'West Side Story' Epiphany

I've seen the "West Side Story" stage play and the film numerous times. During a recent performance of the current Broadway tour, I watched intently.

As the curtain dropped at the end of the first act, I turned to my wife and said, "This ... is not going to end well."

Bad Day

I will spare you the details. 

Today was a miserable day. 

Epic. 

Brutal. 

Mercy. 

I'm not usually depressed to the point of immobility, but there are troublesome obstacles I will never overcome.

This evening, I had to get out of the house.

I crawled to the car and scratched off towards town.

Driving wildly into the darkness, I lowered the window, and shouted over the wind and oncoming traffic.

I heard myself scream, "Lord! Help me! What must I do? Help me! How can I go on? Give me a sign!"

I feel better.

Jaw

Continued From: Big Weekend > Fab Grabs > More Fab Grabs > Big Romance > Double Header > Off to Sepia "The Wizard"

I enjoyed "Jaws" again during the recent presentation at the Fox.  Today marks the 35th anniversary of the release of the film, the most anticipated movie in my experience.

That was an exciting event. I read the novel the previous summer and I was primed for the flick and not disappointed. I stood in line for hours with my mother at the old Phipps Plaza Theatre in Atlanta, which was an event in itself that she would agree to wait around so long. The only remaining seats together at showtime meant we sat on the front row in the auditorium. Amazingly, we both survived whiplash when the shark came out of the water at us. I've seen "Jaws" many times and it never fails to entertain, frighten, and influence me, meaning I haven't been deeper than my knees into an ocean since the Gerald Ford administration and the fin search has never ceased.

On a pleasure trip the next weekend, I went to view "Jaws" once more, this time in Wilmington, NC with my friend Bill. The sold-out Saturday matinee put us down front inside the Bailey Theatre. The movie started and I settled into my chair, bracing for the intensity to follow.

"Jaws," said the woman behind me, as the title, "Jaws," appeared on the screen.

"Oh, great," I thought, "we've got a reader." I have zero tolerance for talkers during movies.

A few seconds passed and the woman vocalized what became a continuing series of inanities directed at her small children who should not have been in attendance.

She stated bright observations like, "Oooo, isn't that a pretty beach? You've been to the beach with Gramma, remember?" and "The sheriff looks like your Uncle Bobby, but without the glasses -- and Uncle Bobby has a whistle."

I bit my tongue and stewed as her live narration accompanied the series of violent on-screen attacks and near misses which fill the opening third of the motion picture.

"Cover your eyes. Something got that girl. ... Eww, don't peek. Messed up her hair! ... Oh! Oh! Not again! Something is hongry!"

"I thought there was an 'u' in 'hongry,'" I pondered with myself.

That inconsiderate babbling bubble brain ruined the afternoon, taking me out of the story and into her sappy, crappy haid.

Yes, in her case, "haid." It rhymes with "daid," which I was plotting.

About 40 minutes into the adventure, actor Roy Scheider slung chum into the calm sea from the deck of a small boat. At that instant, the mammoth Great White soared out of the ocean, seemingly into the faces of the audience, the first clear glimpse of the predator in the movie. It is a thrilling moment.

As soon as the massive, elongated screams of the crowd subsided, I heard behind me a zippy lilt: "It's a shark!"

I had had enough. I spun around in my seat. I spoke loudly and precisely. I intoned heavy sarcasm, because ... I like to.

"That's right, lady. ... It's a shark. ... NOW, SHUT ... THE HELL ... UP!!"

I pivoted back around to the screen. We, the audience, enjoyed the remaining mayhem in peace.

When the lights in the room beamed up afterwards, I felt even better. No one had emptied a jumbo Sprite onto Mikey.

This true incident has become my crowning glory, my legacy, for whatever that is worth, repeated or referenced by my buddies surprisingly often over three and a half decades with a goodly portion of amusement.

Note to Self: Now, shut the hell up.

Say Wha'?

Fox Theatre
Atlanta, GA
November 2009

One evening, moments before the second act in a technical rehearsal of "Radio City Christmas Spectacular," I sat quietly at the video controls, listening over my earpiece to the Production Stage Manager chat with members of the crew. She noted several last minute preparations. Here's an actual conversation.

Stage Manager: "Are the elves all Miked up, yet?"

Long pause.

Me: "Um, I don't know whether I should take offense at that."

Stage Manager: "At what?"

Me: "All Miked up."

Short pause.

Stage Manager: "I meant 'microphone.'"

Me: "Oh-hhh..."

Egg Shaped Chalk

Wow! Seeing these brought back the memories.

Mike: Mommy! Can I? Can I?!

Mother: Michael, no. I am not buying those. You do not need them. We've got kidney stones at home.

Enough Already

I know everyone means well, but knock it off. Stop the ageism. Stop treating me like I'm ancient.

It all started around the time I turned 40. People would occasionally refer to me as "sir." I never heard that earlier.

"Have a nice day, sir," or "Would you like fries with that, sir, maybe oxygen?"

