Girassol

I am a curmudgeon

You know all that nice stuff I said in my last post about the treats I hear through my windows sometimes?  I hereby take it all back.

I live across the street from an Irish pub, which hosts an open mic night every Wednesday from 9 pm - 1 am. This seems like a very random night to host such a thing. It is also highly unpleasant for me tonight, as I go in for my first day back at teacher in-service tomorrow morning at 7:30.

It is currently past midnight and not only can I hear the band playing inside the pub perfectly well, but the next act is practicing in the street outside my window. The noise is like unto that of many screeching alley cats.  There is a growly lead singer.  There is a harmonica involved.  I cannot put in my ear plugs or I won't hear my alarm clock in the morning and will be late for work. I am greatly perturbed. And tired.

Updates:

12:10 am - The guy singing inside the pub is doing the honky-tonk yodel.

12:13 am - I just heard the singer use the f-word twice.  This is getting more and more delightful.

12:15 am - He is now doing a very Metallica-esque version of "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley.  What kind of schizophrenic band is this?!

12:20 am - Three more f-bombs are dropped by the lead singer.  Two by people in the street.

12:21 am - Another Big F from the band.  Very creative, guys.

12:33 am - Time for more harmonica and a Johnny Cash song.

12:42 am - "To All the Girls I've Loved Before."  Oh, please, make it stop.

12:46 am - "Me and Bobby McGee."  Much hooting and hollering ensues.

12:50 am - "Honky Tonk Women."  The fact that I have just had a reason to use the phrase "honky tonk" twice (oops, make that three times) in less than an hour is nearly as alarming to me as the fact that I am still awake.

12:53 am - The singer announces, "We ain't done yet."  Inside the pub, the crowd shouts with joy.  Inside my house, I whimper with frustration and exhaustion.

1:00 am - Still going strong, they are playing "I Love This Bar."  Obviously, I disagree with them completely.

1:10 am - "I've Got Friends in Low Places."  Because it was only a matter of time.

1:43 am - Wasn't this thing supposed to be over 43 minutes ago?

1:51 am - Sweet, peaceful silence.  It's ABOUT.  DANG.  TIME.

My Own Private Idaho

Last weekend I drove up to Pocatello, Idaho to visit some friends and attend the blessing of their new baby.  The drive up there is very scenic and because there is pretty much nothing in southern Idaho you can drive 90 mph and not even worry about getting pulled over.  The bad part of there being pretty much nothing in southern Idaho is that about 2 and a half hours into the trip, my CD player overheated and I had to find something on the radio.  For my listening pleasure, southern Idaho offered me A) static at multiple frequencies, B) three or four stations of beer-drinkin', dog-howlin' country, or C) "Baby Got Back" featuring the posterior-obsessed Sir Mix-a-Lot. 

Surely you can guess what I chose, and people, let me tell you that is one dirty song.  The last time I heard it I was probably in ninth grade in a gymnasium full of squealing pubescents and even if I had been able to hear dear Sir's lyrics, I wouldn't have quite gotten the drift when he said, "Well I'm long, and I'm strong, and I'm down to get the friction on."

I soon realized I was going to have to amuse myself in some other way, so I started watching for interesting license plates again.  This being the Book of Mormon belt, I was not surprised to see a car with Utah plates that said, "JERICHO" or a minivan with Idaho plates spelling out "PRAYERS."  I tried really hard to get a picture, but that's not so advisable at 90 mph when there is the possibility that an elk will jump out onto the Interstate and mangle you at any second. 

I like to play this little game with myself where I try to guess what kind of person will be driving each car and if their face will match up with their bumper stickers or license plates or whatever.  When I saw the "PRAYERS" minivan I was imagining a middle-aged, sweet-looking lady with puffy hair, or perhaps a cute little balding grandpa.  Well, I am probably going to Hell for the thought I had when I saw the driver, which was "Honey, you're gonna need a lot more than prayers if you're going to go driving around with a femullet like that."

(NOTE: For a thoroughly enlightening education on femullets, click here.)

Even my GRANDMOTHER is watching American Idol!

The following conversation between my grandmother and my sister occurred on Sunday night:

GRANNY:  "What's that guy's name?  Bo Bic?"
SISTER:  "Um, I think you mean Bo Bice."
GRANNY:  "Well, anyway, I sure like how he sings.  When he was singing that song last week ["Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce] I thought that was really nice, the way he looks at you with those bedroom eyes."

Oh. My. Gosh.

Pictures of "Bo Bic" with the aforementioned bedroom eyes: