The Daily Derenger

1/24/2003

In Toledo with nothing to do. I would venture to guess that if it weren't nearly below zero, I would have some desire to go outside. But it isn't and I haven't.

I was all hyped to go running every morning only to see that the high temps while I'm here will be in the single digits. Get in shape or freeze my ass off? I'll take the love handles versus the testicular frost bite any day of the week.

Apparently John Denver wrote a song about Toledo that I was unaware of. Aside from that and the Mud Hens, their Triple A baseball affiliate, I know nothing about Toledo.

What I've found out this week is that they are not famous for their malls. At least not the one near the club that I visited today. That joint outta be called "Guess Which Store Is Gonna Close Next?" It resembled that of a barren desert found in central Africa.

One place that was open for business was "Things Remembered." In it there were pictures of the stores that used to be in the mall.

Okay, the mall did have a boat display and a huge merry-go-round. That's what I want to do when stuck in Toledo, Ohio for a week in January - ride a plastic horse and look at boats that I won't be able to ride on for 5 months. And with me being a scruffy, bald white guy with glasses, hanging out near the carousel made me look weird and dangerous. Thank God nobody looked it my bag and found the naked-chix of Toledo High calendar. I couldn't resist. It's only January and the thing was 3 bucks. That's a steal with 11 full months left.

1/24/2003

Yesterday saw me return to the scene of the crime once again. So to speak. I visited the J. Alexander's here in Toledo where 2 of the managers used to work with me in Oakbook, IL. J's just happens to be the same place I got canned from back in March of last year. I guess they still have some love for me within the company since my lunch was comped. Or maybe it was a token of thanks for my nearly 2 years of service there. Whatever the case, the burger and the black bean soup were great, as always.

Tonight's show again had a small turnout. But they were fun and played well with others. After the show, some of the staff headed across the street for what they called kareoke. However, in Toledo I'm calling it American Idol Gone Even Worse Than The Actual Show. To say that the would-be singers got more laughs than we did telling jokes would be ... totally accurate. Pathetic. Nothing more than pathetic.

One of the guys who sang did his unique rendition of "Wonderful Tonight." That was my prom theme senior year of high school. But his version of the song was so eye-gouging and ear-splitting that I wasn't even sure if I attended prom. And if I did, I can't remember if I got laid and who it may have been with.

So why not go out for fried and greasy food after sitting through a few hours of tragic attempts at harmony? We headed next door to Jed's where heart-attacks-on-a-plate is their speciality. I got something called fireballs, boneless pieces of chicken dipped in the sauce of your choice and topped with anything from cheese and bacon to coleslaw and eggs. Mine consisted of mild buffalo sauce, cheese, onions, chili and sliced jalepenos.

And with that said, you guessed it, I'm typing this from the comfort of a Red Roof Inn toilet. I have set up sleep-shop in the bathtub to save myself the embarrassment of shitting the bed. Please pray for my colon if you get time.

1/23/2003

I know little about St. Joan of Arc other than her role in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Okay, so I know that she's the patron saint of something, which is way more than I can say for myself. And today I attended mass in a chapel named after her in good ol' Toledo, Ohio.

Last week I went to mass at St. Jude's in my hometown and reflected on my memories of cathoilc grade school and the masses I attended.

St. Joan's (minus the 'of Arc' 'cause her and I are tight like that) was a nice, cozy chapel adjacent to the large parish church. Since the mass was held in a chapel, I knew there was no way an entire grades school would fit in there. And they didn't.

Only two grades, second grade and what I'm guessing, simply based on the fact that the kids next to the second graders were taller, was third grade.

Now my grade school days saw me wear the powdered blue shirts while the girls wore skirts with an array of blue-checkered prints as well as some white and green thrown in. We even had strict guidelines on what kind of sweaters we could wear when it got cold. St. Joan's had a very laid back dress code. The kids wore tennis shoes, turtle necks, long and short sleeved collared shirts and a few astronaut suits. Just making sure you're still with me.

The gospel today was about the story of changing water into wine. The priest made a brief sermon which included his asking questions of the students.

"What do we call something like Jesus' changing water into wine?" the priest asked the gathering of about 50 eight to ten year-olds.

"It's a miracle," answered a second grader.

"Very good answer," said the priest. "You're absolutely right."

Then he went on to speak more of miracles which lead to his next question.

"What does this miracle show us about Jesus?" he asked.

There was silence in the chapel. Even I was a little puzzled by what the correct answer was. I mean, you could surmise that maybe Jesus liked to booze a little bit with his turning water into wine. Or maybe he knew that the people of Cana would go ape shit if they knew the wine was out and he didn't want to witness a riot.

Then a hand flung into the air and a soft, yet confident voice was heard.

"His love," she said.

With that the priest smiled and expanded on the answer of love.

Now I will have to say that there is not a safer answer in the church, especially when you're physically in the church, than love. It's kind of like filling in the letter C on a test. When all else fails and you haven't a clue, go for C. Or in this case, you can't go wrong with love. It could even be your love for Oreos or pizza. But as long as love is present, there seemingly can't be any wrong answer. Kudos to third grade!

1/22/2003

"Hey, how are you doing?" asked my friend on the other end of the phone line.

"I'm doing okay. Just writing these stories that are due in the morning."

"Oh shit! I have to go. American Idol is back on. I'll call you at the next commercial," she said prior to hanging up.

