The pilot

You guys really have me thinking about this reality show idea. I've been trying to figure out who I would get to narrate it. While Bill Curtis might seem like the obvious choice initially, I'm afraid he might be a bit too dramatic. You know, for a reali-com. (I just invented that term.)

I'm thinking maybe Mark-Paul Gosselaar. After all, he is the man who gave me the best nine minutes of my life. Also, just once I'd like for him to call me "Preppy." Of course, I'll need a backup plan in case he's unavailable. And if finding a narrator for my own reality show is anything like finding a date for senior prom, I'll need three or four backup plans.

While I continue to ponder this, as well as possible title ideas, I've decided to do a test run to see what an episode of the Bone reality show might include. Today I will be doing a written storyboard, if there is such a thing, of Bone's Thanksgiving Week. Consider this sort of a faux-pilot, purely for my benefit. As well as any TV execs who might be reading.

Today's episode of A Show With No Name begins with Bone on his way to pick up Nephew Bone for a trip to Chuck E. Cheese on Tuesday evening. The action quickly turns exciting as Bone sees blue lights in his rear-view!

As "Theme Song From The Dukes Of Hazzard" begins to play in the background, a low-speed chase ensues, lasting approximately fifteen seconds, until Bone is able to safely pull into the parking lot of a nearby bank. The officer approaches the car. What will the charge be? Another speeding ticket? Hit-and run? Texting while driving? (This is where we'd cut to commercial for added suspense.)

Turns out Bone was guilty, allegedly, of that most heinous of traffic offenses: following too closely. Are you kidding me? That doesn't even make a good story. It's embarrassing to even tell. In fact, just forget I said anything. We're gonna have to seriously edit this part to make it exciting.

Less than an hour after his latest run-in with the popo, Bone is spotted across town laughing it up at the aforementioned nightspot playing the football toss game. So adept is he at tossing mini-footballs through the little holes that he eventually runs the game out of tickets. At the prize counter, Nephew Bone chooses a lizard and some (temporary) gangsta tats, while Bone opts for some Pop Rocks.

Bone's athletic exploits continue to be on display in our next scene, as we see him at home -- alone -- playing Wii. After a couple of hours, he sets a new personal best by Wii bowling a 279! Then he remarks aloud, "If only Walter Way Williams could see me now!" Um, is Bone aware no one else is in the house? In other news, Bone's right shoulder is quite sore for about four days.

Next it's time for Thanksgiving with the Bones, a great opportunity for viewers to meet the Bone family. If you're wondering why everyone is shouting, it's because Daddy Bone doesn't have his hearing aid today. After breakfast at Daddy Bone's and before supper at Momma Bone's, Bone enjoys a Thanksgiving lunch of chips and salsa in his modern, yet practical bachelor pad. He dozes off and much like the rest of America, misses the second half of the Patriots/Lions game.

This week's episode ends on the highest of highs. It's Saturday night and Bone is home alone again, which is peculiar for sure. We see him at his computer, looking to spend the rest of the $25 iTunes gift card he received last Christmas. In the show's emotional climax, he discovers that iTunes has added "Hands To Heaven" by Breathe! At long last!

Bone is seen swaying back-and-forth in his office chair while singing along as the camera fades.

Executive Producer: Charles Rosin

"So raise your hands to heaven and pray, that we'll be back together someday. Tonight I need your sweet caress, hold me in the darkness. Tonight you calm my restlessness. You relieve my sadness..."

I'm all thumbs

As much as I have considered granting unrequested permission to TruTV to feature my life on the first-ever blogger reality show (to be aired right after Forensic Files, of course), even I must admit there are issues to consider.

First off, is there enough interesting material in my life to even fill an hour a week? Secondly, I'd most likely have to wear pants around the house. Then of course, there would be the inevitable invite to be on Dancing With The Stars, where I would probably go out early like Kenny Mayne and the man from Apple because my mom can't see Russia from her house and I was never married to Jon Gosselin. Lastly -- and this is where today's post comes in -- every embarrassing moment of my life would be chronicled for all the world to see.

