Control Nature

Last night, at this god-awful class I have to take, the learning was interrupted by this shriek of a wild exotic bird. It scared the teacher.

The teacher sitting across from me told me that it was actually an aural scarecrow. When an animal approached, the bird noise went off.

It was installed mainly to scare away birds. "Bird poop," my colleague told me, "It scares birds away so they don't poop all over the buildings. Mainly, they're trying to scare the gulls. They have one on my campus too. Not a bird on campus."

Then, today, we had an inservice on the other High School campus. Students got the day off while teachers worked. I noticed the same alarm had been installed there. The campus was silent. The campus had been landscaped with trees, lawns, bushes--but not a bird to be seen.

I recall a time on campus, during an Open House. It was night and I was standing on the balcony that overlooks our quad. An owl, as silver as moonlight, glided from out of nowhere, and landed on one of the towers, where her chicks were nested. I watched her at about eye level.

I don't believe we have this robo-bird at my school yet. I hope we don't get it.

Two Sijo

I was sitting in this horrible class I have to take to fulfill No Child Left Behind, the sham perpetrated on Texas and now the rest of the country, and I wrote these two poems in the sijo form:

1. Dark corner, the glimmer of beady eyes-a mouse blinks,
a tightrope walk across a chord strung along the ceiling,
the danger below: a well-placed morsel, an unexpected snap.

2. Red drop on green plane-ladybug scales a blade of grass,
pauses at the tip, but does not open its shell or spread cellophane wings
and does not escape the roar or chop of the spinning blade.

Anyway, I'll work on them. Click on the title of this blog and you'll go to a web page that explains the form. I also describe it in my first ever blog entry.

The Canaries Part Tres

I have postponed my latest review of the Canaries performance because I was a little disappointed in it. Let's just summarize by saying that what we lacked in skill, we made up for with enthusiasm.

We performed "I Feel Fine" by the Beatles-a favorite of mine for a long time. Myself and Billy Canary playing ukuleles and harmonizing. Canary Liam providing vocals.

We rehearsed for about an hour-and-a-half before leaving for the open mike. We had gotten to the point where we almost had it, but not quite. It was at the state of almost memorized, but not to the point where we felt comfy-cozy with it.

As a result, at least for my part, we were still thinking too hard when we were performing. Somewhere in the course of the song, I thought I had played a wrong chord and let that trip me up. I don't know how others feel about how they did.

Canary Liam, Billy's son and the youngest Canary, got to do a solo rendition of "Tambourine Man," accompanying himself on guitar. He began with a joke about a naked man and an elephant the punchline of which was "How do you breath with that thing?"

Then he played the song. He was pretty good. He took the song slowly, but sang with feeling. I think that he is still searching for a musical identity, experimenting with different instruments. And he is just discovering his voice.

The Ditty Bops

Went with the bro to see the Ditty Bops tonight at the Folk Center. I won tickets through an e-mail contest. The Ditty Bops are led by Amanda and Abby, two perky young ladies with voices like angels.

The opening act was Ruth Barnett, mother of one of the Bops and a fine singer who has a rather extensive ouevre. She played dulcimer and bodhrain and sang old school folk songs. Many of her tunes were original and some were traditional. And some were traditional to which she added lyrics and melody. Amanda Bop apparently selected the songs of this set from her favorites. She and Abby joined Ruth on stage for harmonies on several tunes. A very warm set it was. It ended with a lullaby Ruth had written for Amanda Bop when she was just a wee bop. It was a lovely tune and it was especially nice to hear mother and daughter sing it together.

Come to think of it, it's pretty hard to write a bad lullaby, unless the Backstreet Boys have one that I don't know about.

Anyway, it was a lovely tune. Mother and daughter should be very proud of one another.

I gather from the website that a part of the Ditty Bop mystique is to have running themes in their shows. Many of their fans know this, which explained why I saw a few folks wearing eyepatches at a nearby Starbuck's before the show.

The Bops made their entrance in pirate regalia, with Amanda Bop's pirate hat taking on a life of its own.

The music reminded was kind of parlor/tin pan alley type of jazz. The style was subdued yet energetic. Abby Bop's guitar stylings were especially good. And the harmonies were tight and seductive. The Bop's voices blended sweetly together.

There were these two pirate themed instrumentals introduced by the fiddle player, a buckaneer named Scurvey Dan or something like that. They weren't exactly piratey, but they were really cool.

This concert made for a relaxing, fun evening. Having appeared with both Nickle Creek and Tori Amos, the Ditty Bops seem to be at the cusp of the height of their zenith. They are destined to grow in bopularity.

All You Need Is Love (but a Little Yoga Couldn't Hurt Either)

During my between-class practice I have focused on the Lennon-McCartney hit "All You Need Is Love," a hit tune that has some fun chord and tempo changes. About five minutes during each practice period and I've almost got it.

The song changes from 4/4 to 3/4 every few bars and I find it a little difficult to feel the change. At this point, I am making the change. I'm not playing it with much style yet, but I've almost got the rhythm down.

There are also a couple of chord changes that I need to master. There's a switch from an Dm to a G7m or something like that and my fingers don't always get through that.

Some of the students try to follow me on it too. Most of the stuff they join me on is pretty simple, tempo-wise. Today was a little different. Almost like a music lesson.

Also, I made my first yoga class in about a year-and-a-half. My SiL ran the class,so I expected quite a workout. Her class is a little different from other teachers I've had at the studio. The movement is a little more constant, the lecture a lot less.

My bones, tendons, and muscles had a faint memory of what they were supposed to do. While I was in one pose, my knee started shaking and sent a reverberation through the arc my outstreched legs and I fell. It was sort of like what must happen on a tension bridge when one of the cables gets loose. I tried to stop the chain reaction, but it just got the better of me.

There were a couple of other poses that certainly challenged my body. But I was surprised at how well I did.

Things Are Looking Up

I entered this e-mail thing on the internet to go see the Ditty Bops at the Folk Center. Yippee!

I know little about this duo, except that they are two ladies and that they may have entered my awareness at the Folk Center and Ukulele crossroads of my life. I previewed a CD of theirs at Borders a couple of Sundays ago. They are both charming and rambunctious. I hope I spelled that right.

So, this is keeping with my resolution (not New Year's--I never make those-I made this one back in October) to go hear more live music--focusing on music that you don't normally hear on radio.

I got an e-mail from the Folk Center that says the concert is sold out. Not hard to do, considering the place only holds about 100 people, if that.

I've had good luck at the Folk center. Saw The Asylum Street Spankers and Dave Alvin there. Now the Ditty Bops.

Next Sunday is Open Mike Night, I think. We haven't rehearsed since Christmas.

My Ukulele Wants to Kill Your Mama

On my drive home, XM Radio was playing The Mothers of Invention's "My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama." My mind wafted back to when I first heard that song. It was Saturday on American Bandstand. It was that segment called "Rate a Record" where two teenagers listen to two singles as the rest of the audience dances to it. Then, they rate it, usually making comments like, "It had a really great beat Mr. Clark and I can tell it would be fun to dance to" or "I liked the words and loved the lyrics."

So, this day, "My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama" was one of the songs. The two teen judges didn't quite know what to make of the song (remember, this was back when kids were still pretty intelligent-you know, MY generation). I don't remember what it was, but the other song got a better rating.

I also went back to when I was a youngster, sharing a bedroom with my older brother. He had one of those suitcase-like stereos with a fold-out turntable and you could place up to six albums on the record changer. He used to like to go to sleep with music playing.

I was indifferent to this.

One night, he had FREAKOUT by the Mo's of Invention as one of the selections. It was eerie, but I liked laying there in the dark, listening to the bizarre tunes.

The last album of the night was one by Steppenwolf. I don't remember the title, but the song playing was "The Pusher"-the one where John Kay growled out "God damn, God damn the pusherman!"

It was one of those extra-long tunes that was so popular back then.

It was not a song that lulled you to sleep.

I could hear that my brother was sleeping (i.e., snoring) and this song was keeping me awake, so I got up, leaned over my bedpost and, reaching through the darkness, turned off the record player.

Bro sputtered awake and snorted at me "hey, what are you doing? I was listening to that!"

The Canaries' Love Affair with the Camera

I showed the most recent Canaries open mike performance to my classes on Monday. We played "Maggie's Farm." At the end of the video, my teaching partner said that he had a GREAT version of the song and got out his I-Pod, hooked it up to our sound system, and played U2's performance version at Live Aide. As it was playing, a little girl in the class said that SHE had a version of the song recorded by the Specials, a ska group of the 80's. She got out her I-Pod and played it for the class as well. It wasn't so much ska. But it was good. And I got to explain that the Specials were pretty popular when I was a youngster.

THEN, earlier tonight, they played a version of the song by Richie Havens on XM radio.

