April 27, 2011

For me, that Wednesday began with a 5:20 wake-up call from Dad. Unexpected, but not surprising.

"You awake?"
"Uh, yeah."
"You need to watch this weather. They say it's gonna get bad today."

It was only ten minutes until I'd normally get up, so I turned on the TV and saw there were already warnings out west of us. Five minutes later while I was in the shower, my phone rang again. Turned out to be my sister. I had asked her the night before to call if her weather radio went off during the night.

The warnings started before 6 AM and were virtually continuous for the next fifteen-plus hours. My sister, who had a storm shelter installed a few years ago after a tornado passed within two miles of their house, was calling throughout the day asking if it was safe to come out. Her power was out and her weather radio had stopped working. Every time, the answer was either "no" or "maybe for a few minutes, but there's another storm coming."

I left work about 3 that afternoon, came home and continued to watch the weather. I guess it was around 4 that my power went out, which seemed a bit odd as it wasn't real stormy here at that time, just extremely windy. Later I would learn that TVA, which supplies electricity to most of north Alabama, had suffered severe damage to their main transmission lines and power wouldn't be restored for days.

After about fifteen minutes with no power and knowing the storms had been coming one right after another, I decided to go back to work. At least there we had a generator and could watch UHF channels. I stayed at work for the better part of the rest of the night, except for one foolhardy period when I decided to drive around to look for signs of storm damage.

Driving home that night was eerie, with no traffic lights, no store lights, and only the dim glow of candlelight coming from a few homes. I lit a few candles, found a couple of flashlights, and made a sandwich. The power was out, internet was down, and my cell service had been out since early afternoon, so I decided to go to bed. I'd heard reports of tornadoes on the ground, homes damaged, but had no idea of the kind of devastation and loss of life I would hear about and see over the coming days.

The stories came in first -- stories of the damage, loss of life, and heroism. Stories like a grandmother who laid on top of a baby to protect it. The baby survived while the grandmother lost her life. Then came the numbers, the fatalities. They started high and they climbed hour by hour. Then the pictures and the video began to come in -- footage as bad as anything I've ever seen and yet once you see the damage in person you realize the pictures can't begin to do it justice.

I drove to Dad's one evening -- I think Friday or Saturday, the days run together -- to help him set up a generator. I'm pretty sure he didn't need any help, but just wanted to see me. On my way there, I got my first look at some of the damage. When I got to Dad's, he showed me all the debris that had fallen in their front yard. Among it was a pair of kids blue jeans, size 4, and an 8x10 photograph of a little girl. They had no idea who she was. I could only hope she had survived.

An EF5 tornado -- the highest-rating given, for storms with winds over 200 mph -- passed within 3-4 miles of Dad's house, and within a mile of where Wolfgang lives. Minutes later, the same tornado destroyed my first cousin's house. She and her husband hid in a closet. All that remains of their house is that closet and part of one wall. They survived. Hundreds across Alabama didn't.

That particular tornado stayed on the ground continuously for over 100 miles. I drove through some more of the damage on my way to church Sunday. My eyes started to water. Every image, every location, breaks your heart all over again. The destruction is so massive that eventually words fail.

Another somewhat unique aspect to this disaster was the widespread and lengthy power outage. At one point, we heard over 600,000 were without power. Obviously, that is secondary to the tornado destruction, but still significant in that it no doubt prevented some people from being forewarned. The local TV stations were doing a great job covering things, but probably over 90 percent of north Alabamians weren't able to watch TV.

TVA was originally giving estimates that power could be out five to seven days. Some areas were on sooner. Some still don't have power today, eight days later.

People were unprepared for an extended power outage. Most lost everything in their fridge and freezer. Gasoline became a premium commodity. The few stations that had generators and were able to pump it had lines half an hour to an hour long the first day or two.

I had no cell phone service, no internet, and no home phone service for a couple of days, as both my landline phones are cordless and therefore need electricity. I am beyond embarrassed to admit that it crossed my mind Thursday to maybe go and stay overnight with friends in Nashville on Friday, just so I would be able to use my cell phone and text and call people back who had tried to check on me. It feels incredibly selfish now that the thought even crossed my mind.