A little background, if you will:

During football season, if I'm not at the Bama game, I'm watching on TV. And I have a circle of friends with whom I am constantly texting throughout the game, sometimes after every play. I like to think of them as my mobile entourage. There's Axl, my sister, Wolfgang, and the female component of Kywana.

That brings us to earlier this week. I got a call from a number that's not programmed into my phone. Now, I don't usually answer calls from numbers I don't recognize, but I guess I was feeling uncommonly sociable on this particular day.

What follows is a never-before-published recap of that conversation, with my thoughts in italics, included for your enjoyment.

"Hello."

A male voice greets me. "Mister Bone?"

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is (name withheld) from AT&T. We noticed you had gone over your allotted number of text messages last month."

*cringe* "I am aware."

"Looking at your account, you actually would save money if you upgraded your data plan."

Looking at my account? Shouldn't that be illegal? Stupid Patriot Act.

"You currently get 1500 texts per month. You used over 1800 last month, which came out to about 12 dollars in overage charges."

You oughta be thanking me for using that many texts. Ever hear of frequent flier miles? I should be rewarded! There should be an 1800 Club for people like me. Or... at least a Texters Anonymous.

"If you were to go to the next highest plan, it would be 10 dollars more, but you would get unlimited texts."

(Pause for response. There is none.)

"So if you think you're going to be texting a lot every month, then that's something you might want to consider."

Apparently, I'm a teenage girl.

"Don't try to dig what we all say. I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. Just talkin' 'bout my generation..."

'Bout a ghost from a wishing well

It happened one night near summer's end. We were driving across some state somewhere. I don't remember where we had been or where we were going, which by the way is a pretty good rule of thumb for my entire life. I had been making good, some might say excessive, use of the seek button, and had settled for a moment on a station that was playing some older, classic-type country music.

A song came on that I didn't recognize, but couldn't turn away from. It was one of those songs you always seem to hear at night while driving and you wish it wouldn't end. I listened intently to the haunting lyrics and rich baritone, thinking I would eventually recognize the voice, but never did. So I made a mental note of a couple of lines intending to Google the lyrics later, but never did.

Fast forward to about a month ago. I was lying on the couch watching TV late one night, fighting sleep as I often do on weekends because sleep means Monday is one day closer. Around 1 or 2 in the morning I stopped on this infomercial for some songs of the seventies collection, hosted by two guys from that group that sang "A Horse With No Name."

To be honest, I'd always considered the seventies one of the weaker decades musically. But they were advertising some pretty good stuff -- Jim Croce, James Taylor, Paul Simon. I was proud of myself. I didn't call nor go online to order the entire collection. I like to think that shows maturity.

Then Sweet-Sister-Golden-Hair-Surprise they played it! The song I'd heard while traversing the countryside one night all those weeks ago. It was called, "If You Could Read My Mind."

And that's the story of how I discovered Gordon Lightfoot at 71.

He turns 72 today. Happy birthday, G-Light.



"Turnin' back the pages to the times I love best. I wonder if she'll ever do the same. Now the thing that I call livin' is just bein' satisfied with knowin' I got no one left to blame..."

'Wave, goodbye

My microwave, the one I've had since the day I left home, is gone. Well that's not entirely true. It's still sitting on the counter, but like a girlfriend you've insulted one too many times, it's no longer putting out.

It happened Monday before last. I was six minutes into an eight-to-ten minute baked potato when I stopped it for a routine check. When I tried to start it back up, there was nothing. I unplugged it and plugged it back in, you know because sometimes that works with the computer and computers and microwaves are so similar... still nothing. It was over.

What can one say about a countertop appliance? I knew her ding, the layout of her face, and what made her go around. Well, not mechanically speaking, but I knew which buttons to push.

With a capacity of 0.8 cubic feet, rounding up, she was 700 watts of relatively-safe radiation heating power. You can't get kind of power anymore! Seriously, do they still make them with that low of wattage?