Coincidence, I think not.

My Dinner with Uli, the Final Chapter

Uli Jr and Mrs. Uli Jr left soon after the singing stopped, just before the walkers and wheelchairs jammed in front of the elevators that would take the residents back to their rooms. That left Mom, Uli, and me sitting at our table, waiting for a break in the traffic.

Once the Uli Jr's were gone, the wrath of Uli was unleashed. Uli, who did not rely on a walker or wheelchair, complained that, at 96 years, he did fine on his own. He had maintained his independence-mowing his own lawn, washing his own car. Mrs. Uli was the culprit that put him in the tower. His comments were punctuated by sidelong glances from my mother to me, shot at me to infuse just a dab of guilt for the holidays.

I shot glances right back, as if to say "Yes, Mother, we put you here. But you won't walk and are overly dependent on a motorized wheelchair and motorized La-Z-Boy, and won't do the slightest bit of exercise to strengthen your muscles so that you can live more independently." But my look fell, as usual, on deaf eyes.

Uli, while able to get around on his own, walked with a wobbliness that betrayed the potential for catastrophe that his family must have feared. Should his family left him in his own home? I don't know. That's a question most of my friends my age have to wrestle with these days. Our parents can no longer live without assistance, but don't want to surrender control.

As the second wave of wheelchairs and walkers crowded around the elevator, the self-ambulatory residents, learning long ago the virtue of patience, busied themselves with other activities as the staff broke down the banquet tables and chairs and put the visiting area back in order.

One woman, Selma, began working on the community jig-saw puzzle.

"Oh, she's good at those puzzles," Mom said. "Let's go take a look."

Selma, indeed, worked quickly at finding a proper match for each piece.

"We've got hundreds of puzzles," Uli informed me. "They're all in that cabinet."

He got up and almost sprinted to the cabinet and opened it's doors, revealing hundreds of puzzles, containing one, two, as many as five-thousand pieces. We could have had a puzzle party.

Christmas with the Canaries

I guess I should say something about Christmas Day.

I got a new Oscar Schmidt to replace my kidnapped one. This one is an OU3 I think. It's a blond. Sounds good.

We, the Canaries, spent a good hour or so rehearsing our next big hit, "All You Need Is Love" by the Beatles. We used the arrangement from Jumpin' Jim's Sacred Ukulele book.

Canary Liam got a "G"-tuned harmonica for Christmas, which is the key the Beatles recorded the song in. Jim arranged the song in a different, squeaky-voice key, as he often does. Liam wanted to adapt back to the original key but we didn't seem to get anywhere with that. I'm going to look at fixing that today. It seemed like it would be pretty easy to do, except for one chord that's something like a G7Sus+dim or something.

I think Liam gets frustrated because we don't seem to listen to him because he's the kid. I think it has more to do with the fact that we have to mind the uke part, which takes a little more work, so we do what's easiest for us. I also think it's because the three of us are creative types with diva tendencies. Oddly, Liam is the most musical, I think, in that he plays more instruments.

We worked out the harmonies, of which my line turned out to be a Johnny-one-note kind of thing...boring. It sounds good enough. But I hope I can work it out to something more interesting.

I would like to make Zoe a Canary also. I have this idea that we could do Tom Waits "Phone Call from Istanbul," with Zoe doing the organ solo at the end-only on her sax.

My Dinner with Uli, Part III

The Uli's Jr had owned a gift shop next door to Uli Sr's Gourmet Grocer. I don't remember the name, but it's closed now anyway.

Uli himself was a salt-of-the-earth type who had worked his way up in the grocery business and had held every job there was to hold, eventually learning the butcher trade. Uli's had been in this town only about 12 years, if I remember correctly from what he told us. It seems to have been there as far back as I can remember. He got the idea to open it because so few grocery chains knew anything about meat and he thought the town would support a store that emphasized good meat. He said that he sold it and his buyers sold it again within a year. The second buyers didn't last more than a year either.

Mom was interested in talking to Uli, as fellow old-Riversider. It turned out that they didn't have many fiends in common. My impression of Uli is that, since he was old enough to work, that's all he did and, since he first got himself behind a butcher counter, that's all he did. Once he opened his own store, he spent every waking moment seeing to the store. A hard worker.

Every once in awhile, Uli would mention that moving to the Tower was not his idea. It was Mrs. Uli Jr's idea. I don't know whether Mrs. Uli Jr was half the villain Uli thought she was-but I didn't like her too much.

