes a human being resemble the aroma of a half eaten roast beef sandwich that’s been lying on a warm shelf for the past three weeks? This is precisely the sort of question that rumbles through my head as I’m walking out of Target behind a mom with her 3 children, one of which emits his aroma into the fresh winter air not unlike Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip.

Most people would of course recoil, possibly lagging behind a bit in order for the smell to pass. Not I. I’m totally intrigued as if there’s some sort of sick pleasure out of coming up with adjectives to describe someone else’s body odor as it completely overtakes your senses. After whiff number two, I realize the sheer complexity of this smelly boy’s so-called bouquet. This is no simple smell; this kid evidently has been working hard to get just the right mixture of potent fragrances to flaunt around town. Again, I’m intrigued, and one might think by the look on my face that I’m analyzing a fine wine or possibly the brilliance of a newly perfected diamond.

The interesting part is that we’re in Woodbury, MN, my new home town. Woodbury is a suburb outside of the Twin Cities, a fairly well off suburb in fact, filled with all sorts of people driving expensive cars to their expensive houses and so on (how I got here is a completely different story, and no, I don’t fit the mold). Just from looking at them, I would have to guess that this is a well off family with no shortage of funds let alone soap. The mom is dressed very nicely, stylishly, attractive hairdo, and clearly above average in regards to income. Does she not smell her son? Is it possible that she just had a nose job or something similar and has no idea that she’s currently completely surrounded in young teenage boy “what the hell have you been doing” scent? Or, could it be possible that she’s like me and can’t stop the sick obsession with smelling him as well, and therefore never gets around to enforcing that new concept of what we call a shower?! As I follow semi-close behind them, now entering the parking lot, I’m tempted to ask but alas chicken out.

My sister claims I smell everything. I hate to admit it but I think she's right - I do. I don't do it intentionally, mind you, but it does seem to be engrained within me. For me, eating something without first smelling it seems as much a waste as swallowing without first tasting. Of course, the downside of this is that not all aromas in this world are exactly pleasant and one must learn when to turn it on and off, a skill I've evidently not yet mastered. If someone says, "Heck, this smells awful!" I can't help but sniff it first even though it's already been proven that it's an unpleasant smell, sort of like a Doubting Thomas, or in this case a Smelling Johnathon. Perhaps they'll create a support group one day for us types.

Smelly people are everywhere, in all shapes, sizes, races, etc. To clarify, I’m referencing those members of society that have the means to shower every hour if they wished to rather than those who cannot. Those unfortunate souls can’t help it and do what they can so who can blame them? Nope, it’s the ones that simply choose to be smelly that I’m interested in. What exactly makes a person choose to be smelly? Do they simply come to the conclusion one day, “Hey, you know what? I’m tired of resembling the smell of Irish Spring. I think…yes, I think I’ll become smelly!” Is there some sort of revelation that hits them, perhaps a divine intervention of sorts? Is it simply laziness or is there really some sort of complex meaning behind each and every odor that emanates from someone’s body? These days it's almost as if being smelly is hip, as in the younger generation. I've noticed some young hipsters out there that look as if they haven't washed in weeks and you can actually sort of see the caked on gunk in their hair. At some point did stinkiness become attractive? Maybe I just missed the memo.

Some people just seem to give off a natural odor unlike anyone else while others you’d barely even notice any aroma whatsoever. If I walked into a room blindfolded, I can say with a certain amount of confidence that I’d be able to tell which of my friends were in the room with me, all simply from scent. Now, I’m not suggesting that most of the people I know are smelly because they’re not, but still, quite honestly a few can be a bit, well, as we say, ripe, on occasion? Heck, I’ve done my research over the years, especially with the traveling that I’ve done with others. Some of the worst smells possible, in descending order, are: 1) 3 day old camping smell, where you’re hiking, boating, or what have you and there’s no chance of showering or even a bar of soap in sight. The plus on this one is that you also stink to high heaven so you barely notice the other person(s), 2) morning after hotel room smell, especially after a long day of driving or a night out on the town, and 3) the ultimate other person smell…the “we didn’t have money for a hotel room so we slept in the car” morning after smell. Hopefully, I don’t need to elaborate on this one. If you’re not familiar with this one, I highly suggest you try it; you’ll never forget it.

