-- Recent Listens --

J. Geils Band
The Morning After, '71


Forget the crappy 'Centerfold' and 'Freezeframe', which made huge green for this Jewish, Massachusetts, blues/rock band in '81.  The real deal was 'Whammer Jammer', off this, their 2nd LP.  Magic Dick's harmonica, sounding like no other mouth could, hit high, vibratory, staggering runs, Peter Wolf's barren vocals, tight, bittersweet odes to lost love, gained love, leave me alone love and live shows made JGB one helluva fun band.  Listen to their first ('70) and this one back-to-back to give you a feel of their power.  And, if you're in the Boston area, Aug. 14, 2010, you might want to check out JGB and Aerosmith at Fenway Park.  Blow your face out.

Fleetwood Mac
Fleetwood Mac, '68

This first LP, lovingly referred to as 'dog and dustbin', is steeped in the Brit Invasion blues/rock.  Instead of relying on all blues redos, Peter Green and Jeremy Spencer (both guitar, vox, writing) wrote 8 of the 12 tunes with a sincere and ballsy recklessness that still rocks.  On this revamped CD, there is 19 tracks of various takes and masters that give you the feel of being in the studio with them.  Songs like 'Long Grey Mare', 'My Heart Beat Like a Hammer' and 'I Loved Another Woman' prove that early Mac was not 'Rhiannon' or 'Landslide'.  Thank you Peter Green.  The first three Mac had Green at the helm and all are worthy of repeated listens at maximum volume.

The Lounge Lizards
The Lounge Lizards, '81

The cover gives you an idea as to why they described themselves as 'fake jazz': white shirts, skinny ties and '50s hair.  Sax man, John Lurie, incredibly harnesses his punk/no wave/rock/jazz/everything else licks in a rambunctious display of challenging tunes, such as 'Ballad', 'Wangling' and 'Demented'.  Lurie is a monster as is complicated guitarist Arto Lindsay.  A wild and wooly ride.  Not ordinary.  Extraordinary.

Arcade Fire
The Suburbs, '10


You know you're in trouble when "the critics" all claim a band is "the best" and they receive all "the awards".  Arcade Fire did that in '04 with 'Funeral', a bleak, depressing trudge through, well, a funeral.  How fun is that?  The 3rd CD from this Canadian, "critically acclaimed" group is as bland as a bowl of cream of rice.  I like the idea of violin, cello, xylophone, glockenspiel, mandolin and hurdy-gurdy as much as the next indie snob, but with only a few exceptions, this release needs a lot of honey, cinnamon, butter, pecans, milk and raisins to make it more palatable.  And way more fire.

Slade
Whatever Happened To, '77

Just looking at my 8-track copy of Slade's 1972 classic, "Slayed?", gives me the glam bumps.  How could you not like original classics such as 'Gudbuy T'Jane', 'Mama Weer All Crazee Now' and 'How D'You Ride'?  Seeing them about 10 times in concert in those early 70s made me a die-hard fan.  In the 70s.  So, I felt some allegiance to purchasing this, their 7th.  No silly song titles or playful lyrics, this one romps and rolls with hard rock ferocity without sounding dated.  Other than scoring 17 straight Top 20 hits in those 70s, their 'Merry Xmas Everybody' (single, '73) is the most iconic Christmas pop song in the UK.  I wonder if I can get that on 8-track.

Manning The Home : The Unhandy Man Chronicles

I bet you thought I had some kind of grisly, horrific, life-threatening, bloody hangnail or something.  It has been awhile since I talked at you, but no need to send me a Get Well card.  Yet.  I was asked by Mr. C. to aid him in refurbishing an 1888 Victorian home here in Denver.  My first question was directed towards Mr. C.  "What can Unhandy Man do you for?"  Mr. C. responded with a question.  "What can you do?"  Me: "I dunno" (I've known this man for over 25 years.  He knows all my weaknesses.  All my weaknesses).  Mr. C.: "We're going to lay a hardwood floor down.  Have you ever done that?"  Me: "Nope" (doesn't sound like fun).  Mr. C.: " I haven't either but we can learn together."  Me: "Will it hurt?" (I hurt already)  Mr. C.: "Laying the floor or learning?"  Me: "Both."  (double hurt)  Mr. C.: "Maybe you can paint."  Me: "Will that hurt?"