Uli complained about the types of activities provided by the Tower. Mrs. Uli Jr told me that he complained about them, but he always seemed to participate in them. Mom, who has also complained about the activities, but has found some that appeal to her, tried to convince Uli that there were some good things to do. In the months since she moved to the Tower, Mom has discovered a literature class and has also discovered some retired professionals who were still very much in tune with the world around them. They, like Mom, just needed someone to help them take care of themselves.

She mentioned to Uli that she and another woman had started a book club. I didn't hear Uli's response, but I wondered, with his coke-bottle glasses, how well he could see to able to read. Mrs Uli Jr whispered to me that Uli didn't read very well. He was a man who had begun working so young and had continued working so hard, that he never had time for much formal education.

My Dinner with Uli, Part II (Scroll down a little for Part I)

As the choir sings, I think back to when Dad was alive and how we used to stand side-by-side at Christmas Eve services and harmonize during the carols. I miss that. I'm not a fan of organized religion these days, but those moments seem sacred to me as I look back. They were never planned, we just knew that we would harmonize, him on tenor, me on bass. There were a couple of songs we never got quite right, but that wasn't the point anyway.

So my voice joins the warbly chorus, as does Mom's. I notice another voice joining in as well. I glance over and see Uli's Jr and Sr-the younger sitting rod-up-his-ass straight, arms folded across his chest, the elder, slouched in his metal chair, grimacing behind coke-bottle glasses. Mrs. Uli Jr's somewhat wobbly soprano trilled along with ours. About half the gathering joined in song.

We all joined probably the last three songs, including silent night, which I recently learned on the ukulele. A pretty tune, sublime lyrics. Peace surrounded by a dangerous world.

As the singing ended, we all began talk of music. I mentioned to Mrs. Uli Jr that Mom had sung at the Loring Opera House as a teenager. Mrs Uli Jr was not from around here, so the comment had little impact. Mrs. Uli Jr had told us that she too had been a fine singer at one point, but was now out of practice. She said that her voice sometimes felt uncomfortable. I noticed that pretty much any time you talked about someone at the table, she would manage to bring the subject back to herself. Her whole demeanor was that of someone who was used to grabbing attention and making sure things turned out the way she wanted them to.

Mom, who probably could have taught voice, gave her some advice about how to use her voice. Again, I'm not sure that Mrs. Uli Jr really paid attention.

I told her that, if she wanted to get her voice back, she should buy a ukulele. I told her that it was an easy-to-carry, handy-dandy way to accompany one's self and keep one singing for hours on end. I had been playing for a couple of years now (three I guess) and it helped me re-discover music and become independent of piano players and other accompanists.

Again, she could not have cared less.

The Flu, or Whatever It Is That's Going Around

Merry Krimble to all of you.

I've been laying low for my own protection. Many of my friends have caught this thing that won't let go, a type of flu bug. In some cases, they get it, get better, then it makes a resurgence.

I haven't had a flu shot, so I am just staying away from my friends who are getting sick. I had a similar case of the flu about five years ago. I got sick, got a little better, then got sicker, missing almost a whole week of work. Even when I came back, I could feel the disease still lurking inside me. So, stay away sick people.

My Dinner with Uli, Part I

Tonight, I joined my 81-year-old mother for a Christmas party at the Tower, an assisted living facility that we recently helped or forced her to move into, depending on whom you ask and when you ask them. They served a sumptuous repast of quasi-glazed ham, salad, potatoes au gratin, mushy vegetables, and an array of deserts.

The highlight of the meal was potatoes au gratin. I don't know if they were all that good, but I think my palate is spud-centric, so I liked them a lot.

As we entered the dining hall and located our table, we were surprised to see a place setting at our table for the family of Peter Uli. I wheeled Mom to the chairless spot, noted that three metal folding chairs sat across the table from her and one cushioned chair sat next to her. The Uli's had not arrived yet, so I sat next to her.

In the cushioned chair, of course.

Peter Uli, for those of you who aren't from around here, ran a successful gourmet grocer in town. It was kind of like Trader Joe's, except they had a butcher shop on the premises, as well as a gourmet salad selection with salads, pastas, and antipastas. I don't remember all of the details, but I believe you could walk around the salad set-up and that the butcher shop was next to that, against a wall. Peter Uli, I was to find out that night, worked his way up in the grocery business and had been a butcher first and foremost.

It closed several years ago, after having been sold twice to new owners.

Mom was born and raised in this town. Uli has not lived here as long, but is still a part of the town history.

