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Okanogan Part One

What I’m about to tell you is true… every single word.

When I was in college, I had the pleasure of playing in a country and rock band called Longshot. You may have heard of that band. It wasn’t us though, as there are close to 300 other country/rock bands named Longshot actively gigging at one time in the United States alone. We preferred to keep a low profile and play only bars that had what we called, “local character.” We could play any song you requested as long as it was nationally known… and on our list of about 75 songs that we had practiced.

We played several nights a month at local joints and made enough money to keep us in school supplies. It was a pretty great band too. We played well together and weren’t afraid to stretch a little and improvise in the songs. We weren’t spit polished like the other band in town, Full Ride. Full Ride had special outfits and high end sound gear. They played the songs the exact same way every time. When the songs ended, all the band members stopped playing at the same time. That was not how Longshot conducted business. But we had fun and the customers that watched and danced could feel the energy coming off of us. Some of that was actual energy as a few of our amplifiers had an electrical grounding issue.

Toby, who was our lead guitar player, singer and undisputed band leader, called all of us one December to tell us that Full Ride had contacted him with a gig they were unable to do out of town. They said they had played it before and the money was good. Our food would be paid for and because it was a two night gig, over 100 miles away in Okanogan, our hotel rooms would be paid for too. Needless to say, we took the gig.

It was a cold winter in Eastern Washington. We piled all of our gear into the van that I borrowed from my parents and carpooled up to save on gas, which back then was under a buck a gallon. We were going to make out like bandits and play a pretty big show.

When we arrived at the destination in Okanogan Washington, we started to get the feeling that something wasn’t right. If I were to tell you that you were going to stay at a place called the Caribou Inn, what would you picture? Would it be a large log cabin type resort out of a postcard, with a large porch, welcoming fire with a roof and grounds enveloped in snow? Because that is what the Caribou Inn isn’t. What the Caribou Inn IS could be described as a two story building made of brick and asbestos which may have been a halfway house for criminals before it was shut down in the 1950’s for safety reasons and code violations.

We pulled in about an hour before our sound check. We started bringing our gear in to the ballroom, which was bigger than what we were familiar to playing and hastily set up. After we set up, we checked in to the hotel part of the Caribou Inn (If you think I’m being odd for saying “Caribou Inn” so often in this story, it is only because you NEED to remember my words.) What follows is as accurate description as I can make it. I will not embellish what we saw, smelled and probably touched.

First of all, we were to be put in the suites, the biggest, nicest rooms in the hotel. We weren’t given key cards for entry but instead an actual brass key with a tiny placard containing the room number to guide us. It was apparent that the hotel was once a grand structure and the staircase was wide and welcoming. However, as one ascended, the décor of the Caribou Inn began to deteriorate right before the eyes. The tight paisley carpet pattern, first swirled in vibrant, if not aging colors into a filthier and grimier state. Paint, as you rose in elevation on the staircase, changed gently, like a rainbow going bad, from a light pastel pink to nicotine yellow, … where there was paint. You could see patches where, your first guess would be, the wall died of lung cancer.

The air was crisp and clean in the lobby as it was cycled through the opening and closing door to the early January below freezing climate outside. The second floor was another matter. It smelled like an elks club bar in 1958. I called for a Sherpa to bring me my oxygen mask. I found neither available to me.

As my spider sense began to tingle about what we were getting into, the band was pushed aside by a young woman fleeing from a giggling toothless middle-aged man in short shorts, a tight, tank style undershirt, and flip flops (January). He was chasing the woman down the hall carrying two open cans of domestic beer, from which he was drinking one and attempting to not spill the other (he failed at both tasks). They slipped into the room at the end of the hall with a paper sign that read, “bridal suite”.

By that time, we made it to our doors whose numbers matched our placards. The placards being the essential part of this match up as the doors had no knobs, locks or knobs. No knobs, the doors to our hotel “suites” had no knobs to turn and enter. The keys dangling from the bottom of the placards, were apparently ornamental only. Where the knobs had been, for your convenience, were holes that made it handy to open and shut the door. Or, if you’re the type of person who prefers to bring your own doorknobs from home (not judging), you would find the doors handy to install them. I immediately wondered if anyone had been shot through them.

After a gentle push, we entered to find a large connecting double room with four total “beds”. The beds were made and the bed spread was a dirty orange. It was not originally purchased from the store in this color in 1973. Then, I’m sure the color was more of a maroon, or deep red. But after twenty or so years of cigarettes, beer, and who knows what else… dirty orange. One of us foolishly dropped a duffle bag on a bed. A small cloud of dust, ash and human skin cells burst into the air and the duffle bag sank several inches into the middle. I immediately made the decision to sleep, standing up in the corner, in the sleeping bag I had thought to bring. I would have slept in the now empty van parked outside had the temperature not been hovering around zero at night. I was already sick and taking antibiotics for my throat and I would not have survived. Chicken bones. Chicken bones were arranged under the bed. Could have been dinner, pagan sacrifice, or just the skeleton of a down-on-his-luck rooster that drank himself to death under the bed in the only hotel room a chicken could afford.

The floor had yellow wall-to-wall carpeting that had patches as small as a drink coaster and as large as a section of newspaper, which had been either burned away, or cut and removed (crime scene evidence), to expose bare wood. Not parkuet, not bamboo slats or polished oak hardwoods, it was rough laid, uneven, Abraham Lincoln’s birth home fashioned tree wood. For our safety and awareness, some thoughtful member of the hotel staff had impaled a piece of white paper on a nail sticking out of the floor, about a foot from the bottom of the bed (where anyone using the room would be guaranteed to step), with the word, “NAIL” written on it in easy-to-read Bic ink. A foot farther away from the “NAIL” was a perfectly round hole the size of a pop can that we could see directly down into the kitchen of the restaurant. This, I called the Concierge Hole. It was easy to shout our order down at the startled kitchen help, and order a burger. This, I did not see as a particularly negative part of the room. It was entertainment to look down the hole.

There was, at one time, a kitchenette in the room. There’s a kitchen sink joke in here but it’s too easy for me to write about, but I will say the counter in the room was less effective with the large round hole missing from the middle.

The Bathroom had a shower, which may not have been used for several years. We did the clichéd action of looking at it and turning the handle to activate it. When we did, the water hit the back shower tile and kicked up a layer of dust bunnies and asbestos that whirled around in the air behind the curtain like an awful winter snow storm. Awful. We decided then and there that although the water was “clean,” it would be more sanitary for us to not shower for three days.

Plusses:

Well, there was a little color TV that got the Cartoon Network.

Minuses:

Beds you cannot sleep in or on. Doors with empty knob holes that locked (yes, they had a hook and eye latch that you would find on ornamental garden gates or birdcage doors. They would not protect you from an aggressive toddler). Poultry skeleton. Nails sticking out of the floor. Potato field curtains (curtains buried in a fallow potato field for one season and then rehung in a room. That dirty). A reverse Silkwood shower (a shower that GIVES you cancer, instead of cleaning off radiation). A counter top with no surface option. Swiss Cheese inspired carpet. Water that tasted like it was used to wash all the nickels at Wal-Mart.

Neutral:

Hole in the floor that looked down into the kitchen.

Now I come from a town that is, to put it nicely, humble. Not a great deal of wealth running through the city’s veins. A country club in our hometown was any club formed there. I would not have classified ANY of us in the band as stuck-up snobs from some liberal, tree-hugging metropolis. No. But the sight of this room and what we were expected to stay in was very much below standard. Any self-respecting stray mutt off the street would have put Kleenex boxes on its paws before wandering in to one of these rooms looking for, and finding, animal bones. I wanted to hang, above the bed, a commemorative plaque that would read: On this spot, in 1891 Syphilis and Anthrax met for the first time.

What to do indeed? It was the only place in town. Outside was a temperature suitable for only penguins and Santa Claus. We could not ask to change rooms. We wouldn’t want to insult the place that was cutting our paycheck before we even played. And what kind of people would we be to displace the newlyweds from their bridal chamber? Would their room even be nicer? No, our only hope was to keep our mouth shut and try to find enough newspapers to cover the beds that we slept on, but something told me this wasn’t a big “reading” town.

We were in it up to our necks and we hadn’t even completed the sound check for our first night. Mostly, we just looked at each other and shrugged. It was time to get to the stage and face the first of the craziest two nights any of us have ever played.

More Damm Truth to follow in: Okanogan Part 2

The Big Plunge

(Full disclosure: this one is not that funny. Please feel free to stop reading here if all you want from me is humor. I get a little wordy in the beginning and most of the big jokes are toward the middle and end, but they all tie to the first third of the piece, so if you want the fun stuff at the end, you’ll have to deal with the start and the middle. Good-bye you lazy readers, the monkey will dance for you next time.)

