American Hustle

I taught a junior level course in public speaking at the University of Florida in the spring of 1978.  One Friday evening during the spring quarter I ran into one of my students, a junior named Debbie at my favorite Tuesday/Friday/Saturday night hangout, Nichol’s Alley.  It just so happened that Cindy, my bride of less than a year was out of town doing some promotional work for her brother Don in Jacksonville Beach, about 90 miles away.

Meanwhile back in Gainesville the music was blaring, the beer was flowing and the entire weekend was in front of me.  That night Debbie and I did something I never thought I was capable of doing; I didn’t have the desire, I didn’t have the required skills and most of all, I didn’t have the know-how.  But beer will do strange things to your mind, and then it’s only a matter of time before your body falls in line. 

Debbie, on the other hand had all three on her side: The desire, the skill and most definitely the know-how.  After all she’d been doing it for quite some time.  It was on this night that I was formally introduced to the deep, dark and mysterious world of…

Disco!

That Friday night Debbie did everything she could to teach her graduate assistant instructor how to let loose on the dance floor to the music of Donna Summer, Santa Esmeralda and the Village People.  Take into account this was during a period in my life when I wouldn’t even think about stepping foot on the dance until I was A.H. (adequately hammered).  I could always tell when I reached AH level: The moment I got out on the dance floor and honestly thought my back-and-forth-overbite-shuffle was hot sh*t.     

To realize what a difficult job Debbie had teaching me the finer points of the controlled chaos that is disco, imagine trying to teach a bull to take your American Express card, saunter into a Royal Copenhagen store, purchase a set of fine Floral Danica dinnerware for eight and sign the receipt.  Then take it back to the store the next day and return it.  Without the receipt.  For cash.  That’s what Debbie had to look forward to one Friday night in the spring of 1978.           

When Cindy returned two days later I told her about my Friday night with Debbie.  (In hindsight, ‘I had the best time with that blonde in my fifth period class Friday night’ wasn’t the best line to open with when she walked in the front door.  Live and learn.)  Before long Cindy and I were taking disco lessons every Tuesday night at Gainesville High School; you could tell we were serious because you might have noticed we gave up up one of our traditional Nichol’s Alley nights to take the class.  We learned the fine art of ‘touch dancing’ and how to do the Pretzel, the Hustle, the Walk and the *Floor Dip.

(RE: The Floor Dip.  It takes a great deal of strength and flexibility to do a textbook Floor Dip.  In 1978 we had a great deal of strength and flexibility and could do a mean Floor Dip.  But things change.  Today I can load a dishwasher with the best of them and Cindy can fix a killer grilled cheese sandwich, neither having anything to do with a Floor Dip.  Why am I telling you all this?  So I can tell you what a great Floor Dip we were capable of in 1978.  Try to keep up, will you?)

If you know anything about disco music, you know (a) all of the songs have that same ‘thump-thump-thump’ thing going on, (b) the majority of the songs are really, really long so you better be in good shape if you get out on the dance floor because you just might be there for awhile, (c) it sounds so much better when accompanied by a revolving disco ball and (d) it sounds even better when you’re AH.      

So let’s dance, the last dance

Let’s dance, the last dance

Let’s dance, this last dance

Tonight

Miss Fortune

One day at work several months ago there were several of us sitting around a table eating Chinese takeout for lunch.  As we were finishing up our Kung Pao Chicken and Beef & Broccoli Stir-Fry, Angie suggested we all read out loud what was written on the little piece of paper inside of our respective fortune cookies.  With one slight modification: Add the words ‘in bed’ at the end. 

Talk about the perfect icebreaker!  It was almost unfortunate it came at the end of the meal, as it may have set the stage for one of the most interesting and entertaining meals since the days of Henry VIII.

To illustrate my point, I took the liberty of dining at 14 of the Chinese restaurants within 10 miles of my house.  (I’ll do pretty much anything in the name of journalism.)  Following are the 14 fortunes bestowed upon me.  Do yourself a favor and read these silently to yourself while adding Angie’s two words at the end:

·      Your everlasting patience will be rewarded sooner or later. 

·      Be mischievous and you will not be lonesome. 

·      The time is right to make new friends.

·      If your desires are not extravagant they will be granted.

·      You will have a very pleasant experience.

·      When in doubt, let your instincts guide you.

·      You are talented in many ways.

·      Grand adventures await those who are willing to turn the corner.

·      Decide what you want and go for it.

·      The first step to better times is to imagine them.

·      A thrilling time is in your immediate future.

·      Love always and deeply.

·      You will be invited to an exciting event.

·      Flattery will go far tonight.

After collecting these over a period of—oh, two weeks or so I shared them with Cindy when she got home one night hoping she would read them per Angie’s instructions, thus setting the stage for us to share a little R & R later in the evening.

As fate would have it Cindy and her coworkers had gone out for lunch that particular day to, of all places, a Chinese restaurant.  She showed me the fortune she had gotten several hours earlier:

·      The world may be your oyster, but it doesn’t mean you’ll get its pearl.

Is my Microphone on?

A comedian walks out on stage in front of a modest crowd at the local comedy club:

A skunk walks into a bar and says: ‘Hey, where did everybody go?’

The crowd is deathly silent.  The comedian taps on the microphone.

‘Hello?  Is my microphone on?’

I know the feeling.

My blog has now been active for slightly more than six months. 