We had just finished our salads when the three Uli's arrived. The son was a stiff kind of man, thin, and sat uncomfortably in the folding metal chair. He wore glasses and his hair was a little like that of Chico Marx with his hat off. He his face seemed pulled forward by his pointy, pencil like nose. His wife was a chubby woman, with a loud coloratura (I hope I spelled that right) voice. She did most of the talking, which wasn't always a good thing.

Peter looked like an older version of the son, with a more relaxed, if somewhat angry face. His hair was a thinning, backswept grey wave. He wore coke bottle glasses. Once in awhile he would mention an article that had been printed about him in the Tower's journal. That, or he would complain that moving to this place was not his idea.

As we dined, we were serenaded by a group of younger senior citizens who had also performed at the Thanksgiving banquet. You had to enjoy their heartfelt enthusiasm, if not their actual singing ability. One lady in particular would greet different tables between songs and talk to the residents. Many of the residents sang along with the carolers, especially during "Silent Night."

One lady at the table next to us grew steadily angrier as the meal progressed. Her granddaughter would say "Grandma, they don't mean it, it's an accident." But the lady finally said in a loud voice "God Dammit, these waitresses keep kicking my wheelchair!"

Hers was more than a wheel chair. It was red, motorized throne that took up the space of three wheel chairs, and it obstructed the passage between tables, so the harried servers sometimes bumped into it.

Eventually, a team of family members figured out they had to help Grandma move her chair a little to be out of the way. That calmed her down.

Canaries' Sophomore Gig

The canaries flew into Claremont once again to wing it with another Bob Dylan hit, ruffling the feathers of many folk purists with their uke-o-centric rendition. This time, they thrashed "Maggie's Farm," the title of which is actually longer, but I'm too damn lazy to type the whole thing, even though typing this sentence has taken longer. I mean "thrash" in a good way.

Canary Limo once again provided power vocals, setting many young girls hearts a-flutter, while Billy Canary and Canary Jeff lit the stage with their ukes. Canary Jeff attacked his ukulele solo with the ferocity of a young tiger raging through a forest of Frosted Flakes, bringing an otherwise complacent to it's feet for the first of many standing O's.

Other acts at the Open Mique (and I'm going to be occasionally serious here) were plentiful. Kudos to the nice elderly lady who started an impromptu jam session while we all waited in line. But I have to take at least one kudo back. The lady was first on the list and, in spite of the new Folk center policy of one song per, asked if she could do a second song. The first song was good. The second song was kind of "faux" folk and not very good. The FC open Mique MC return to the one per policy for every act that followed. To make matters worse, after making us sit through her two songs, she couldn't be bothered to stay until the end--major chutzpah in my book. She left during the break. What's wrong Granny, didn't get your nap?

For those of you classical music fans, Paganini Man was back, trying to recapture the glory that he so elegantly didn't capture the first time. This time, he brought his own sound equipment, which didn't make the piece any better, or shorter. Again, he had to be stopped before someone killed him.

My theory is that he is actually a long-lost son of Andy Kaufman.

But there were a lot of fine performances, with a lot of unusual instruments featured.

One of the FC's employees played tubular kind of banjo-esque thingy that. A good instrumental performance.

One regular put aside his guitar and pulled a charango off the wall and played that. Another fine instrumental.

Special ed and the Guy Who Looks Like Jim Croce returned with another Croce tune. It was okay, but I hope they realize that you can only take that Jim Croce gimmick so far.

The highlight was this perky little Chinese lady who showed up with the Japanese version of a koto and played that. It was a haunting, exquisite performance. It was probably the most surprising and even best thing I have ever seen at the FC. It was one of the reasons I go to these things.

That, and to catch the Canarie's in their latest performance.

Haircut (My 100th Post)

Huzzah. Who knew that, back when I first started this venture, my readership would explode into to the upper single digits as quickly as it has?

Yesterday, I got a haircut. And this was no ordinary haircut. It was a haircut touched the essence of haircut-ness.

I knew from the moment my stylist approached me, smiled seductively, and led me to the sink to wash my hair, that this was going to be something special.

I had only asked for the wash and the cut, not the scalp massage. But her technique during the wash was kind of a half massage that gradually evolved into a full scalp massage that left my toes tingling. Oh yeah, it did.

Then, she asked me what I wanted done. I said that I wanted about an inch all around (I never know what to tell them, I'm not a hair guy--just make sure my bald spot is covered).