And let me say this, if there were a Guinness Book Of World Records record for such a thing -- and if I had kept an accurate count -- I have no doubt we would have set a record for most frozen burritos made in a single non-commercial microwave oven that would never have been broken.

Perhaps most tragically, she had just recently undergone her 10-year cleaning. Granted, a few years late.

There is much I will miss about her. No more quick baked potatoes. No more easy Rotel dip. No more microwave popcorn for supper. No longer any such thing as warm leftovers. But you know what I have found I miss the most? The clock.

I don't have a DVR (and you can't see the stove, you know, for the wall) so the microwave was the only easily-viewable clock from my living room. Not a day has passed that I haven't looked in her direction to check the time, each glance a harsh reminder of what once was.

So for the past ten days, I have been struggling to survive my newfound, unintentionally Amish existence. I warmed up some queso dip in a saucepan last night. A saucepan, people. What is this, 1940?

And by the way, microwave popcorn on a stove? That doesn't work. It just burns the bag.

"But if I finish all of my chores and you finish thine, then tonight we're gonna party tonight like it's 1699..."

How 'bout getting off of these antibiotics

The week started out well enough. It was Bone's first-ever attempt at an Halloween party. Though there was some pause given on whether to have the fiesta on Saturday or Sunday night, as Halloween fell on Sunday and I don't know how it is where you're from but in Alabama Sunday night is church night. As is Wednesday night. So towns, cities and churches debated on whether to declare Saturday the official night for tricks and treats. With no clear consensus reached, confusion reigned.

Fortunately, I thrive on confusion. OK, maybe not, but it sounded like a good thing to say there.

So the party was set for Saturday night and up until Saturday Noon looked like it would be about as well attended as a Dick Cheney hunting seminar. Then I guess no one could find anything else better to do -- which in itself is just beyond pathetic -- and we wound up with several late commits and a party of twelve.

There was pumpkin carving, pumpkin cupcakes -- which I did not sample, blech -- and the newest Halloween tradition of them all, a few games of Spoons. I don't know how familiar you are with the rules of Spoons, but my goal is to be in the final two, NOT get the four-of-a-kind, yet still manage to grab the spoon first. I mean, that would by far be the ultimate amongst all my relatively useless competitive accomplishments. I will retire from Spoons when that happens. And possibly do the late-night talk show circuit.

Perhaps the highlight of the evening was the costume contest. There was an adult costume contest, which wasn't as fun as it initially sounds, and a children's contest. Dressing up for Halloween for the first time in over twenty years, I managed to win the adult contest, barely outdistancing Lil Bootay 3 votes to 2, which was even odder ("even odder?") considering she wasn't wearing a costume.

So the party was a qualified (and inexplicable) success. Then things began to go downhill.

I got a sore throat Monday night. Normally I'm over anything in a day, two max. But things kept getting worse. I went to the doctor Thursday, but instead of antibiotics, he gave me some sore throat mouthwash, which didn't really help my sore throat but did function somewhat well as a weight loss pill as it soon brought my vomitless streak to an end.

I started running a fever Thursday night, which for some reason always makes me think of the time on Little House On The Prairie that Albert had a fever and they put him in a tub of ice. Or was it Almanzo? And why do I always think of that? It's not like I could ever actually do it. I can't even stand a cold shower.

Also -- and I don't think I've ever noticed this before -- but it's possible I'm a bit of a whiner when I'm sick. This occurred to me sometime amidst the three days of lying around randomly making groaning noises and occasionally moaning things like "I'm dying" and "Why me, Lord?"

Hard to believe any week that began like this could actually go downhill:


But alas, things are finally looking up. I went to the walk-in clinic today (you just cannot make that sound classy) and took two shots in the buttocks (that either). On a positive note, they were administered by a female.

So I've got some antibiotics. I have something else in common with Forrest Gump (besides hailing from Alabama). And best of all, McRib is back! Who wouldn't wanna be me?

"It'd be easy to add up all the pain, and all the dreams you sat and watched go up in flames. Dwell on the wreckage as it smolders in the rain. But not me. I'm alive..."