Thus began a new phase in Unhandy Man's life.  The Unhandy Man Chronicles.  It'll be a lot like one of my favorite books of all time - 'The Martian Chronicles' by Ray Bradbury.  Discovering and settling on a foreign planet will be simple compared to what I'm up against.

It is quite a house, this old behemoth.  Charming in a way that says "Come in, my fine lad.  Have a seat.  Care for some tea, perhaps?"  Ah, no thanks.  "How about a cookie?  Just made them."  Well, I gottta get to work.  "Raisin Oatmeal.  With milk."  Well.  "Oh come on.  Sit down in this ancient, rickety, leather rocker.  Relax."  Well, sounds comfy.  Ok.

"What are you doing down there?"  Mr. C. is standing over me with a bemused and baffled look. 
"Sitting on an old, rickety................ floor."  I had sat down on the dusty, musky, dank and dusky 122 year-old wood floor.  "Yup.  They sure don't make floors like this anymore."

As I was professionally getting up, so as not to hurt my back or any other vital organ, I rolled onto my knees and Yoiks!  A sharp pain struck my right knee.  Something bit me?  Suddenly, the floorboards rumbled.  I paused.  Something whispering.  I can barely hear it.  I forgot about the wet, sticky sensation of my right kneecap that will clearly become infected and fall off like my cousin Vinny (no, really, I do have a cousin Vinny and something of his did fall off).  I got closer to the floor.  With my good ear.  There it is again.  I swear, like 'The Amityville Horror'.  If this house is a-talkin', I'm a-walkin'.  I put an ear as close to the floor as I could.  At this level, you get a peculiar perspective on things like, a black, shiny spider, coming at me full-throttle.  And it looked cool, legs all churning.  And that whispering.  The spider now stopped in front of my nose.  I went a little cross-eyed.  A rumble.  A scrape.  I heard it again.

"Now what are you doing?"  Of course, Mr. C.  Looking down at me again.
I deftly jumped up and slyly limped to the bathroom to pull a small nail from my kneecap.  I turned on the water, flushed the toilet and tried to stifle my little-girl scream.

And that was just the first half-hour of my encounter with my personal 'The House of the Seven Gables'.  I had just read this 1851 "classic" novel by Nathaniel Hawthorne.  A boring, non-horror, supernatural-less book I have ever read.  This house, built in the late 17th century (is that like the 1600's?), with a spooky (yawn) history.  Anywho, it was supposed to be scary but wasn't.  I tried not to limp around as we looked at all the rooms and the impending workload.  My jeans were getting stickier.

"Quite a house.  Beautiful.  So, what do you think?  Do you want to help?"
"Sure.  I'll give it a shot.  Speaking of shots, I forgot.  I have to go get The Wife from the hospital.  Ya, I think she needed her shots.  Ya, that's it.  Pick up The Wife.  At the hospital."

And off I went.  Unhandy Man pulling up his jeans.  Ready for the work ahead.  All the excitement to see a house become beautiful again.  With our own hands.  But first, to the hospital.  For a shot.  Can't renovate with only one knee, now can we?

TO BE CONTINUED ! ! !

On The Road Again

Many questions have been asked about my long and illustrious career as a much sought-after guitarist:
Were you self-taught?
What was your first guitar?
What was the most gnarly on-stage antic you pulled?

Please, please.  Calm down.  Just because I'm retiring today, yes today, right after this press conference... What?  I thought this was the friggin' press conference.  I was told by, like everybody, my manager, Roi..... Roi, where are you. man?  My guitar tech, Jorge.  Tell 'em.  Mom?  Even my mother knows, well maybe not me Mum, but....Hey.  Don't push me, bub.  Don't you know who I am?  Take your hands off me, you nitwit.  Where are my bodyguards?  Please.  Don't touch those.  Help.  Help....................

I wake up in sheets of soggy sweat.  Hope it is sweat.  Just another bad dream for the 36th or 37th rated guitarist in the world.  It was just another poll, but.  Which one was it?  Oh ya, the Happy Canyon Ranch Annual Fest and Fun in the Sun Poll.  Never heard of it.  I sat up in bed.  Not a sound.  Took out an earplug.  Still no sound.  Hmmm.  Might want to see my doc about that again.  Ack.  Coff, coff.  A little nasal tweak and I'll be as good as a newborn.  There that ought to do it.  That damn crazy Hanz and his crazy drink, what'd he call it?  Oh ya, The Crazy Hanz.  Crazy, man.

