T.G.A. FRIDAY for Friday, April 16, 2010

I WANNA BE CHUCK LORRE

I’ve decided to be like Chuck Lorre.   So I’ve cobbled together some Chuck Lorre-style vanity card blurbs.   Now I just need to produce a bunch of hit television shows and make millions of dollars.   No problem.

Last week I saw a production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” because several friends were in the cast. Now that damned song has been stuck in my head for nearly a week. It just won't go go go away. I can only remember four words, and three of them are the same.    Because she is so helpful at times like this, this morning my wife was kind enough to hum the song for about twenty minutes. (She can't remember all the words, either.) Just to stop myself from getting bored (because I've accepted that the song will now be in my head forever!), I've started changing it up, playing with the lyrics. For while, in tribute to the cinematic classics from Toho Studios, I was singing, "Go Go Gojira." But then, because of the free-associative nature of my mind, I soon had Blue Oyster Cult doing a production of Joseph in my head. Now I've moved on to Inspector Gadget. "Go go go, Gaaah-jet. Extendible arms... Go go go, Gaaah-jet. Coffee maker..."   Ah, well. When a song is stuck in your head, any theme will do.

A few days ago, I offered some advice and words of encouragement to a friend that needed them at the time. Later, when everything was once again good and fine and as it should be, I received a text message, promising something called an “Irish Hug” apparently as thanks for my concern. I was not familiar with the term, but I am familiar with something called a “Glasgow Kiss,” which is, essentially, a head butt. I replied to her text message, saying that I hoped an Irish Hug wasn’t as violent as a Glasgow Kiss. My fears were quickly laid to rest when she informed me that an Irish Hug is, in fact, a quick grab of the arse. However, this information led to a whole new range of issues concerning the protocols of such a thing. I’m sure an Irish Hug, in its truest form, has a sort of guerrilla aspect to it, no warning, existing mainly for the shock value and quick thrill. But this particular butt-squeeze was now being arranged days, perhaps weeks, in advance. How will that play out, I wondered. Will it be a rather formal endeavour? “Brace yourself, sir. I am about to grasp your posterior in a firm grip for a duration of approximately three seconds.” Or will there be ninja training involved? I pictured myself weeks from now, walking peacefully down the street when suddenly… >NOINK< right on my bum. I turn quickly, but there is no one there. Down a dark alleyway I hear a distant giggle, then silence.   It’s actually kind of intriguing.

Like most people, I learned all I know about alien abductions and anal probes from deciphering the hidden messages in Bob Newhart’s comedy routines. So it was with great enthusiasm that I embarked on a weekend adventure in the emerging sport of UFO-baiting. The important thing to remember is, just like with fishing, you’ve got to use the right bait. UFOs won’t appear for just anyone. So I went out and got a beat up old pick-up truck, a plaid jacket and a hat with earflaps. Then I parked in the middle of nowhere with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a cheekful of Redman chewing tobacco and an 8-track tape of Conway Twitty’s greatest hits. I sat there for hours, waiting patiently with my thumb on the trigger for the 37 spring-loaded nets I’d hidden in the trees, just waiting to catch a UFO. But the UFO fellows are tricky buggers and they snuck up behind me when I wasn’t looking, or awake, or something. Suddenly, I saw a bright light and I was being pulled upwards in their tractor beam. This wasn’t just a normal tractor bean, either. This was like a John Deere tractor beam. Then they knocked off my hat with their hurricane-tickle ray and sent a squadron of mutant squirrels to give me noogies. Turns out the truck had a leaky exhaust system and I’d been breathing fumes for about three hours. The doctors say there was no UFO; it was just another near-death experience, like that time I passed out facedown in the giant vat at the Budweiser brewery. Good thing the vat was empty by the time I woke, because I really had to pee.