Then, when I hit 50, the "sirs" became non-stop. It's a given I'm going to be called "sir" anytime I venture out of the house, excepting those flatter moments when I'm called "ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am, complimentary pap smear?"

I've been dubbed "ma'am" while sporting a five-day stubble. I have a very heavy growth, not one of those wimpy girly beards.

What the hell is that about? I don't act like a woman. My wife tells me she's bewildered over these comments, too: "No comprendo, Noah, sir."

"Cute, Gidget."

So, yesterday contained a landmark event. I was checking out of the supermarket and the cashier said, as she finished loading my shopping cart, "Would you like help with this?"

"Sir," I added.

"Wasn't sure 'tweren't 'ma'am.' Yessir, would you like help with this, sir?"

"No, thanks," I said faux cheery, yet I was crestfallen. Help with unsweetened tea, four yogurts (assortment), and Meow Mix Wholesome Goodness?

HELP?

And there I was athletically sneakered.

Bouncy even.

I may be aging on the outside, but I'm still my mischievous, energetic, tot-like self on the inside.

I don't shuffle along.

I don't hum the theme from "Barnaby Jones" or hover thought balloons chocked full of Buddy Ebsen.

I don't bark Bingo numbers in a seersucker Matlock blazer, or collect and swap tales of Melba toasts, or drool much.

If a breeze blows by, cumulus dust clouds shan't emanate from me as I teeter over.

I go minutes without a cobweb.

(Full disclosure: An impure thought of Angela Lansbury in 1973. One.)

I transferred the bag of groceries to the backseat of my automobile.

A ma'am, who looked old enough to be my deceased grandmother and her mallard, approached. She offered assistance, inquiring, "Would you like me to take your buggy, sir?"

"Yes, thank you," I graciously accepted, bestowing my empty cart, which rolled and pulled her to the collection rack a few spaces down the parking asphalt.

I drove home. That was hours ago. She may have wobbled back to her vehicle by now.

I made my way to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.

"Here's looking bifocally at you, kid," I said, syrupy.

Mort, the cat, leaped onto the countertop. He swiveled his head to face mine and spoke, "Methuselah-ow."

Georgia Crackers

We pulled into Amicalola Falls State Park late Sunday afternoon, after the crowds had dispersed and after stopping at a convenience store to grab energy snacks for our hike. I purchased the tasty peanut butter crackers and the delightful cheese crackers.

I never miss an opportunity for cheese. I especially love the cheddar and the Charo.

I handed the gate attendant three dollars to enter the park and noted the "Do Not Feed the Bears" sign. I thought that meant the attendant who wore a Smokey hat, so I did not feed him. I gave him an expired Free Dinner coupon, not feeding him something heart-cloggy in a noisy restaurant.

Another good deed accomplished and "a good day to you, my good man and public servant in stereotypical garb," I drove on and we soon embarked on our merry, huffy, puffy, sweaty, sulky, sucky bipedal way up the steepy, thickly forested hiking trail.

Clutching earth and pulling our bodies to the summit, I gasped, "I ... don't hear ... theme from Rocky," and we started the long roll back down to the parking lot.

About halfway, I snowballed to a bonk into an oak tree and Donna and her mom were embraced by a gigantic granite boulder.

"Ooo, we should have a never-ending picnic here," Donna said, unfolding a plaid table cloth from which she produced a vase filled with daffodils.

My mother-in-law did some expert hand modeling and pointing, which, I must admit, did enhance the attractiveness of the flowers.

"Nope, let's go. I'm a guy. I've got power tools to ignore and probably no serious girly mags to contend with," I said lovingly, tossing the ladies a pack of the crackers. I tore into my cheese yummies with the picture of Chester Cheetos on the label.

"He's my favorite chef, you know," I winked at an opossum.

We stumbled fast down the incline, enjoying our treats. I tore deeper into my cellophane wrapper, when Donna stopped suddenly and made a quiet noise of grave concern.

What follows is our actual conversation.

"What is it?" I whispered.

"I heard rustling," she said.

I held up my crackers for her to see. "That was me."

"Thank goodness," she said. "I thought it was a bear and it smelled the food. We've got peanut butter."

"No," I corrected, "YOU'VE got peanut butter."

Chicks

My wife showed me the Cluckers at a store, explaining that her brother had given her one for Easter.

Donna: You wind up the chicken and it hops around and poops. I wouldn't eat it. Gross.

Mike: It's not poop. Read this.

Donna: "Lays bubble gum eggs."

Oh.

Well, I'm still not eating it.

The next morning for breakfast, she served us hardboiled eggs. You know, the ungross kind.

Snail Male

Twenty-six years of marriage. Actual conversation, while walking along the curb to the car.

Donna: Eww. Here's a snail without a shell.

Mike: What? Was he evicted?

Subject: Good Morning

Twenty-six years of marriage. Actual email correspondence.

From: Donna Durrett
To: Mike Durrett

Morty threw up a hairball this morn on the kitchen floor.

Hope your day is as productive!

Thinking of you.

dd

From: Mike Durrett
To: Donna Durrett

"threw up" + "hairball" = "thinking of you"

I'm in heat.