I looked around my room.  Just another hotel in the long list of plenty.  Where was I?  Tremont?  Fremont?  I couldn't tell ya.  I just do what I have to do and try to do it well.  Hard sometimes to get up for every gig.  Day after day.  That dream still lingered in my cavernous melon.  Oh, well.  "I can't help 'bout the shape I'm in.  I can't sing I ain't pretty and my legs are thin."  Man, that says it all.

I pulled my carcass up and fired up the laptop.  Was it really time to hang up the pick?  I need some reassurance.  That poll.  I googled it.  Let's see.  Nappy.  Having a nap, fuzzy.  Curled or coiled hair.  A diaper?  What is this shit?  Nappy?  Do I need to call somebody that cared, somebody that actually thinks for me, somebody that could answer any of my deepest questions?  But my Mom wasn't home.  I think she was out at a Built To Spill concert.  Again.  Christ.  How many times does she need to see that Doug or Dave Martsch or March?  And a woman her age.  I mean. Spill  is cool and all, but I could play crop circles around him.  I am the true Spaceman.

I retyped.  Happy.  Canyon.  Ranch.  Ok, what is this crap?  A retirement home?  It had better be for rock- crazy, mad axemen, like myself.  A ranch could be cool.  We could ride out on Arabian horses and ride around, up around the bend, just ride, man, with the wind blowing in our faces.  Chuck Berry, Steve Miller and all the dudes from Slade and, hey, maybe it's in Arkansas and all the Black Oak guys, Jim Dandy to the rescue, will be there playing.  Ya, that'd be cool.  And the girls.  Maybe women.  Ah, who cares?  It'll be like old times.  Me opening for Brownsville Station, that Cub Koda was one crazy bastard.  Me opening for Arcangel.  Whatever happened to those dudes?  I think, Minneapolis band.  Real good.  Me opening for, ah, who am I shitting?  I never got to headline anything.  Unless you count that one scuzzy day at Sturgis in, I don't know, the mid 80's.  That totally sucked.  I totally brought my A-game and they threw shit at me.  I threw it back.  I think I broke my nose at that one.  Ya, good times.

Back to that poll.  This one looks kinda cheesy.  I mean, Jimi Hendrix first?  Shouldn't this be about the living?  I mean, come on.  Stevie Ray, Duane, Rory.  They can't even open for me.  Ha.  That's pretty clever, huh?  Ok, ok.  Scroll down.  Yep.  There it is.  Right after Mark Knoffler, that Dire Straits dude.  That's kinda impressive.  But, should I hang it up?  That dream was too real, man.  I know some guys are going solo and doing intimate small clubs and unplugged and shit.  Billy Squire, even.  "Lonely is the night.  When you find yourself alone."  Ya, I find myself alone a lot.  I don't know if my biggest song would translate solo.  I think it hit #84 in Tokyo.  "Got Rocks (in my boots)  Got Rocks (in my head)".   Yup, that song about that little lady that cast me aside like a rock.  Kept kicking me down that road till I was out of her life.  "I got rocks in my pockets.  I got rocks in my boots.  I got rocks in my head for loving you".  Ya, that probably won't sound so hot solo.

So, now what?  Waitin' for that call.  The call that says the show's cancelled.  Due to no ticket sales.  Due to the fact that nobody wants to hear the 36th or 37th best guitar god in this world.  Uh uh.  Nope.  I ain't givin' it up.  No way, Jose.  It's me or the highway.  Somethin' like that.  You'll have to pry my Strat from my arthritic, withered, calloused, shredded, old man hands.  Yup.  And I wouldn't mind going to that fun in the sun fest and totally destroying.  I'll prove that, dammit, next year I'll make it to #35.  I can only go up, right?  Rock on, my friend.