Many of you that know me or have read all these blogs (10) of mine, probably know that I have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. If you are a psychologist and met me before 1995, you knew I had it before you knew my name. It’s been a blessing and a curse, but I don’t hide it from anyone and I do my best to control it more than it controls me.

After 1995 though, the ADHD would have been harder to spot. That’s the year I realized something was wrong and I went to a mental health professional to get help. After the diagnosis, I decided to share with most people that I had the disorder. Most of my friends weren’t shocked. Several of my friends said, and this is a direct quote, “I just thought you were an ass.” Dear…dear friends, because what kind of person continues to hang out with you even if they think you’re an ass?

I was open about it because the diagnosis really changed my life for the better. The sky opened up and offered me a better life. I learned so much about myself in those sessions that I was excited to work on controlling this “thing” that had been really messing up how I approached life. It really was that big of a deal.

To give you a very general idea of what it’s like to be diagnosed with a treatable behavior disorder when you’re an adult, imagine waking up, driving to work, sitting down at your job and working for a few hours filing papers into two different sets of file cabinets. The boss comes by and introduces you to the person that is going to be working next to you, and as they shake your hand, they casually ask why you have been putting one set of meticulously organized files into a cabinet that empties directly into an incinerator. To which you finally realize that half the work you have been doing has been a waste of your time and you didn’t realize what was obvious to everyone else at your company, including this smug knew guy (who, I might add is wearing TENNIS SHOES in a BUSINESS CASUAL workplace). Now imagine you’ve been doing that job for 21 years. BAM! It’s like an ending to one of the lesser episodes of The Twilight Zone!

It is a complicated set of feelings to deal with when you get the news that your brain has only been getting what amounts to basic cable when all along you’ve been paying for the premium platinum package and there is no way you’re going to get credit back from the brain cable company. Even if there was such a thing as a metaphorical brain cable company, if they were anything like real cable companies, you wouldn’t be getting that credit either. AND you’d probably have to turn in your brain for a new model every time you moved.

So I was 21 when I learned I had ADHD and BONUS, an unhealthy side of depression that often accompanies ADHD (BONUS is not an acronym for a kind of depression, I simply capitalize some words to give them a little extra zing, but you were right to question it after I placed it right after the ADHD acronym). There are many reasons why depression goes hand-in-hand with ADHD, some chemical and some psychological. Think of it simply as getting depressed because you feel like you’re bright enough to do amazing things but lack the focus to get anything done. It becomes a vicious cycle of ADHD and depression, ups and downs and much confusion over why.

This is why adults are often treated first with anti-depressants as I was. I first became medicated with an anti-depressant called Wellbutrin that had a very mild stimulant in it. It stimulated my brain enough for me to focus more and the anti-depressant stopped most of the private crying I had been doing (Cue Oscar winning flashback clips of me crying alone through the years with dated clothing and bad haircuts).

Wellbutrin really tightened things up for me emotionally…almost too much really. My friends told me I was like a zombie and wasn’t funny anymore. This isn’t true though. It turns out I had just ratcheted my jokes back by quite a large margin. I think I went from something like an average of 33 or 34 jokes per conversational hour down to around 7 or 8 per conversational hour. Wellbutrin helped me stress quality over quantity as I was now able to LISTEN to what people were saying to me and make jokes relevant to the conversation.

After a week on the medication I sat down and read my first book in one sitting. NEVER in my life could I have conceived of finishing a book that quickly. It may have also been the first book I read all the way through (sorry every teacher I had up until 1995). I ignored the stigma of taking anti-depressants and medication for ADHD because I was changed. My new-found coping skills and dampened impulsivity allowed me to excel at school and collect my thoughts much better.

To give you an example of what ADHD is like, imagine listening to a friend tell you about how one of their parents are sick. Important, right? You would listen to them with concern, because they are your friend and showing empathy and asking what you can do to help is the right thing to do. Now imagine that you are having that conversation with them at a U2 concert and you’re up by the stage. Your friend’s back is to the stage and you’re facing your friend…and the stage. Your friend just gets to the line about the heart attack and over her shoulder you see Bono pointing to you and waving, trying to get your attention. Then some fireworks go off and up on their mega screen, you see a glimpse of your old gym coach trying to jump a mini-bike over some flaming buses and “Coach” definitely doesn’t have enough speed to clear them. Yep, un-medicated, that’s how distracted you are. Really. Medication doesn’t stop all of that from happening but it might dampen the brain noise to something along the lines of a Jack Johnson coffee house show.

