Did I Just Say That?

So I'm outside my office concepting on some Old Spice ads (yes, that's right. Old Spice), and the Culligan Water Man is making his all-too-critical water bottle delivery. He asks me, "How you doin'?" Now, if I counted the number of times I'm asked that question in an average day, it would probably range in the double digits. Typically, this is how the exchange goes down.

Random Person: How you doin'?

Me:                     Fine. You?

Random Person: Fine.

Me:                     Cool.

And that's the extent of this meaningless conversation. When you think about it, it's less a conversation and more like two apes grunting at each other in a friendly manner as they pass each other in the jungle. But here's how the Culligan Water Man conversation transpired.

Culligan Water Man: How you doin'?

Me:                              Fine. You?

Culligan Water Man:  Oh, you know, we had a driver quit just out of the blue, so now I'm having to cover his route and mine. And honestly, that boy had been messing up big time these last two weeks. I think he may have had a little heroin problem. My daughter's been dating this Mexican, and I got no problems with Mexicans, mind you, it's just that this one's illegal and doesn't speak any English. And to top it off, I was thinking about breaking up with the wife and was wondering if maybe you could mull that one over, and get back to me.

Me:                             (Puzzled look on face) Uh, cool.

At this point in the blog post, I'm not sure whether I should delve down the path of the Culligan Water Man really needing someone to talk to. Or should I explore the notion that, collectively, when we ask "How you doin?" we could give a shit what your answer will be.

Hmm.

I think I'll keep this one light, and focus more on other stupid things I tend to say to people. Such as in the above example, when a man opens up to me and shares the trials and tribulations of his life, my only response is "Cool."  While I may possess the ability to express myself in writing, my verbal skills could use some polishing. Clearly.

This next one is closely related to the "How you doin'" syndrome. Some random guy was walking past me at the office. I believe his name was President of the Entire Freakin' Agency. This was our conversation: 

President of the Entire Freakin' Agency: Hi, Andy.

Me:                                                             Fine. You?

See, that's my point about the "How you doin'" phrase being totally meaningless. For example in this conversation, I skipped over the question completely and cut to the chase.

I also sounded like a total fucking idiot.

The President of the Entire Freakin' Agency has absolutely no response 'cause he didn't ask me anything. He's just left standing there, puzzled. And he makes a mental note never to speak to me again.

Here's one I always do at fast-food restaurants. I'm at the counter, ordering the value meal with the large fries. Maybe an apple pie. The Fast Food Lady takes my money and gives me my food.

Fast Food Lady: Here's your order, sir. Enjoy your meal.

Me:                     You, too.

Now, clever readers will immediately recognize that Fast Food Lady isn't eating anything. She's serving the food. Not eating it. Yet, I just told her to enjoy her meal, too. She looks at me, puzzled. And deep down inside, she hopes the next time I frequent her establishment, it'll be in the drive-thru.

Here's another of my favorites. A co-worker stops by my desk.
 

Co-worker: Andy, I saw that ad you wrote.

Me:            Thanks.

Do you see the problem with that one? If I'd said "Thanks" in a mildly sarcastic manner, I could've at least come off as being somewhat cool, albeit in a mean way. But I didn't say it that way. I said "Thanks" as if the co-worker had complimented me. Only she hadn't. She was merely saying that she'd seen my work; not that she'd necessarily liked it. And now she, too, looks at me. Puzzled.

In the future she may like an ad that I write. She may even tell me so. But I will most likely come off sounding stupid, nonetheless.

The funny thing is, there's a little voice inside my head that tells me about a split-second before I speak not to say what I'm about to say. Here's how it goes:

Random Person:           Andy, I hope you have a good flight to Chicago.

Voice in Andy's Head: Don't say "You, too." You'll sound stupid. That guy's not even going to Chicago. Even he if were going next month, saying "You, too" won't work. Say something friendly but neutral like, "Yeah, I'll be sure to bring you a Cubs T-shirt." Or better yet, just say, "Thanks." In this case, "Thanks" is very appropriate. Just don't say "You, too."

Me:                                You, too. (to voice in head)  Damn it.