The List

About a month ago, I started to make a list of my favorite electric guitarists.  We had all seen enough lists and polls and ratings to choke ourselves with a Monster cable.  But this one will be different and exciting.  Well, not exactly.  What spurred this on was:  A) reading a 2007 Rolling Stone poll and  B) another guitar lover, friend and confidante Mr. K., wanted a piece of the action.  First of all, I'm not a fan of popularity contests, of which these are, but I do like to see what some supposed 'professionals' think.  I'm not quite sure what the pros' process is on rating nor do I care.  Opinions are personal and subjective, so nobody is right or wrong.  Except when they disagree with me.  Just kiddin'.  This RS poll was quite humorous but it's intention of dialogue between fans hit the spot.  The passionate feedback, usually negative, was huge.  One of my most glaring infraction(s) was Ry Cooder #8 (great slide, but?), Kirk Hammett #11 (really?), Kurt Cobain #12 (what the ?).  And Jeff Beck limping in at #14.  Yikes.   

This poll was getting people fired up.  Myself included.  This maybe should require a guitar lover's motivation to, at the very least, hear something from, say, Robert Fripp, who is still cranking with King Crimson.  Innovative and creative (by the way, my #17).  I toiled, mulled, researched my memories, toiled and mulleted  some more.  For example, I was trying to find out where to put Neil Young.  I loved Buffalo Springfield, still think "Deja Vu" and "Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere" are two of my all-time favorite LPs and his body of work for just an average guy, playing some of the best rock consistently, should rate somewhere.  I put him at #11.  Gasp.  Really?  Early on, he created such a huge place in my Rock-n-Roll memory, that I truly am moved by his guitar, unmistakable singing, writing and performing.

A long time ago, in a faraway land, I had the pleasure of sitting down with the aforementioned Mr. K. and hammerering out our picks.  We agreed.  We disagreed.  We laughed.  We laughed some more.  Both passionate about our choices.  And after 30+ years, we did it again.  Just like old times, except we didn't have the albums in front of us and didn't listen to each track intensely by sitting on the floor in front of a phonograph, huge speakers and with an open mind.  Serious stuff.  And instead of friggin' 100, we settled on 35.  Or 36.  Or 37.  I'm not going to bore anybody with all of our picks, unless you ask politely.  Here's just a synopsis of our findings.

Mr. K.  #1 Rory Gallagher  "Rory Is God"
             #3  Jimi Hendrix
 Alto      #1  Jimi Hendrix  RIP   
             #12  Rory Gallagher  "I loved Rory.  True grit the teeth, grip and let his guitar rip."   RIP


Mr. K.  #2   Duane Allman  RIP
 Alto     #2   Jeff Beck.  "The best living guitarist on the planet.  And closing in on numero uno."
             #20  Duane Allman  "Ouch.  Duane, probably best bottleneck of all time, had more than a little help
                     from friends, Dickie Betts (thee most underrated geetar) and E.C."


Mr. K.  #7  Robin Trower
Alto      #7  Frank Zappa  "Mr. K., where is Frank?  'Bridge of Sighs-one great LP.  Frank still putting out
                                        tunes."  RIP.
             #33  Robin Trower

Mr. K.  #8  Jeff Beck
Alto      #8   Santana  "Mr. K., where is Carlos?"

Mr. K.  #15  Alvin Lee
Alto      #15  Alvin Lee  "A match.  The only one."

You get the picture.  Two passionate, guitar junkies strung out with different perspectives and emotions.  Which is the way it should be.  Mr. K. is trying to drum up some angst by saying Pete Townshend shouldn't even be on the list.  I put him at #30.  Should have put him higher. Also, an interesting factoid of our officially unofficial poll.  We each have 14 artists, out of the 35(36 and 37), that are not on each other's list.  Weird.

That's it.  If you have any comments, e-mail Mr. K.  I'm sure he'll gladly explain why #37 is Alto and not the obvious #36.  

.
Thank you, JCK, for the pics.  Couldn't have done it without you.

It's A Gas

I have found out rather recently, it's the little things that make a marriage what it is.  A bond that is intimate and unique, no matter what the circumstances, no matter who is right or wrong, no matter how embarrassing a situation is, no matter who is stinkier.  As mere newlyweds by some standards (4.5 years), bonding can be a prolonged and exasperating experience.  In our case, one such challenge was confronted quite quickly.  Odoriferousness .  Before I was married, I recognized all my personal aromas and accepted them.  Hey, that was me.  Now, living in a house with other living bodies, I've realized that I had to accept and breathe and live with various funk.  I have had to develop a strong tolerance to the peculiar nuances infiltrating our household and beyond.  The following is a list I've compiled of some of the more rank and foul smells I have encountered and their accompanying guilty parties.