·      This is my 52^nd post. 

·      I’ve had more than 4,500 views to date, an average of almost 90 views for each post. 

·      I have received a total of six comments.

·      Last and certainly least I have a grand total of zero followers.  What makes matters worse: It doesn’t cost a thing to be a follower.  It’s not like you’re signing over your first born, soul or Kia Sorento, for crying out loud.     

Granted, I put a link to each of my posts via Facebook; that always generates several ‘likes’ and the occasional comment—on Facebook, not on the blog.  I know the ‘likes’ on Facebook have greatly outnumbered the ‘comments’ on the blog. 

·      Regarding the disparity between the number of ‘likes’ on Facebook and the number of ‘comments’ on the blog: I’ve suggested to Z (the Facebook founder, whose name is hard to spell so for me it’s a Z) to add a few other options, such as ‘love it,’ ‘best thing I’ve ever read,’ ‘eh,’ ‘that’s three minutes of my life I’ll never get back’ and ‘please don’t waste my time with this sh*t.’

·      Regarding the extremely low volume of ‘comments’ on the blog: What are you afraid of?  I don’t bite.

I try to make my blogs worth your time.  If things work out as I had originally intended you’ll smile, laugh, get a tear in your eye, feel warmth in your heart, become motivated and occasionally get fired up if you spend a couple minutes reading my blog.  And should you experience any of these things, I’d like to hear about it.   At least occasionally, as in once in a blue moon (diametrically different than the current situation of ‘almost never’).

I try to make my Facebook posts worth your time as well.  I won’t tell you how far (debatable) I ran, how fast (laughable) I ran, what I ate for lunch, what I’m drinking after dinner or that I had a bowel movement three days in a row (all bets are off should it ever reach four or more).  I won’t post a photo of myself sitting in my car on a particularly good hair day or one when I’m exhausted after a tough long run.  I won’t tell you how many burpees I did (as if I ever did the first one to begin with or that I even know what they are) or how many calories I burned chasing the UPS guy down the street when he drove off with my package that he should have left on the front porch anyway and this wouldn’t even be an issue if he had given me more than 2.5 seconds to answer the doorbell in the first place.

Long story short: If you read one of my blogs and ‘the spirit moves you,’ let me know what you think.  I’d really like to hear what you have to say.

Then again, it’s not like I’m being paid for this.  Forget I even mentioned it.

I’m turning my microphone off for the rest of the day.       

Birth Day

Today I turned 59 years of age.  I won’t say ‘old’ because you’re only as old as you feel, right?  It just so happens I feel like I’m still 21.  My body is the thing that’s out of synch: It feels like it’s 99.     

It sure doesn’t seem like I’ve been around that long, though.  I can still remember the baked Alaska shaped like a bird’s nest on board the SS America on my 5^th birthday in 1959 (Does the mental image in your mind at this moment bring to mind a scene that very well could have been in Titanic prior to the ship hitting the iceberg?  Me, too!). 

I can still remember learning to drive our VW beetle—the one with the manual transmission--when I turned 15.  I took my driver’s examination one year later in our Chevy Malibu--with automatic transmission (Thank you, Lord!) and passed despite the fact I parallel parked on top of a paper mache fire hydrant.

I can still remember turning 18, the legal drinking age at that time in the state of Florida.  None too soon either, since I would be heading off to college a mere eight months later and I needed every bit of that time to gain enough proficiency to hold my own against those Black Belts of Beer Drinking at the University of Florida.

I can still remember turning 23.  I was a newlywed going to graduate school and wondering if it could get any better than that.  (Yes, as it turns out.)  

I can still remember the first birthday card from my son Justin on my 28^th birthday and the first one from my son Josh when I turned 31.  While their names were signed in Cindy’s distinctive handwriting, I knew their ink handprints were the real thing.  Handprints trump signatures every time.  

I can still remember running my first race on my 40^th birthday; my first race in the Masters Division.  I won my age group.  ‘Wow, I’ll be cleaning up now that I’m 40 and competing in a division full of runners older than me,’ I thought.  I thought wrong, of course, but it’s what I thought at the time.  Stupid thought bubble. 

I can still remember what I did on my 50^th birthday: I ran 50 miles on a track (200 laps) at midnight Thursday and finished at 9:30 a.m. Friday morning (Friday was my birthday).  Immediately afterwards I drove 4 ½ hours to Tallahassee where I ran in a 50-kilometer (31 miles) race on Saturday, turned around and drove the 4 ½ hours back to Peachtree City in time to run 20 miles on Sunday morning with my regular running partners.  So basically I did what pretty much everyone does when they turn 50. 

I can still remember my 55^th birthday.  I was in Tallahassee again, only this time I ran the 50-mile version of that same race in a steady, pouring ice-cold rain that persisted the entire 8 ½ hours it took me to complete all 50 miles.  I won the Master’s Championship, but it was more a matter of me winning the battle of attrition than it was of me winning the battle.  (Note: I didn’t run my age in miles, something I had done when I turned 40, 45 and 50.  My new rule: After the age of 50 a runner is entitled to drop down to running their age in kilometers instead of miles every five years.  This is not the first rule I made up on the fly.  Nor will it be the last.)

This year Justin gave me two new CD’s from Five Finger Death Punch for my birthday.  I liked them both: Quite a bit actually.  I wonder how many 59-year old men can say that?

Those young at heart, I imagine.