Voice in Andy's Head:  Why do I waste my time with you?

The good news is my verbal speed bumps aren't fatal. I've never asked a woman when her baby was due only to find that she wasn't pregnant.

I've never inquired about a co-worker's wife only to discover that she'd just left him to become a lesbian.

And I try to never ask about a friend's older relatives, such as a father or grandmother, because the day I do will be the very same day grandma got hit by a bus and suffered a horrible death.

It's clear my problem isn't asking stupid questions but giving stupid answers. Maybe I should just fake a hearing problem. Whenever anyone asks me something, I could just point to my ear and vaguely shake my head. It would probably save us all a lot of puzzled looks.

In any event, to those of you who may or may not comment on this post, I have but one thing to say:

You, too. (to self)  Damn it.

The Six Million Dollar Man

When my brothers and I were kids our hero was The Bionic Man. For those of you unaware of this icon of 1970s television, The Bionic Man was none other than Steve Austin in The Six-Million Dollar Man. Steve Austin often wore a red jumpsuit, yet he was never accused of being gay. He was an astronaut. At least, that was his day job.

If you've never seen the show, allow me to provide a brief history of Mr. Austin. Before his rise to secret agent/super hero status, astronaut pilot Colonel Steve Austin crashed his spaceship. Normally that would have been the end of the show. Except in this case, Steve Austin didn't die. And since he had failed to sign his organ donor card, they had no choice but to put him back together.

They made him better. Stronger. Faster--using something called "bionics."

My brothers and I had no idea what "bionics" were. All we knew is that Steve Austin now had a bionic eye, bionic arms and bionic legs. Which meant in a bar fight, he could open a can of bionic whoop ass on every bad guy in the room. And then--as all super heroes are prone to do when they discover their new powers--Steve Austin decided to fight crime. Or evil spies. Or maybe Democrats. I forget.

The catch was it cost six million dollars to put him back together. Hence the name of the show. Now, six million won't buy you much of a man nowadays, but in the 1970s it was more than enough to purchase a hero.

I idolized the man--so much so that in the third grade I actually tried to legally change my name to Steve in his honor. Sadly, my parents thwarted my plans. I still remember the conversation.

Parents:    You can't change your name to Steve.
Me:           Why not?
Parents:     You're not a Steve, son. You don't look like a Steve.
Me:            What does a Steve look like?
Parents:     We don't know, but it's definitely not you.
Me:            But--
Parents:      Face it, you'll never be able to pull off a Steve.
Me:            You're kidding me. I could so pull off a Steve. Let me show--
Parents:      We're sorry, son. You're not a Steve. You're an Andy.

Name me one super-hero named Andy. Can't think of one, can you? Wanna know why? There aren't any. And even if there ever were a super-hero named Andy, we'd never know it--because he would've most likely legally changed his name to Steve before becoming a super-hero!

My parents were idiots! Could they not see the logic of me becoming Steve? No, they couldn't. And I've never really forgiven them for that.

Back on the school playground we were still playing The Six Million-Dollar Man. My brothers and I and all the other nine year-olds would pretend to be bionic. And we'd make that sound the Six Million-Dollar Man made anytime he was doing something bionic. You know, that "Doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo" sound.

We'd jump over stumps and pretend they were ten-foot fences. We'd knock each other down and try to fall in slow motion the way Steve's foes always did. One time we tried to "save" the little girls on the playground. They quickly proceeded to kick the shit out of us for interrupting their Barbie parties. Arguably, it was not our finest bionic moment.

It is important to understand that this wasn't just playtime for us. This was Life. And as such, some very stringent rules accompanied Life in our bionic world. Unfortunately, the most important rule proved to be the most troublesome.

Only one kid could be Steve Austin.

I mean, there were dozens of us kids, and we were all bionic. But only one of us could be the Six Million-Dollar Man each day. This coveted title rotated to a different kid on a daily basis. And we had a very good system in place to ensure that each kid could be the Six Million-Dollar Man at least once a month. It worked out well.

So there we were, out there being bionic, and everything's fine. Everybody's happy.