Because as I began to see the damage and the relief efforts that were underway, I quickly realized this was not the time to skip town, this was the time to help your neighbor. I managed to find an old corded phone at work which I borrowed, just so I wouldn't feel completely disconnected from the outside world.

At work, management decided we would work through the weekend due to the situation. I had thought of griping for half a second, but in hindsight I'm so glad we did. It felt like people needed us there. Our generator began to run low on gas on Thursday or Friday -- again I forget the day. A frantic search for fuel paid off. We remained on generator power until sometime yesterday.

The relief effort has been amazing. It has risen to match and begun to overcome the devastation. There were reports of some areas even turning away volunteers or having no more room to store the supplies that had been donated. The outpouring of love and people's faith in the face of death and total loss has been incredible.

It makes me proud to be from this area and to call Alabama home. And hearing stories about people from all over the country showing up to help give me hope and make me proud of America. Race, religion, politics -- none of that mattered. People simply helped. And they continue helping. As I've witnessed this tragedy bring out the best in so many, it makes me wonder why we can't treat each other this way all the time.

Something else I've observed: Events like this divide people into basically two categories. There are those who help, as instinctively and as automatically as they breathe. It's as if there isn't even a choice. It's just what they do. And then there are those who seem completely oblivious to everything going on around them, whose only concern seems to be themselves, and everyone else can go screw themselves. And you don't have to ask which category someone falls into. You don't have to dig very hard at all. Just observe, and it becomes quite obvious.

I'm proud to say almost everyone I know was doing something to help. My sister and her husband went to try and help my first cousin. Dad, who was still without power at the time, called two different days saying they were getting supplies to take to volunteers and victims. Axl went out with search and rescue teams. Even LJ went out at least three days that I know of to help in the clean-up effort.

Several other things struck me during all this. Forgive me for jumping around here but I just want to get all my thoughts down.

People in one area that was devastated often had no idea there was just as much devastation in countless other areas, in some cases for days due in large part to the power outage. I realized this talking to Axl one night. He had been out with search and rescue but still had no power or internet and was stunned as I told him of the devastation I'd heard of in other counties and areas.

It also struck me during this time that you, people outside of Alabama, probably had a lot better idea of what was going on than most anyone here. Again because of the lack of power and communications.

And finally, having watched Japan, and Katrina, and numerous other disasters play out on TV, I have realized something I really knew deep down but just chose to forget or ignore most times. Just because a few days pass and the national media moves on to something else and suddenly you've become day-before-yesterday's news doesn't mean the disaster is over or things are normal.

Things won't be normal for months and months. And when they finally are, normal will be different from whatever it was before. We will never forget the images, the stories, the victims, the loss, the damage. Nor will we forget the heroes, the survivors, the rescuers, the volunteers, the love and the kindness. And if we ever think we might, we will drive past a place where a store or a school or a neighborhood used to be, or maybe a spot where the trees suddenly aren't quite as tall or dense as they are just down the road. And we will remember.

I write all this realizing I am incredibly blessed. Not only am I alive and well, but so are my family and loved ones. I suffered absolutely zero property damage. My town was one of the most very fortunate. Time and again Wednesday and Wednesday night, tornadoes would track a few miles north or a few miles south of us. And we were one of the first areas to get power restored. So yes, I feel blessed. And guilty. Why them? Why not me? I know that feeling well.

The tornado outbreak of 1974 had always been the stuff of legend around here. Someone wrote a book about it and I remember looking through it a few times and reading some of it. There were personal accounts of survivors and stories and sometimes pictures of those who died. I still remember this one family -- a man, his wife, and their kids -- who were all killed in the '74 tornadoes. I can still remember their first and last names. I can still see that picture. And I haven't looked at that book in at least twenty years.

When I asked Dad if he thought this was worse than '74, he didn't hesitate to say yes. The numbers -- of injuries, damage, and loss of life -- say it isn't even that close. At least in Alabama. The last I saw there were around 250 killed in the state and over 3000 injured. That's roughly triple the 1974 numbers of 86 fatalities and 949 injuries.