Impulsivity is worse and can get you into trouble just as fast. Bad ideas seem like good ideas. This is why so many undiagnosed people with ADHD are in prison. Ask them and you’ll hear the phrase: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Medication for ADHD is incredibly effective in stopping this kind of behavior.

When I first started taking the medicine, it was as if a tiny lawyer appeared in my head that I ran all my impulsive business through. I would get the same impulsive thoughts, thinking what I was about to do was a good idea, because it would be funny or entertaining to everyone. But then the lawyer would look at me with trepidation over what I was about to do. I would pause before acting and either redirect the idea until the lawyer approved, or just kill the idea altogether. The internal conversation would go something like this:

Conscious thought: If I yell something slightly embarrassing in this restaurant, people will probably laugh.

Tiny Lawyer: (shaking his head a little) You know what? I’m going to advise against that.

Conscious thought: Interesting. Why shouldn’t I, I bet it would be very funny.

Tiny Lawyer: Although it would be funny to some people, not many of them are here in this restaurant at this moment, the people here won’t respond well to what you are about to say.

Conscious thought: How do YOU know what I’m about to say?

Tiny Lawyer: Steve, I live in your mind with you. I know everything that goes through here. It all comes across my desk and although you have final approval, I have the ability to create serious doubt in here. And if you do override my advice, I have the ability to apply as much guilt as you can handle.

Conscious thought: You’re no fun, you know that?

Tiny Lawyer: I’m not here for fun. I’m here to keep you from killing yourself or even worse, jail.

Conscious thought: Whatever, I’m doing it. It’s going to be funny.

Tiny Lawyer: Three packs.

Conscious thought: Pardon me? Three packs what?

Tiny Lawyer: Three packs of cigarettes. That’s what I estimate your average price will be as you’re sold from inmate to inmate inside the prison system.

Conscious thought: No way, I wouldn’t go to jail over shouting something in a restaurant.

Tiny Lawyer: If you yell something and the police are called, you’ll have to answer questions. The police will ask you if you have any weapons and you’ll say “no”. But then you’ll remember you have your Swiss Army knife and reach into your pocket to give it to the officer. When you try to hand it to the officer, they will mistake it for a knife attack and you’ll either be shot or pepper sprayed. Now you’re charged with threatening an officer with a deadly weapon. At the trial, you’ll say the knife was shut, the officer will say it was a sword and at that point it’s just your word against the police. Three to five years in the state penitentiary, although I think you’ll probably die in the first two weeks from not using the toilet in your prison cell because it doesn’t have a seat or is “owned” by your cellmate.

Conscious thought: You’re a real drag sometimes but alright.

Tiny Lawyer: If you don’t like me, stop taking the pill. Have fun in Walla Walla! Make me a nice personalized license plate. Oh, by the way, look around. Where are we?

Conscious thought: (looking around) Hey, I’m driving home! What happened to the restaurant?

Tiny Lawyer: Well, if I can’t convince you not to incriminate yourself, I’ll do what lawyers do best…stall until I’m ready for you to proceed.

And this type of interaction happens all day long.

Okay, I’ve just given you a ton of information. Let’s take a quick break and go get something to drink, maybe something to nibble. When we return, I’ll get to the bottom of what this “plunge” is and what it means to me and society in general.

(Intermission)

You needed to know all that before I told you the news. Remember twenty minutes ago when I told you about how the medication was like a tiny lawyer that edited my behavior? Well, in recent years that lawyer has been taking more and more sick days (at least that’s what he says he’s doing. Interviewing for a new mind is more like it). At any rate, I have started feeling like I’m not in control anymore. So I started eating better and exercising and seeing a counselor. These pieces, along with medication, are all part of taking control of ADHD and working to lessen the effects of the symptoms of ADHD. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been enough.

I’ve decided to give the Ritalin a try. Not that I’m going to walk up to the Ritalin store and say “I’ll try some of that grape flavored Ritalin* please.” No, I worked with three different healthcare professionals and they were all in favor of me setting aside my worries (of regularly taking what kids are calling “Zoom Zoom” on the street when they crush it up and snort it up their nose), and giving my frontal lobe the stimulation I need to operate like a normal human being. Normal, although subjective, I would love to feel what it’s like and if Ritalin gets me there or close to it, I’m now happy to try it. Also, I don’t know if kid’s call crushed up Ritalin, “Zoom Zoom,” I made that up. I hope to see it as an urban myth someday though.

It was a tough call, but in the end, I need to model good coping skills for ADHD for my son, who also has it. Showing him that Daddy can be mildly successful despite a condition that literally feels like a monkey on your back was all the motivation I needed to make the tough choice to move to this type of medication. That and they tell me I’m going to lose weight.