But one day this new kid came to school. And he said we could all be the Six Million-Dollar Man for all he cared, because he was the Eight Million-Dollar Man. And that one statement caused chaos to enter our world. Namely because it upped the price for being a super hero. The next day, some other kid said he was the Ten Million-Dollar Man. And before you know it, we had the Thirty-Eight Million-Dollar Man.

The numbers escalated to ridiculous proportions. After a while we had kids out there claiming to be the Zillion Bobillion-Dollar Man. Do you know how stupid it sounds for a nine year-old to be screaming, "I'm the Zillion Bobillion-Dollar Man! I'm the Zillion Bobillion-Dollar Man?"

Needless to say, it sounds pretty stupid.

Then some kid--I think it was the new kid that started it all--stood up on the top of the monkey bars and said, "I'm the More-Money-Than-God-Can-Count-Dollar Man."

With that single declaration our fragile young minds experienced an acute sense of trauma as our desire to emulate our favorite TV star conflicted heavily with our limited knowledge of theology and the concept of infinity as it relates to numbers.

Put another way, we dumped Steve Austin right there on the spot and moved on to pretending to be Bo and Luke Duke on The Dukes of Hazzard. But not before beating up the new kid until he moved away. That guy was trouble.

Is there a point to all this? Perhaps. Maybe the lesson of this story is that our society's skewed view of money invades our psyche not as adults but as children. Perhaps the point of this story is to shine a light on the importance of having heroes. But after much reflection, I think I've uncovered the true essence of this story.

And that is, even though I'm better, stronger and faster than when I was nine, I still can't pull off a Steve.

Damn it.

My Revelations

This is a blog post I have another blog posting site. I wrote it a month or two ago. And because it's received a certain amount of "attention" I thought it nice to post it here. Enjoy.

I've had a number of revelations in my life--enlightening events that would forever alter my present course of life at that time. The first revelation hit me at the same age it hits most people. I refer, of course, to learning about the secret behind Santa Claus.

Typically you discover the truth about him by accident. You wake up and catch your parents putting the Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle under the tree.

There's even a Christmas song that hints at Santa's true identity. "I Saw Momma Kissing Santa Claus." Shortly thereafter I composed a new version of that song after opening my parents' bedroom door one Christmas Eve called "I saw Mommy Mounting Santa Claus." But that's a different blog post. A different session with the shrink, as it were.

Unlike most children, my Santa Claus revelation didn't occur by accident. It happened at the dinner table with my family when I was in the third grade. The conversation went something like this.

Me:  I hope Santa Claus brings me a new bicycle, and some boxing gloves, and--
Dad: Hell, son, there ain't no Santa Claus.
Me: WHAT!
Dad: Pass the mashed potatoes.
Me:  But what about Santa--
Dad: You're gettin' a G.I. Joe for Christmas. Now pour your momma some more iced tea.

About two gallons of my innocence washed away at that moment. Thanks, Dad.

My next revelation occurred three years later. It was at that time in the sixth grade when I discovered that hair doesn't just grow on your head. In this particular case, hair was growing several feet below my head in a place where hair had no business being.

I spent five hours in the bathroom staring in the mirror and wondering what kind of weird-ass food I had eaten to cause this freak event to occur. After reassuring myself that this was not the first stage of my demise that would culminate with aliens eating their way out my pelvis, I finally left the bathroom.

My mother was standing just outside. She led me to the kitchen table for a chat.

Mother: Son, I know you have questions.
Me:        Questions? Yeah, Mom. I've got a shit load of questions, thank you very much.
Mother: Ask away.
Me:        Does this happen to every kid my age, or just me?
Mother: Just you.
Me:        I knew it! (to self)  Those fucking aliens.
Mother:  I'm kidding. Here's a book called "Boys and Sex." Read it, and we'll talk.
Me:         But--
Mother: There's a chapter on masturbation. Skip that part. Or you'll go straight to Hell.

My bottle of innocence doth falleth over. Again.