Matches

Most days the days all run together. I preoccupy myself with the unimportant things in life. Things are mostly fine, except when they're not. Work is work, and the weather's always the weather. Tuesday's not much different from Friday. And January feels a lot like July.

But one day every once in a while, I'll gaze out over the water, to the other side of the river, and wonder about you. I know you're over there in a sea of people, alternately surrounding yourself with, then withdrawing from them into your precious solitude. Like I'm one to talk.

I want to know you're OK, but that some nights you still miss me so bad you whisper my name when you're in the dark. And other times, you cry my name out loud because you're angry still. Or maybe that's just me.

I could call, but I haven't any business trying to cross that bridge again. The last time that I tried, I almost drowned. You were on the other side with a can of gasoline and a freshly struck match.

But that was us, wasn't it? Always ready with a match, we both set fire to that bridge at least half a dozen times. Sometimes it seemed just for the sake of seeing how much damage we could do. Yet somehow it still stands. Or maybe it's no longer there. It's possible it's only in my mind.

I can't help that sometimes when I close my eyes, I still see yours, so deep and rich and dark -- caring, passionate and so completely vulnerable all at the same time. I'd get lost so easily in there and never want to find my way out. I remember how I'd know they were about to cry before a tear would fall. And most of the time, the tears were caused by me.

You were there for solace when I needed you, and you were trying hard. Then when I was ready to try, you were impossible to reach, at least for me. And so we went, back and forth. Maybe it was just a game we played -- one where even if you win, you lose. Or maybe I only threw away my matches when I knew you'd never cross that bridge again.

I remember mostly the good times now. That's just how I am, and it's a curse.

And so I remain on this side, where most days the days all run together. And I don't think about forevers.

But one day every once in a while, yesterday comes around. I think about how close we were, how far you are. I whisper your name. And I wonder if you ever think about us, the way we were when things were good.

You know, before we learned to play with matches.

"When you reach the part where the heartaches come, the hero would be me. But heroes often fail. And you won't read that book again, because the ending's just too hard to take..."

Boys night out

I have a possible replacement for the Darryls.

I know, it's quick. But it's someone I've known for a couple of years. We hung out this weekend and I need to see what you guys think about him. (And by "you guys," I pretty much mean, "you girls plus Sage and Ed.")

OK, I can't keep up the suspense any longer. It's Nephew Bone.

We hung out Friday night for a couple of hours. It was BYOG. (Bring Your Own Goldfish.) Kicked it at my place for about thirty minutes. We banged around on some pots and pans and shot some Nerf basketball. Well I shot some, then held him up and he put the ball in. Over and over and over. After that, we hit the tizzown, got our eat on at Chic-Fil-A, then headed to Kywana's for a play date with the godson. I think we were both pretty wiped by the time I dropped him off at grandma's at 9.

Anyway, what I have prepared for you today is a rudimentary pro/con list of how hanging out with Nephew Bone compares to hanging out with the Darryls. First, we'll look at some pros for Nephew Bone:

Nephew Bone brings his own snacks. (See aforementioned BYOG.) The Darryls sometimes did -- Wolfgang moreso than LJ -- but not always.

Girls think Nephew Bone is cuter. And I must agree. And really, do I need any other reason than this? (I promise I never thought I would turn into one of those uncle bloggers.)

Nephew Bone always blows me kisses when I leave. The Darryls would never do this! At least, not sober. I was lucky if I got a "see ya later."

I'm entertained by every single thing Nephew Bone says or does. The Darryls? They were pretty entertaining, too. We'll call this one a wash.

OK, now for the cons:

Nephew Bone has a curfew. The Darryls never had a curfew. Well, not until Wolfgang got a girlfriend. Of course, a curfew could be a good thing if I'm really tired. At my age, I'm starting to adhere to the adage that "Nothing good can happen after sunset."

Nephew Bone doesn't play golf or have a pool table. However, he does have Legos.

Nephew Bone won't buy me a swimsuit calendar for Christmas. At least probably not for ten or fifteen years. (What? It's for a good cause! To help poor, needy, hard-working... Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.)