One Teenage Boy
Socks.  Lacrosse, soccer, basketball, skateboarding, snowboarding,camping, etc.  How many pair does he really need?  They lay everywhere that you happen to be.  And most often only one.  These singular socks left in our living room has turned it into a "I Smell Dead People" room.  Our cat usually conducts a lick-bite-roll-fling session with one of these babies before going outside for some fresh air.  Probably to cough up a cotton/hair ball.  Recently, for about a week, I had a weird, unsettling smell in my truck.  I checked out the obvious places : under the seats, in the seats, around the seats, under the floor mats.  Nothing.  I had thought maybe a skunk crawled up into my engine and was slow-baking.  Finally, I took it in to a mechanic to see if he could find the source.  I needed to get something out of the glove box and, lo and behold, out of it escaped the most putrid, disgusting, primordial cloud.  One greenish-gray, solo sock, which had completely morphed into a hardened, fibrous pancake.  I need to order a new glovey.  Reminds me of the Seinfeld show about the funk in his car that wouldn't go away.

One Teenage Girl
I am more in-tune with boy/man ju-ju.  I have no idea why she smells the way she does.  You'll have to ask Mom.

One 10 year-old Girl
See above.

One 10 year-old Dog
A combo of interesting and nauseating stenches.  A little canned beef (ya, right) chunks in some liquified/gelatinous goop or a chicken (ya, right)  treat that smells and/or probably tastes like week-old tuna that was left out in the sun.  Even the flies stay away.  Though not a garbage eater, she will lap-chew-crush-chomp anything that is nearly edible or looks even remotely edible.  Maybe a little trip to the cat litter buffet.  Rolling around outside in whatever they roll around on is another hit on the nasal passages.  Can we get a hose over here?

One 5 year-old Cat
Open a can of gizzards and liver pate and watch her twitch in euphoria.  And that cat box.  I can't put enough absorbent crystals or odor-crushing substance down.  It's enough to curl my eyebrows.  And of course, the forgotten, opened can of food underneath a credenza that is now maggotized.  Yummy.

That brings us to The Wife and myself.  I have to say, right off the bat, she can bring the tang.  The girl's got game.  And she admits it.  Just ask her.  The term "gassy lassie" doesn't refer lovingly to the TV Lassie when she saved Billy down in that gas tanker.  Oh no.  When The Wife says : "I'm a gassy lassie tonight", the translation is : one of us had better sleep elsewhere.  Just the other night, I remember coming in from a cooling, refreshing, light rain where my nostrils have expanded, sucking in as much freshness as possible, when I ran into a wall of gross proportions.  I looked at the soles of my shoes.  I looked at the dog.  I looked at the boy.  I didn't even consider the girls.  There is no way that could come from them.  I looked at The Wife.  Her sour smile, a slight twinkle in her eyes through a vaporous haze and that innocent look told me the story.  I rushed around looking for every book of matches and candles I could muster.  Oh yes, she brought her 'A' wind that time.  Epic.

Another womanly story is in order here.  This one's about my Mom.  Yes, little old Mom has pulled off some stinkers in her time.  Though she never admits it.  We were in a grocery store and she was reaching for a can of fruit cocktail.  Toot.  Toot.  She then turns around and scowls at a lady next to her and shakes her head as if to say "I heard that and it wasn't me.  You should be ashamed of yourself for letting it rip in public."  Toot.

So that leaves me.  Not much to say.  By all accounts (including the pets), it seems as if I was of no particular essence at all.  Completely neutral aroma.  Is this possible?  Am I the only one that can't have odor?  Even after eating a smothered, Chicken Pollo Burrito at Sam's #3, drinking a couple cups of coffee and taking the dog on a brisk walk, my emanations were pitiful compared to the rest of our house.  Oh, you can't blame that on me.  Really, that wasn't me.  No, trust me.   I was the only one in the room?  Where did that dog go?  Where are all those socks?  This bonding experience is really working.  But, can we go outside and enjoy it more?  I feel a little disturbance is coming on.

Say What ?