My next revelation happened when I was 14. I had a girlfriend who was a senior in high school. That's right, gentle reader, young Andrew dated an older woman. And she was a smoking hot bitty. Why the hell a senior in high school would want to be the girlfriend to a kid who couldn't even drive yet has always remained a mystery to me. I know for a fact that Smoking Hot Bitty wasn't ugly, retarded, blind or beset with any affliction that would have rendered her a social leper.

Perhaps she simply needed to feed off my youthful exuberance. Or maybe she knew that the odds of me trying to gnaw her panties off in the back seat of her Honda Civic were remote, at best. I'm pretty sure she'd had negative experiences with a number of older guys--at least guys older than me--and perhaps she yearned for a newer model of man.

A much newer model.

This revelation occurred fairly early in our relationship and was preceded by some playful banter that I shall recreate here:

Smoking Hot Bitty: Hey.
Me:                          Hey.
Smoking Hot Bitty: How are you?
Me:                          Fine. You?
Smoking Hot Bitty: Good. Are your parents home?
Me:                          No.
Smoking Hot Bitty: Cool.
Me:                          Cool.
(brief pause)
Smoking Hot Bitty: So, you wanna see my boobs?

More innocence. Lost.

However, Smoking Hot Bitty was soon lost, too. The vast gap in our ages finally took its toll. I suppose the idea of driving her 14 year-old date to the senior prom and having him back home by 9:30 didn't sound as appealing to her as one would have hoped.

Now let's move to the topic of sex and its affect on revelations. With the exception of nuns and a few computer geeks who never stop being computer geeks, every one of us has had a "first time." Typically this event serves as a major revelation. Oddly enough, I don't count that one as such. According to Websters, the term "revelation" is defined as "an enlightening or astonishing disclosure." I wasn't enlightened by my first sexual encounter.

I was scared shitless by it.

Those two reactions are not the same. Therefore, I never considered my first at bat with sex as a revelation. I considered it a complete disaster. The good news is, it got better with time. And that's all I'm going to say about that. Moving on.

My next big revelation requires a little back story. When I attended college I found my best friend. Best Friend and I were roommates for three years. We hung out with the same crowd--which could best be described as Preppy Republicans With Attitude. We dated a pair of sorority girls together. We wrote a very popular newspaper column together. We were kicked out of the same fraternity together.

Needless to say, I considered Best Friend to be my brother. Even after graduation, we still kept in close contact.

When I was twenty-six Best Friend and I were sitting in a bar, reminiscing about the time when we peed on some fraternity pledges who had foolishly passed out on the frat house lawn. It was then--after our casual stroll down Nostalgia Lane--that Best Friend played an instrumental role in one my most surprising revelations. Here's how it went down:

Best Friend: Andy, I have something to tell you.
Me:              Go ahead.
Best Friend: I'm gay.
Me:              (choking on drink) Excuse me?
Best Friend: I'm a homosexual.
(long, awkward pause)
Me:               Are you sure about that?
Best Friend: Yeah, I'm pretty sure.
Me:               How can you be sure?
Best Friend: Well, I like gay men. A lot.
Me:              (in shock)  I see.
(another long, awkward pause)
Best Friend: Do you need a moment?
Me:              (still in shock)  Or two. Bartender! A little help down here?

Luckily, I soon got over my homophobia when I learned that gay men are no more attracted to "breeders" than they are women. Best Friend continued to be Best Friend and is even godfather to my daughters.

Overall, the revelations I've experienced appear to be rather basic. No great secrets have been revealed. No great knowledge has been learned. One might argue that I've never had any real revelations. One might even be inclined to ask, "Why haven't you had any revelations about important things, like the meaning of Life?"

And my answer to that, gentle reader, lies in a print ad headline I once wrote for the State of Montana tourism board, which I think accurately explains the value of my own revelations:

"You probably won't discover the meaning of Life. Just its purpose."

Wise words, to be sure.

Or am I just full of crap?

Pandamonium

So, I was rummaging through my folder entitled, "Random things I've written that will never see the light of day." It's a really big folder. Massive. Especially compared to the "Stuff I've written that people have actually seen" folder. Anyway, I came across this little 60-second movie script that I'd scribed a few years ago. It gave me a chuckle. And now I give it to you.