Hair Loon

Twenty-six years of marriage. Actual conversation:

Mike: Have you seen my hairbrush?

Donna: Yes, I put it with mine.

Mike: Better be careful, or they might mate and we'll get a bad sweater out of it.

Donna: I just put it there to clean.

Mike: [picks up his brush and points at the clump of hairs] Look here: 1973. Long before I met you.

Donna: Michael!

Mike: See this? [points again] That's the night I saw "The Sting."

Donna: [snorts] You're awful! You are awful!

Unsporting Goods

Continued From: "Even More Horrendously Escalating Bad News," "Footnote," and "Remembering My Sneakers."


I would buy new shoes sooner, if I could find replacements.

That reminds me of a typical story.

Awhile back, for the first and last time, Donna and I visited this establishment to purchase shoes. We were browsing the big selection of athletic footwear, when a sales representative approached.

Here's our actual conversation.

Clerk: Help you?

Mike: Yes, do you have any canvas sneakers? I'm a vegetarian and I can't buy leather.

Clerk: No.

Donna: Thanks.

Mike: Dick's.

Git-R-Life

I was in Wal-Mart this afternoon and I observed two quiet individuals, an adult male and an adult female. On separate occasions, each merely glimpsed the words "Larry the Cable Guy" and yelp-hooted laughter into my ear!

Pavlov's dawgs.

I have nothing against Mr. the Cable Guy. He's a solid entertainer and I've enjoyed his work.

But, that was frightening.

Up the Creek Without a Piddle

Squirt Alert

Continued From: "Up the Creek Without a Jack Bauer"

As mentioned, I spread manly urine around the outside of the house to keep bears from breaking in and disturbing our safety, sleep, and Sugar Smacks.

Twenty-six years of marriage. Actual conversation.

Donna: What are you doing with that [gallon container]?

Mike: Collecting urine.

Donna: For the bear?

Mike: Yeah.

Donna: Why don't you just go pee on the house? Nobody will see you.

Mike: Nope, no more. With my luck, while I'm doing it, the bear will come up behind and eat me.

Adding new meaning to the term, "cocktail weenie."

Next: "Up the Creek Without a Peek"

Trip Cheesed

I used to eat at this sandwich shop. Here's the actual reaction, when we drove past their sign.

Mike: "'New look?'

"What? Did they clean the place?"

Menu and Wife

Chapter 27 of the love story begins tomorrow. Valentine's Day is our wedding anniversary.

And what's the deal? What is going on here?

Anytime I give Donna The Universal Sign of Feed Me Some Food, Woman (i.e., the pointed index finger poked repeatedly into my stomach), she says, "You want a banana sandwich?"

No.

No, I do not want a banana sandwich.

Never, NOT ONCE IN TWENTY-SIX YEARS have I wanted a banana sandwich.

I will never want a banana sandwich.

Ain't gonna happen.

Banana sandwich.

What is she thinking?

Heart-to-Heart Talk

Twenty-five years of marriage. Actual conversation:

Donna (rummaging through papers): "I had another blood pressure reading around here, but I can't find it."

Mike (produces a note): "Here. You wanna borrow some of mine?"

Duck Feat

   Dramatic recreation with an actor duck.
   Thespian pups not budgeted.

We heard unusual splashing noises coming from our creek the other morning. Stepping outside onto the porch, I could see two big dogs, a German shepherd and a boxer, acting odd in the cold, rippling pool that collects where the water turns a sharp right to continue downstream.

The reason the animals had entered the creek became apparent when a duck paddled into view to assume refuge atop the deepest spot. The dogs circled the bird and barked, but were only willing to proceed a few yards into the frigid liquid to trap their prey. The duck wasn't overly concerned with the woofing brutes, but he wasn't eager to leave safety either.

A few minutes of canine sloshes and yelps passed until the dogs chose to hop out of the stream for a breather and synchronized body shakes. The duck took notice and beaked away.

"Look," Donna said, "he's making a run for it."

"I love you, my dear, and it grieves me to correct you," I expressed with remorse. "He's making a float for it."

Bottom Line

An actual conversation with my physician:

Doctor: Anything else?

Mike: Yeah, this is a bit gross and I apologize--

Doctor: That's okay.

Mike: I'm having a little hemorrhoidal situation. I'm not hurting--

Doctor: Okay.

Mike: My question is I bought some ointment and there's a warning on the box that says, "Ask a doctor before use if you are taking a prescription drug for high blood pressure." What about that?

Doctor: Aw, use as much of that stuff as you want.

Mike: I figured so. I thought it might be one of those legal things.

Doctor: They're just covering their ... They're just covering their butt.

Good to the Last Drop to the Sofa

Overheard Inside My Head
  

I had an adverse reaction to prescribed medicine. My side effects included dizziness and shortness of breath.

The other evening, I felt lightheaded while preparing to brew a cup of java. I was compelled to sit down to rest before I could finish the simple task.

An actual conversation with myself:

Mike: Oh, great. My doctor will say that's my body telling me to quit drinking coffee.