Tinnitus  (Latin for "ringing") - perception of sound within the human ear in the absence of corresponding external sound

Back on June 7, 2010, I published a story. "This All Makes Perfect Sense".  It was quite silly.  However, during my research (yes, I do research), I learned a thing or two about our senses. Like, simple terms for the traditional senses.  Gustation is taste.  Tactition is touch.  But the ringing, pinging or roaring in the ears is not known by a simple term, just tinnitus.  How about hear gong?  Or ear buzz?  Lame, I know.  This is not a disease but a symptom of one or more auditory abuses.  More about that later.  I originally had a story idea concerning my own affliction of ear buzz (catchy?) in one ear but I veered off, as I normally do, and ended up with the senses story.  I wasn't going to do humor because it is serious, sometimes annoying and always a pain in the buttowski.  Until recently.

  No fewer than three items graced my vision and my funny bone got yanked.  One was an ad showing an older gentleman with graying hair, bandana, bracelets, flip-flops and an electric guitar suggesting either a past hippie, a present Viagra user or a futuristic cloned version of Keith Richards.  The headline was : "Hearing a constant BUZZING in your ears?"  Well, that sounded loud.  I didn't know if it was for the ears or eyes.  The ad goes on to tell us "it effects (they need a better editor, it's really Affects) 60 million Americans, just like you."  Kinda weird.  How did they know I played guitar?  And I'm American.  Big Bro is watching.  I guess the rest of the world is safe from hear gong.  The ad is for Ring No More and its creator "used his background in the health and wellness industry ....... to formulate a safe and effective (got it right) homeopathic solution".  Sounds like a simple wax remover.  It also lists the high risk careers.  School Teacher: (constant screaming at and from kids) Check.  Truck Driver: (get that muffler fixed) Check.  Construction Worker: (all use jackhammers) Check.  Musician/Guitarist: ( the guitar is so special) Check.  That last one hit home.  Just because I play a 2003 Fender Strat percolating through a Marshall half-stack with 1000 watts of paralyzing power in a small living room with other HOH (hard of hearing) elderlies, does that mean I damaged one ear?  I mean, why is Lefty OK?  Maybe it was the time Deep Purple's 'Smoke on the Water' tour ('73) when Ian Gillan screamed through 20' tall speakers when I just happened to be 2' away.  Or perhaps when I had that tiny Toyota pick-me-up, with no king-cab, and a Rocker-Fosgate power amp with 100+ watt box bass/tweeter combo speakers that were 2' from both ears.  Poor Righty couldn't take it.

The first article was titled "Americans Forced to Quiet Down".  This was about laws in certain states that give tickets for excessive noise.  Outside.  Once again, US of A.  I'm beginning to think that we're the only noisemakers.  In Richmond,Virginia, an ordinance makes it illegal to "cause a disturbance" that can be heard 50' away.  So much for the tobacco-pickers singing.  In New York City, dog owners can be fined if their pets bark for more than 10 minutes.  So much for that in-heat seal.  And in Sarasota, Florida, cars are impounded for blasting their radios.  So much for listening to Howard Stern when Grandma is riding shotgun.  A website, NoiseOFF  (once again, sight-impaired) has been created for people who want quieter communities (they're called cemeteries).  Come on.  If I want to yell for a taxi while walking my seal with a ghetto blaster, I will.  This is still MY COUNTRY.  Note the loud texture I gave it.

And the second article comes from the April 2010 issue of Scientific American.  Yup, another American subversive, stuffy exploitation of our country's brainiacs telling us how smart they are and we are America and we are loud 'n proud and pithy and we're not going to take it anymore and you just listen to me, bub, and I'll scream and holler all I want.  Whew, that felt good.  That wasn't too loud, was it?  Titled "Making Scents of Sounds", it claims that noises alter our scents (sense) of smell.  It says " information received through the nose can also be altered by noise".  This new research suggests "the discovery of a possible smell-sound sense, or smound."  It sounds wacky and I wish I had made it up.