I grew up with what probably was an unhealthy fear of tornadoes. I hated the word, hated to see it in print, hated to hear anyone say it. Anytime there was a tornado warning for our county, Dad would make us get out and drive around, or sit under an overpass or go to the courthouse basement. As I got older, I started staying home when my family would get out. And after I moved out, the fear gradually dissipated and I'm sure I became too lax when it came to storms.

Today, I have a new-found respect, for a word and a monster I still hate.

"My home's in Alabama, no matter where I lay my head. My home's in Alabama, southern born and southern bred..."

I'm not sure I remember how to do this

It's been awhile. I'd like to tell you I have a great reason for being absent, like I quit my job and have been under the tutelage of David Gibson in preparation for this year's World Scrabble Championships. But I have no grand reason. No excuse.

Although my hours at work changed a few weeks ago. I now have to be in at Brandt-Leland each morning by 6 AM. It's kinda thrown my whole routine off. OK, so one excuse.

My first week working the new hours, I woke up one morning at 5:52. I shot out of bed and rushed into the bathroom in a panic. As I brushed my teeth, my mind raced. Why hadn't my alarm gone off? Or had it, and I turned in off in a semi-conscious haze? And what about my phone? I never turn my phone alarm off.... except for weekends... which must make this a... Saturday! It's moments like these that never allow me to think too highly of myself.

I've always been a night owl and I'm not sure I'll ever be fully transformed into one of those early worms. But there is one good thing about the new hours: I'm off in time to catch General Hospital most days now.

Speaking of, I'm pretty sure I had a small coronary when I read the headline "ABC To Cancel Two Of Its Long-Running Soaps" a couple weeks ago. Thankfully, GH survived. And so did I. Did you know we may experience hundreds of tiny heart attacks and never even realize it? On second thought, maybe that was hundreds of tiny earthquakes...

Spring was nice this year. It arrived on a Wednesday and was gone by the following Sunday. Like a girl you go out with a couple of times and she's not your favorite but then when she's gone you start thinking she must have something going for her if she's not waiting around on you. It would have been nice if spring had stayed a little longer. Not that I would ever complain about summer. Or girls.

I earned my first sunburn of the season last weekend at the Alabama A-Day game. You might recall that's where ninety-thousand-plus fans show up to basically watch the team practice. Yeah, there's not a whole lot to do around here.

Nephew Bone went to the game. He's learned to put his hand over his heart for the national anthem. So on over in the game a bit as the band was playing the Alabama fight song, I looked down and Nephew Bone was standing with his hand over his heart until they were done. My heart melted a little.

Otherwise, I've been golfing a bit, running a bit, and going to bed earlier than I ever dreamed possible. (Not that I have ever actually had a dream about going to bed early.) And even though I would think about blogging, it became easier and easier to let it go for another day.

It's kinda like a relationship where you stop communicating and walls start to form. And you know you need to talk but with each passing day it's just easier to watch TV or read. And so you let the distance continue to grow until finally... You know, actually these relationship analogies are starting to hit a little too close to home.

So anyway, I'm back. For better or for worse.

And if there should ever be another prolonged hiatus, just assume the Scrabble thing.

"A good muse is hard to find. Living one word to the next, one line at a time. There's more to life than whiskey. There's more to words than rhyme. Sometimes nothing works, sometimes nothing shines, like Hemingway's whiskey..."

It's all in the name?

I was three days with no Internet last week. It was rough, I'm not gonna lie. I know men have probably overcome more, but few if any have worked harder in relation to their normal productivity output. I spent about fifteen hours trying to diagnose and fix the problem with my router, which is quite possibly the most time I've spent on any one thing ever, by about fourteen hours.

During this ordeal, I became familiar with terms and ideas previously foreign to me. Things like "Ethernet bridging," "MAC cloning" and "reading instruction manuals."

It was largely an exercise in frustration, often verbally disparaging myself because I couldn't figure the thing out. But alas, sometime around 8 o'clock Friday night, everything seemed to be working as normal again. It's a good thing, too, because my fantasy baseball draft was this afternoon.