And with that, she was off to watch yet another reality show while I was left wondering what just happened.

So what was I to do but go and watch the same damn show so when she called back, I could have something to talk with her about.
I couldn't believe that I had given into the craze that has come to be American Idol. I missed the first part of the show and tuned in just as the auditions began in Miami then went to Austin. As much as I'd like to get into specific people and comments, I haven't the time nor the energy for that lambasting right now.

I guess I get what makes this show, like so many of the reality shows, a success. It's real people being really dumb, funny, idiotic, pathetic or great. Some even have a mix of them all, dropping to their knees in a plea for a Hollywood invite.

My question is this: why do so many of these cats not know they can't sing? It's one thing to have a hint of ability when it comes to singing. But WOW! Some of the talent I witnessed was simply horrendous and didn't deserve a chance to sing in their own shower. They had wasted so much time and probably money to try for something they had no business trying for. The day job must be stuck to, plain and simple.

Sure people say it's about chasing the dream. Enough of that shit. If you haven't any talent at all in conjunction with that dream, you're a damn fool! You either got it or you don't. Or maybe you got it and it's yet to be fully tapped. But when people cringe upon hearing your voice, you need to find another dream.

And where's the technology in these peoples' lives? It's 2003. You can record yourself on several different types of machines, play it back, e-mail it to a friend, burn it onto a disc, play it on a laptop computer, etc. YOU have to know if you're any good or not. And if you don't know, there's got to be someone who would tell you before you get embarrassed on national TV.

So how in the hell do these outstandingly terrible singers even muster up enough sanity to stand in line let alone sing live in front of Paula Abdul and other Hollywood execs? Maybe this is what Americans love about this show in particular - watching others fail miserable and succeed graciously.

It's down right ridiculous. This dream chasing shit's gotta end. Or I'm gonna have nightmares.

1/21/2003

I must take this opportunity to proclaim my thanks to many great friends. I was in need of some major support over the last week and reached out for help. Monica, Matt, Jim, Bari, Chris, Kim, Jonathan, Chad, Kevin, Cyndi, Erin, Sue, Melissa, Wanda, John, Danette, Tony, Gaby, Pete, Mike, and Judy were just a few who couldn't have been better. You never really know who your friends are until you need one. I'm quite lucky to have been blessed with so many great ones. Things are now better and more in focus that they have been in some time and I owe a great deal of it to my friends scattered all across the land. Just wanted to say thanks.

1/19/2003

I went to mass last Friday with my mom. It was a noon mass at St. Jude's, the same grade school that my sister attended a few years ago.

As we entered the church, we found that the mass was an all-school mass including students, teachers, and faculty. I attended a cathoilc grade school, contrary to my 100% wholesome Web site here at ShaveYourHead.com would indicate. I couldn't help but think back to my days at St. Mary Nativity.

Mass was always an opportunity to buddy up with your friends, sit next to each other and inevitably get in trouble. They'd try to split up the trouble-makers but we always seemed to weasel our way back in. And it's not like the upper echelon would cause a scene in church if we beat the system. It was church and we were, I guess, given the benefit of the doubt in hopes that talking in the presence of the Lord would dissuade us.

The teacher always sat behind the class and watched closely to see if we'd talk or fool around. Rest assured that me as a talker was a staple at mass. Sometimes I wouldn't get in trouble at mass, though. Rather, we would get back to the classroom and the teacher would have a list of talkers from mass and put their names on the chalk board. If you were really bad, you got the appropriate number of checks next to your name. My name had more checks than your most gruesome hockey game.

I always had a liking for changing the words to many of the popular catholic church songs as well. Some of the words were geared towards fellow students or teachers while others would be changed in a perverse sense, however perverted a 7th grader could be. And since it was 1988 and well before the internet and half-naked chicks singing on prime-time televsion, I was a suprisingly tame pervert. I believe I've made up for it, though, as most of act would dictate.

Maybe I changed the words also because I was a horrible singer. And I knew it. I was only in choir when it was an all-class play or concert. And that stuff ended before my junior high years thank God. As loud as I now speak, back then I whispered the words of songs, which was in everyone's favor. My mouth was moving so the teachers thought I was singing. But there was nothing of value coming out.

As the years went on, the masses got longer for one specific reason: the priests would usually sing when they were clearly supposed to be reading. This made my skin wrinkle. Maybe if they could sing it wouldn't have been so bad. But rarely was there a Fr. Sinantra on stage. Or on the altar, which looked much like a stage in some cases. They would sing and then we would have to respond in a song and then back and forth again, like a game of badminton gone horribly awry.

When I got over the torturous memories of singing last Friday, I took account of the uniforms. A sea of powdered blue shirts and navy blue pants filled the church. They really weren't that bad because I never had to figure out what I was going to wear. Until I began sweating and needing deodorant. In second grade, that stuff was just for old people. Then I began to stink and figured there must be something to fix that.

Since I wore those shirts 5 days a week for 8 hours a day, the pits grew yellow and then I had to wear the least yellow shirt. I guess buying more shirts was a viable option but not when I was diving on the playground's blacktop for a tennis ball lined off the heavily duct taped whiffle ball bat. There made no sense.

Those are my thoughts today. I must fire up the Prizm and take my sister to work. I hope you enjoyed my trip down ... memory lane, for lack of a better term.