Daniel Wesson, he of psychiatric research in New York (where else?) had implicated odor detection in the base of the brain by way of the olfactory (hearing, remember?) tubercle.  How fascinating.  Please, do tell more.  "No one knew if tubercle cells could discriminate odors ......"  But they can.  Now, here (hear?) is where it gets really interesting.  There have been reported perceptual interplay between smells and sounds in the mid-1800s.  In France.  And wait, there's more.  A disorder, synesthesia, is when a patient tastes colors and sees flavors.  Yikes.  Of course the applications are immense.  To "patent a device that emits a tone...." so that a dog can smell explosives.  Or, based on background noise, food smells and tastes differently, so you can see if "your saffron risotto pairs better with Beyonce or Beethoven".  Yes Muffy, pass me that Electric Prunes CD.  It goes oh so well with my Merlot.  And here (hear) I thought my story was silly.

It's Enough To Drive You Batty

At first, I thought it was a good plan.  Block the trembling and bulging and shaking door with my body and 'it' won't get out.  Amid all the cacophony, I couldn't even hear myself think.  Jane had a different plan.  She came barreling through the brown, vinyl accordion door, taking with it the door frame and running over two 11-year-old scared-out-of-their-wits boys.  She left a trail of high-pitched, hair-curling screams as she zoomed up the basement stairs.  We leapt to our feet, ready for a different high-pitched wail.  That coming from an angry and distressed vampire bat.  No sound of anything.  Only my Dad coming through the carnage with a smile on his face.  'Well guys, we're all safe.  The bat flew out the window.'  He scanned the destroyed door, pieces of door frame and scattered hardware on the floor.  He looked at us.  Another smile.  'What happened to you guys?'  My Viking helmet was sideways (I felt like Fran Tarkenton took a sack) and Kim J. (the other hit-and-run victim) looked like his forehead had a growing knot on it.  In his hand was a partial hockey stick.

Let's back the story up a bit.  About ten minutes prior to this, my Mom came zooming up from our laundry room.  Her high-pitched, hair-curling screams (sound familiar?) could've awakened the comatose.  That's where Kim J. and myself come in.  Comatose.  Bored out of our minds.  Nothing to do.  The shrieks shook us out of this funk.  All right, maybe some action.  My Dad, who was mowing the lawn (not the powered- by- gas kind) came flying in as if somebody was dying.  Or had died.  Kim J. and Alto thought that that would be cool.  'A bat.  Big and yucky.  Flying at me.  In the laundry room', Mom said , catching her breath.  Cool.  A bat.  Maybe a vampire bat.  We looked at each other.  But it's broad daylight.  Ok, it could happen.

'Did you open the windows down there?', Dad asked.  'No, I didn't open the windows down there.  I didn't have time to think of that, Lenny.'  Her scowl told us, as males, to shut up and act like males.  My sister Jane (you remember her, right?) heard this and came over to the group.  'What's all the hubbub, bub?'  Clever she is.

Jane followed Dad down the stairs, with the two other males taking up the rear.  Just in case a stake or two were needed.  Down we went into the basement that led to the laundry room.  Nary a sound.  Jane grabbed a nearby tennis racket and I grabbed my Viking helmet.  You know, bats landing in hair.  Laying eggs.  Vampire eggs.  Though my hair was barely one inch long, I still took precautions.  Kim J. looked a little uneasy.  I gave him a hockey stick and baseball cap.  We advanced toward the doorway (you remember that, too?) to the laundry room.  'Stay out of the laundry room', said Dad, looking at the dorks in sports gear.  'Close this door.  And keep it closed.  We want to keep it in the laundry room.'  Smart move, Dad.  I bet Jane wouldn't have thought of that.  She gave us this weird look.  Kinda like: a couple of losers.

So we stood guard on the outside of the door.  My Viking helmet.  Strapped firmly.  Hockey stick.  Ready.  Vampire bat.  On the other side of this door.  Probably waiting.  To suck blood.  To lay eggs.  It must be huge.  Suddenly, we hear a blood-curdling shriek, then some muffled sounds.  Our eyes were now as big as saucers, flying saucers.  And the references to blood everywhere.  Our blood.  And then it happened.  The start of this story.

I really had thought a vampire bat was this huge thing and was trying to knock the door down.  Really.  Jane didn't buy it.  Mom didn't buy it.  Dad didn't buy it.  Heck, Kim J. didn't buy it.  Hey, we'll all probably laugh about this tomorrow.  No one was laughing.  Of course, after we cleaned up the mess, Kim J. and myself laughed till our sides hurt.  We'll be ready next time, though.  Just scream really loud.  And Dad will take care of it.