One of the best places to encounter odor is at concerts. I’ve learned over the years that you can actually spot an aroma offender from across the room. I guess you could call it “fragrance profiling” or something like that. Sometimes when I’m feeling especially bored I play a little game, trying to guess who the biggest offender in the room is and then backing it up with actual evidence, making a non-chalant pass by the suspect. I’m both proud and ashamed to say that my accuracy is at about 98%. I’m actually quite the smelly person magnet at concerts, normally with a repeat offender dancing nearby, raising and waving their arms into the air like mad to the beat of the music while the rest of us start feeling faint.

So how do you know if you’re also one of the smelly ones? This thought keeps me awake at night, tossing and turning in complete agony. After all, we normally don’t smell ourselves since we’re immune to it, so what if everyone around us has put us in the smelly category and we have no idea? I’ve tried smelling myself and it simply doesn’t work. I’ve often thought of attempting to induce an out of body experience, just to have the opportunity to get a true non-biased whiff of my own body odor but I can’t seem to get that to work either. I’ve even asked others, “Do I smell?” but I fear the polite answer versus the truth. There’s just no real way to know, let’s face it.

Back outside of Target, as we begin to cross the parking lot to our cars, I see out of the corner of my eye that Smelly Boy has now gotten extremely close to his mom, perhaps whispering in her ear. She turns to face him head on as he tells her something else which I cannot hear and a whole new thought enters my brain: if his body smells like that imagine his breath!

Let’s not go there.

Blog Explained!

Why, hello there, and welcome to the "Observations of a Modern Day Idiot", or at least that's what I'm calling it at the moment. Titles can be so very difficult to come up with on short notice so don't be shocked if it changes in the future. Anyhow, consider this an explanation of what I'm hoping to accomplish with this Blog, a sort of 'mission statement', if you will. Anyone who knows me half well would agree that I take my writing very seriously and most certainly put a great deal of effort into the quality, quantity, and humor of my offerings. I hope this Blog will be no exception.

Basically, this Blog is to be a new improved extension of an older column that I used to write called "Travels of an Idiot", something that I'd email to friends and such. That column revolved around this strange obsession that I had with travelling far away, quite often out of state, to see various shows or concerts. My first love is music and composing so "Travels of an Idiot" sort of combined two of my favorite things at once. The column eventually ended even though it became quite popular amongst its' tiny audience simply because I hadn't been travelling much out of state for the past couple of years. I've been wanting to return to the column but up until now I wasn't sure how exactly to approach it. By the way, thanks to Curt for suggesting that I try this, and if you don't like this Blog then you also know who to blame (jk!).

In contrast to it's predecessor, "Observations of a Modern Day Idiot" will not be connected with any specific forum, event, etc. and instead will simply focus on the abundance of oddities encountered in everyday life. Some of it will be based on actual events while other portions will be comprised of minor rants, strange stories, and so on. I will try to protect the guilty whenever they are innocent and vice versa. Please be forewarned that if you know me personally and you just happen to do something really amusing or embarassing in front of me...well, you'll probably end up here for all the world to see!

Let's also discuss this whole "idiot" thing to avoid confusion later on. Growing up in my household, the term "idiot" was used quite often, whether right or wrong, to describe almost anyone whenever they did something, well, less than graceful or with ill judgement. It wasn't really used in a horribly negative fashion; instead, it was almost a term of endearment, more or less recognizing the absurd so-called accomplishments of someone. Oh, okay, maybe it was used a bit in a negative fashion. Anyhow, I'm not trying to use this term as a put down or to degrade anyone, including myself, but instead simply as a term to describe either some absurd behavior of which we didn't really mean to do or, if nothing else, as a term for the beyond numerous weird thoughts that run through my brain every second of the day. Let's be honest - we're all idiots on some level. Personally, I think we all need to celebrate our idiocy, learn to laugh at ourselves, and hence the purpose of this Blog. Who couldn't use more laughter in their life? Words of Wisdom: in life, you can either laugh or cry...the only real difference between the two is that one of them makes you a bit more wet than the other. Well, at least it's something like that.

With that said, let's end this here and get started. I hope you enjoy the ride!