Well, there you have it. Nephew Bone versus the Darryls. The data is in your hands. What you choose to do with it is up to you. But I gotta tell you, if this doesn't work, my only remaining option may be a long-term legally-recognized union, with a woman.

Or trying to meet new people. Perish the thought.

"Every day a new discovery. I'm a child again looking through your eyes. With every step you're teaching me how to fall and cry, get up and smile..."

A wedding and a funeral

The Darryls have passed away.

Time of death was around 2:15, Saturday, September 25th. That's when the onset of wedded bliss stole the last gasps of air from Independent Wolfgang. Though honestly, Independent Wolfgang had been on life support for quite awhile. I mean he hadn't played golf since the spring, for crying out loud.

And without two Darryls, you really have no Darryls. It'd be like Bert with no Ernie, pancakes with no syrup, B.J. with no The Bear. Maybe that's why LJ didn't show up for the wedding. He claimed he had to work. But I wouldn't be surprised if it was all just too much to handle.

So RIP Darryls. It's the end of an era, and thus closes an entertaining, if occasionally disturbing, chapter of my life. But this is not my misty-water-colored-memories ode to the Darryls post. Oh no, that will come later, after a period of mourning. Besides, like I (would have) said in my wedding toast (had they asked me to make one), "This too shall pass."

In the end, I wasn't asked to be a groomsman -- there were no groomsmen. But I did attend, largely because the chapel was about three minutes from my place. And since I know many of you were deeply concerned about me possibly having to miss the Bama/Arkansas game, I have prepared a rudimentary timeline for you of the day's events:

1:45 PM - Arrive at chapel, see Wolfgang outside, pose for picture. What? No, I'm not family. Apparently I wasn't supposed to be in that picture.

1:47 PM - Enter wrong door. There were girls in dresses in there. What were they doing? I don't know. I heard giggling. Were they laughing at me? Hard to say. Close door.

1:48 PM - Find correct door. Enter and take seat near the back and at the end of the pew in case a quick exit becomes necessary.

1:50 PM - Have espn.com's gamecast pulled up on my Blackberry ready to go. I thought headphones would be too obvious. Seriously rethinking that right about now.

1:59 PM - I began to grow fidgety. When is this thing going to start? Why do weddings always start late?

2:00 PM - Music starts. Ah, that's what I'm talking about. Let's get this show on the road and get this poor bastard married off.

2:09 PM - Why is the unity candle song always so long? Everything is done, then the couple are standing there awkwardly for two-and-a-half minutes waiting for the song to end. All you're really doing is giving both of them time to rethink their decision. I mean, how long does it take to light three candles? Fifteen seconds. They should play Taps. That would be about the right length.

2:14 PM - I think about the parking lot. If someone has me blocked in there will be a crime committed today. Probably more than one.

2:20 PM - I do! And the congregation shouted "Hallelujah!" Or just I shouted, with my inside voice.

2:22 PM - What's this? The preacher is making some kind of announcement. The bride and groom will be back in a few minutes? In the meantime, entertain yourselves? OK, that's it, I'm outta here!

2:23 PM - Crap, here they come.

2:28 PM - Thinking I still have time to get some wedding cake, I work my way towards the reception area, and manage to nonchalantly break into the cake line, in front of the flower girls.

2:33 PM - Shake hands with Wolfgang. Wave goodbye to the bride. Simultaneously.

2:38 PM - Get home, turn on the TV, which I had purposely left on CBS in order to save precious seconds.

2:39 PM - They haven't kicked off yet! Vern Lundquist's face never looked so beautiful.

2:40 PM - 6:00 PM - A constant state of anxiety, interspersed with outbursts of cursing, table-banging, and brief moments of relief. (You'd think I was the one getting married.)

So to recap: Wolfgang got married. I was there -- for a little while. My coffee table is still in tact. And the Darryls are dead.

At least I have Nick Saban to console me on a weekly basis.

"Another chapter of my life its over. No, I'm never gonna feel like that again. Time's rushin' by me like the wind. Never be as young as I was then..."