Ah yes, it's that time of the year again: the smell of freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat, grown men adjusting their cups on national TV. And Bone spending an inordinate amount of time trying to come up with the perfect name for his fantasy baseball team.

With finishes of 4th, 3rd, and 4th by my fantasy team the past three seasons, it occurs to me that I may be better at naming a team than actually drafting and managing a team. For example, last year's team, Rolen On The River, finished a disappointing 4th place. However, during last year's draft, I did receive a couple of compliments on my team name.

But this is a new year. Rolen On The River has been retired to the Bone Hall Of Names. I now hereby do present to you the six finalists for this year's team name. First, we'll look at the five runners-up.

Everybody Loves Ramón - This was one of the first ideas I came up with, but eventually decided it was kinda lame. Besides, I never really liked that show.

Dusty's Spring Field - Admittedly a bit of a reach. Even though baseball technically starts in spring, it's considered more the sport of summer.

Going Going Gomes - Not bad, but kind of obvious.

This Is How Aroldis - I like this one a lot. Plus, I have a Bama shirt that says "This Is How I Roll." Maybe next year.

Edinson's Many Interventions - I really like this one, too. Though it refers to a player who served a 50-game suspension for a banned substance last year, which seems a bit edgy for me. Also, like Between Bill Buckner's Legs a year ago, it exceeds Yahoo's 20-character limit, so it was a no-go anyway.

A quick reminder: Runners-up this year are eligible to be considered again the following season. For while I would like to come up with five creative new names each season, I'm fast running out of Reds players. So your input is welcome.

And now it's time to present this year's winner. After several days of pondering, and having consulted with my email and instant messaging inner circle, I have reached a decision. With a tip of the cap to The Godfather, I give you your 2011 Bone fantasy baseball team name:

Votto Bing!

(pause for applause)

Will this inspire my typically under-achieving team to a first-place finish? Well, if history tells us anything, the answer is no. But if just one of the other nine managers in my league looks with envy at my team name and says to himself, "I wish I'd thought of that," then this will have been a successful season.

"We got a great pitcher, what's his name, well we can't even spell it. We don't worry about the pennant much., we just like to see the boys hit it deep. There's nothing like the view from the cheap seats..."

...And the pursuit of cotton twill

One of my lifelong pursuits -- I have about eight or nine of them -- is to make the Late Show With David Letterman weekly online top ten contest.

Here's how it works: Each week, they post a new category. Anyone is free to enter. Their "judges" then choose the ten "best" submissions to make the online top ten list. Winners get a free Late Show t-shirt and have their joke published on the website.

For the past two or three years, I have been trying to win this top ten contest. Oh sure, not every week. That type of dedication and persistence would be so unlike me. I probably enter about once every month. OK, every two months. That's not the point, though it probably should be.

In this time, my entries have run the gamut of the comedy hierarchy. Yet they have all had one thing in common: they have all not been selected.

I will admit there have been a couple that seemed side-splittingly hilarious to me at the time, but now -- eh, not so much. For example: "Top Ten Things Dumb Guys Think WikiLeaks Is." Bone's entry: "Another one of them Palin kids."

But there have also been entries whose failure to make the list continue to befuddle me even to this very day, and will until the day I die. To wit: "Top Ten Little Known Facts About Santa Claus." My response: "Doesn't believe in HIMSELF."

Come on! That's gold, Jerry! GOLD!

I was so sure that one would make it that I'd already started shopping for plaid shorts to match the soon-to-be-mine Late Show t-shirt. Are you telling me there were ten better entries than that? "Thinks it's funny to answer misdirected fan mail for Carlos Santana?" Please. That's a horrific insult to comedy itself. I'm beginning to wonder if David Letterman is reading my entries at all.

My latest failed foray into cyber comedy was last week in the category "Signs Your Neighbor Has March Madness." My entry: "Named his kids Bracket and Gumbel." Decent, I thought, only to wake up Saturday morning and find myself disappointed yet again.

All I want is for my first name, last initial, and hometown to appear on the Late Show website beside my joke, my (as I'm sure you will agree by now, well-deserved) Late Show t-shirt, and for Letterman himself to write me a letter saying something to the effect of "you really should have pursued a career in comedy, and it's the world's loss that you didn't." His words, not mine.