But, from the first snip, I knew that she was in control. As I watched in the mirror, helpless, I could see that she was cutting off much more than an inch--perhaps an-inch-and-a-half, maybe even two. But I could do nothing to stop her. She was so good. At this point, I just hoped she would be kind and make it even.

My God, she even trimmed my ear hairs--just the exterior ones around the lobes, though. She left my inner ear hairs alone. You have to leave something for next time.

Great Moments in Slightly Higher Education

So, I teach this night class at the local CC and my students have this final paper due, which is supposed to be an argumentation piece and I have each student discuss their proposal in class tonight. One of the real treats of the evening is where I espouse like an expert on each of my students' topics.

One nice lady told the class that she was going to write about women in leadership. I couldn't figure out what her real point was and after commenting on that, I smiled and looked musingly up at the ceiling and said "Hmmmm, I wonder if I will ever see a female president--imagine, President Hillary Clinton."

At which point this one young lady, clearly upset, shot back, "Not no Hillary Friggin' Clinton--what about Condoleeza Rice!"

"That girl's got it going on," she said.

I had espoused significantly already for the night. As professor, I try not to dominate with my opinions because the class is really about helping students express their opinions. That, and I knew this young lady's husband had served in Iraq and might be going back.

So, I straddled the fence of forcing this woman to explain what Condi-I'm-too-Busy-Buying-Shoes-to-even-pretend-that-I-Care Rice has done for this country (really, what has she been successful at, folk?) or be silent and let other folk chime in. I decided to be silent.

Maybe I was wrong. But, were I the student and had my professor been neo-con, I wouldn't want him using up class time to promote his views. The classroom should be a place for the students to discuss and develop their ideas.

The Canaries on DVD

Went to the Folk Music Center to pick up the open mike CD (which, by the way, the Folk Center folk spell "M-I-C").

The sound and picture quality is better than I thought it might be, considering it was a single camera. You can see all of the performers very well and the sound is clear--in the case of the Paganini-playing guy, too clear.

The Blues

I was down today. I sometimes get that way these days--what with my mother's illness, my car thing, my kidnapped Oscar Schmidt, and on, and on.

I left my music stand inside between classes. The wind was strong enough that I feared it would blow my music away. So I stood outside and absentmindedly strummed some chord progressions to songs that I already knew.

Iz, my prize ukulele disciple came out and stood there awhile and said, "Mr.O, that's so sad." I was playing "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime." It's one of those songs that I practice often because it has a grip of chords.

I guess I was really selling it.

So Iz goes in and grabs my music stand and turns to "Daydream Believer." Fewer Chords. But much happier. She has been practicing this one and so have I.

So we started playing.

Soon, a few non-uke students grabbed some rhythm toys out of my grab bag, and we had a jam session going.

I felt better, then.

Another Accident, Not My Own

But before I get to thesis, I am half-watching SIDEWAYS. There was just this scene with Paul Giamatti standing and looking at pictures from his past, which included a picture of him standing with his father, who is either Bart Giamatti, the late Baseball commissioner who famously tussled with Pete Rose, or an actor who looks like him. Of course, Bart was Paul's actual dad, hence the name similarity.

But back to biz. On my way to the Rubeedoo walk, I swung (swang?) by Blockbuster's to return a video. The way back, traffic was slowed to an almost stop. In the ten to fifteen minutes it took me to travel 1/10th of a mile, I discovered it was due to some accident.

Hence, I stand by my previous post(see Four Guys, Four Guitars). Not the part about it being a great concert--although I do stand by that too--but the part about drivers around here being increasingly idiotic. Still feel compassion for the victims, but hating on the pricks who feel they MUST challenge the odds and drive stupidly. In their hands, cars become weapons.

As I drove by the car that must have rear-ended the car in front of it, the jerk who must have been driving it was standing there with his little camera taking pictures of the damage, smiling.

In the last two years, I have had three accidents, two from the rear. The first, the woman not only ran a red light and plowed into my side, she stopped at the red light, and, when I had entered the intersection on my green light, she THEN ran her red light and plowed into my side. No insurance, of course. It was her boyfriend's car of course.

The second was on a rainy morning where I got up extra early to get to work. The turn lane was backed up. The guy behind me said his "foot slipped." He had insurance.

The third one, no damage, merely bumped me from behind while I waited for the light to turn green. I got out to check my car only to meet her stepping out, cell phone in hand, and told me that she had turned around for a second to discipline her kids.

I need to get a skateboard.