Until then, the pursuit continues. Intermittently, of course.

Don't want to get burned out.

"You got your spell on me, baby, turnin' my heart into stone. I need you so bad,
magic woman, I can't leave you alone..."

Carrying a torch

What does Bone's title refer to today? Oh, well, let's see, it could be anything. It could refer to the Olympics. An old flame, maybe. Or perhaps his new blowtorch side business. All are stimulating possibilities. They're also all wrong.

Today's title refers to my latest foray into the world of technology. After three-and-a-half years, two roller balls and three batteries with my previous phone, I decided it was time to make a change. Tuesday morning's sticky roller ball episode was the last straw. So I went to the AT&T store.

I'm proud to announce you're looking at new owner of a Blackberry Torch. Oh sure, they tried to talk me into an iPhone, but I stood my ground. I played with the iPhone some, but I kept misspelling words. And if there's one thing I wouldn't be able to live with, it's that. Can you imagine me sending email after email with misspelled words? Me?!?! I think not.

Besides, as a dear friend of mine said, "You're an old man. You like the qwerty keyboard. You don't like change." To which I replied, "Exactly."

No newfangled touch-screen keyboard for me. I'll stick with my ol' trusty slide-out qwerty, thankyouverymuch. Anyway, I'm not so big on being on the cutting edge of technology. I'm much more comfortable back here in the meaty part of the curve -- not showing off, not lagging behind.

Every single iPhone person I've ever talked to has said something to the affect of, "I love my iPhone. I could never go back to anything else." It's almost like they're all trained to say the same thing. I don't want to be like that. Next thing you know, they'll be like those Harley riders, who only wave at the other Harley riders. Oh, like you're so special because you have a motorcycle, you can't be bothered to wave at the lowly car people. (Just kiddin' bikers... really.)

Without realizing it, we've become a society divided into classes based on our cellular profile. You have the iPhone people, aka the Glitterati, followed by the Blackberryists. I'm not sure what you call us. Stubborn, perhaps. I prefer loyal. Then there are the rebel non-mainstream smartphone people -- Droids, Androids and the like. These are your 21st Century hippies.

Next are the non-smartphone people, the upper middle class of our techno-age caste system, who think a phone should be used for things like, oh I don't know, making a call. They probably think those of us who treat our smartphones as another appendage need to get out of the technology beltway and remember what it's like to, oh I don't know, speak to someone in person. Weird, I know.

The next classification would be people like my Mom, who only recently figured out how to send a text message. If you never learned how to program a VCR, you're likely to find yourself in this class.

Lastly, we have those who don't own a cell phone at all. These Tibetan-monks-of-technology have to rely on someone stopping to help them if their car breaks down, stop for directions if they get lost, and never have to worry about overage charges, texter's thumb, or anyone calling them when they're on vacation.

My friend LJ falls in this class. Although I found out today that he just got a DVR, which has me questioning everything I thought I knew about everything.

Who knows why these phone-Mennonites do what they do. Maybe there are religious reasons. Perhaps they just enjoy depriving themselves of things. Or maybe, just maybe, there is something deeper. Something the rest of us cannot understand.

Ah, but who has time to worry about such things? I have a new phone and I'm kind of addicted to Word Mole already.

My name is Bone, and I carry a Torch. You can reach me by email, text, AIM, Google Talk, Facebook, Blackberry Messenger, and... probably a lot of other ways that I haven't yet and likely never will learn how to use.

Kind of odd for a wannabe-hermit, don't ya think?

"And I'd have given anything to have my own Pac-Man game at home. I used to have to get a ride down to the arcade. Now I've got it on my phone..."

Not as fun as it sounds

My spring golf and social season has gotten underway. I know what you're thinking -- the toddler birthday party circuit, right?. No, that's the FALL social season. Try and keep up.

I've got a wedding to go to Saturday. This past weekend was the couple's coed shower. Not as fun as it sounds. But as this was my second coed shower, I knew what to expect, thus avoiding the initial disappointment of my first.

My question is, when did this happen? Showers used to be for girls only. Not having to attend them was one of the three main advantages to being a man. Along with cheaper haircuts and standing when we pee.

When did it change? How did guys let this happen? What, did they change it while we were watching sports on TV or napping? Hmm, yeah, that's entirely possible. Likely, even. In fact, now that I think about it, that's probably when all important decisions are made.

There seemed to be a highly disproportionate number of pregnant women at this shower. And as I apparently have a sixth sense about these things, I found myself wedged between a couple of them as I tried to enjoy my plate of snacky shower food. As they discussed due dates and such, I tried to join in the conversation, saying things like "That's the date of my fantasy baseball draft" and "Eww, that's gross." But no one took the bait.

And so I retreated to my carrot sticks and corn chips. As I sat there taking in the scene, it hit me: This is what people do. They get married, they have babies, then they host events to discuss the two. Of course! I don't know why it hadn't hit me before. That's it, I understand life. It was a true epiphanic moment.

Shortly thereafter I heard some talk about shower games, something to do with baby food in a diaper, and decided it was time for us to go.

All non-kidding aside, it wasn't horrible. I've gotta get the recipe for that veggie pizza. And it was kinda nice to take part in a social event and interact with the other humans.

For a little while.

"Doing the garden, digging the weeds. Who could ask for more? Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?"

Three words every guy wants to hear

In this time of impending VD and on this, my second day of being thirty-eight, I have decided to reach back into the annals of 2010 and share a story with you. It's not quite a tale of love unrequited. Heretofore untold because, well, it's hard to fit everything in when you only blog twice a month.

It happened on a Thursday morn. I specifically remember that because the night before had been a Wednesday, and I haven't slept through an entire day since the 90's. As I trudged out to the car, my mindless morning routine was interrupted when I noticed a piece of paper on my windshield.

Quickly unfolding the loosened leaf, I read the words written in blue ink. It began, "Saw you at Kroger last night." Then came the three words every guy wants to hear (well, besides "you are hilarious"):

"You are hot."

That was followed by a phone number.

Call me old-fashioned, but is this what we've come to now? Leaving notes on cars? Whatever happened to traditional methods of meeting people, like picking up a girl in a chat room, or filling out a two-hour questionnaire and paying a monthly fee to join a dating site? Next thing you know, people will be just bumping into each other in public and striking up a conversation. And I can assure you, I am so not ready for that.

But seriously. I'm not sure what your impression of me as a love conquistador is, nor do I probably want to know. But things like this do not happen to me every day. Perhaps when I was younger. OK, so not very often then either. The closest thing I can remember was walking across the mall parking lot towards Taco Bell one day when some girls rode by and yelled, "Hubba hubba!" I wasn't sure what that meant, but I took it as a compliment and had a chicken MexiMelt.

And so a smile broke across my face as I tried to recall the previous evening at Kroger and who could have possibly left the note. I distinctly remembered an attractive girl in the sandwich meats. She was at the checkout as I was walking out, so I gave her the glance-and-smile. Of course, there was also a guy in a red shirt with a carry-cart who I oddly seemed to run into on every aisle.

I must have encountered ten or fifteen customers that evening, not to mention the employees. There was no way to know which of them had apparently waited for me in the parking lot, followed me home, then came back after I went inside and left a note on my windshield. What? It's only stalking if she's not hot and/or she's crazy.

Almost as quickly, it occurred to me that this might all be a joke. Maybe someone I knew had seen me at Kroger, tried to get my attention but I didn't see them, so they decided to have a little fun.

There was only one way to find out -- ask everyone I know who could possibly have seen me at Kroger that night. Or call the number. OK, so two ways.

I contacted everyone I could think of who both know where I live and might have been in the area. None of them had done it. Heck, half of them thought I was joking.

From there, my thoughts on who might have left the note pretty much ran the gamut. What if it turned out to be a really young girl who thought I was much younger than I am? What an awkward call that would be. Or what if it was a much older woman? There's no way that's gonna work. Do you have any idea how immature I am? Don't answer that.

The next couple of times I went to Kroger, I would look into the faces of the people I passed to see if any of them looked familiar, but none did. With each semi-attractive female I encountered, there was a feeling of "could that be her?" I think over time, my mind decided to fill in the blanks and convinced itself that sandwich-meat-girl was the one who had left the note. I thought of her often during those late October days. And then, not as much.

I even had someone offer to call the number for me just to see who answered, but I declined. If our paths were meant to cross again, I would leave it entirely up to fate.

That's been about four months ago now. So I think we can safely deduce that it was most likely not a joke.

I'm also willing to allow that it's possible I rely on serendipity a tad too much.

"May have lost this battle. Live to fight another day. Don't be fallin' in love as she's walking away..."

Guitar hero?

I pulled into the parking lot, got my guitar out of the back seat, and started walking towards the door in the rain. It felt like a scene out of a movie, about some drifter, playing the honky-tonk scene, who ruins his relationship with the only girl who will ever love him by drinking too much.

And in that instant, I was a guitarist.

Of course, in reality, I'm not (yet) a guitarist, I've never played a honky-tonk, I'm not really much of a drifter, and I don't (yet) drink too much. But the rest is totally me.

Otherwise, there wasn't anything too scintillating about my first guitar lesson on Tuesday. So instead, I've decided to just make some stuff up. I mean, this could have happened, theoretically. And may have happened in an alternate universe. Who can really say? Scott Bakula, maybe.

Instructor: "Good afternoon, Bone."
Bone: "Good afternoon, sensei."
Instructor: "Have a seat."
Bone (takes seat, looks around): "Thanks. Uh, where are all the bonsai?"
Instructor: "The what?"
Bone: "You know, the tiny trees."
Instructor: "Tiny trees?"
Bone: "Never mind."
Instructor: "Shall we begin?"
Bone: "Let's turn this mutha out."
Instructor: "I want to start by asking, where do you hope to be when you're done with these lessons?"
Bone: "Do the words Back To The Future and Johnny B. Goode mean anything to you?"
Instructor: "Uhhh.."
Bone: "Or how about being able to play behind my head?"
Instructor: "How about let's just see what you can do."
(Bone plays a few licks.)
Instructor: "Are you left-handed?"
Bone: "I don't think so."
Instructor: "Then here, you might want to turn this around."
Bone: "Oh. Thanks."
Instructor: "You're a little obtuse, aren't you?"
Bone: "What? No... maybe a little. But I've lost three pounds since New Year's."
Instructor: "Do you play any instruments?"
Bone: "The kazoo, naturally. And at one time or another I've owned a harmonica, guitar, set of drums and a recorder."
Instructor: "Was there a picture of Mickey Mouse on any of these instruments?"
Bone: "No... OK, the recorder... and the drums."
Instructor: "Ever taken any music classes before?"
Bone: "Oh, yes! Third grade. We learned Wheels On The Bus and Magalena Pagalena."
Instructor: "Do you have any musical talent whatsoever?"
Bone: "You know, I really thought I would be the one asking the questions."
Instructor: "Alright, well we usually begin with a few simple chords."
Bone: "Groovy!"
Instructor: "Did you just say groovy?"
Bone: "I said groovy. I meant far out."

On the way out of the lesson, Bone encounters a girl. Using skills honed through years of encountering girls yet rarely speaking to them, he determines her to be a guitar shop groupie. Cute, but clingy. And if there's one thing this drifter doesn't need--.

"Are you a guitarist?" She giggles.
"Well... ideally," Bone replies. Girls love musicians. He had been warned of this, repeatedly.
"You know, you don't have to carry your guitar with both arms. There is a handle. It's right there on the case."
"Oh... far out."

Meanwhile, back over in this space-time continuum, here's how my first lesson really went...

Five minutes learning the strings.
Ten minutes listening to instructor yammer on and on about his glory days and teaching methods.
Fifteen minutes learning how to tune the guitar.

"Alright, we're done."
I give him a what-you-talkin'-bout-Willis look.
He gives me a you-know-that-show's-been-off-the-air-twenty-five-years-look.
"All we do the first day is learn to tune it."

Well, that's a little disappointing.

I guess learning to play behind my head will come next week.

"He never ever learned to read or write so well. But he could play a guitar just like ringin' a bell..."