My wife, who knows a thing or two about behavior disorders (she could write a book on them if she wanted to. She might have too, I don’t know, I haven’t been paying attention lately), tells me that when I take the Ritalin, it will be a little like the Robert De Niro/Bradley Cooper film Limitless. Although the pill I’ll be taking won’t make me smarter like the one in the film, she does say that it will make a huge difference. I will slow down, focus, and become much more effective at everything I do. The fog will lift. Heck, I’m just excited because I’ve always wanted to meet Robert DeNiro.

But if I take it and everything speeds up, then we have a problem. It means that I don’t actually have ADHD and I’m just an asshole.

Our neighborhood pharmacy just called to tell me the prescription is ready. Did I detect a hint of judgment in her voice when she realized that one of her customers was making a change from mild anti-depressant to Grade A trucker speed? I don’t know, but I AM excited about the prospect of becoming more effective. Maybe I’ll even get around to posting these more often. Either way, life is about to get more interesting, and that’s the Damm truth.

*Now that I mention it, I really do hope it comes in grape.

Hit On

I have no idea what’s happening to me. I am generally either not very self-aware or overly self-aware, but every once in a while, something very surprising happens… happens to me. It is both encouraging and terrifying and at the end, makes me question humanity.

I got hit on at a deli.

Now, my wife gets hit on all the time. If she called me every time she was approached by a guy… well, it would just be easier for us to stay on the phone. She gets hit on while I’m standing with her, me, not so much. But it does happen on some RARE occasion that I am approached.

I’m not bragging about it as much as I just think it is a very strange occurrence, like a free lunch or levitation (maybe a little braggy). It has happened a few times in my adult life and I am very unaware of why and when it occurs, but when it hits me I… well I kind of panic.

About three years ago, I had just finished playing a set at a Seattle bar. I had pealed my sweaty behind off of my drum throne and was heading to the bar to get my normal two glasses of water and a plain orange juice, PLAIN! NO THANK YOU ON THE VODKA MR. BARTEND, OOPS MS. BARTENDER! Before I could get a foot from the stage, a very pretty young woman approached me and said quite plainly into my eyes, “What would you do if I made out with you right now?” exact words.

To which I replied quickly and in a higher register than normal, “Probably get divorced! Why would you do that to me? I’m a happily married man!” My feelings were hurt that she would destroy my family in one horribly awkward make out session. I completely glossed over the fact that this highly desirable woman could have walked up to any of the handsome gentlemen in the bar (to which there were many, on top of my band mates who I may add are quite comely). She then, with little to no facial reaction whatsoever, continued to look me in the eyes and said, “Well, at least now you know,” and started to walk off.

Stagger off? Her steps were wobbly, but I attributed that to her heals and being unnerved by my answer. I don’t think a girl that pretty is rebuffed very often, and in my shaken state, I’m sure my reaction was less than graceful. Her friends came over to console her on either side as they walked her out of the bar.

Then it hit me, that a woman other than my wife found me attractive enough to want to kiss me, in public. IN PUBLIC. My band mates slapped me on the back and laughed (in sheer amazement probably) that the member of the group that most resembled a hobbit would be the one approached by a “hot” girl.

I immediately called my wife, who was at home, to tell her the strange news and to see if she was jealous. This is how that went:

Me: Hello honey? It’s your husband at the bar.

Wife: I know who this is. What’s up?

Me: Well, I don’t know how you are going to feel about this, but an attractive young lady just walked up to me and asked me to make out with her.

Wife: How drunk was she?

Me: Drunk (not drunk)? Did you just ask how drunk she was?

Wife: Yes, she must have been very drunk. Was she standing?

Me: Yes she was standing. She was giving me sexy eyes.

Wife: She was probably just trying to focus. Did she have any friends with her?

Me: Yes, they helped her out the door after I told her I would not make out with her.

Wife: So, you think they had to help her out because she was so crushed that you wouldn’t make out with her?

Me: Wel…no, I…I mean, she… She must have been pretty drunk.

Wife: Yep. You got anything else for me?

Me: No, I guess not.

Wife: Okay, I’ll see you when you get home, tell the rest of the band “hi” for me.

;

So maybe that doesn’t count, because after several stiff drinks I might look like a kissable George Clooney, or to a lesser extent Jeremy Renner. With no stiff drinks I look more like Paul Giamatti.

;

Last year an attractive Russian woman at the roller skating arena told me it was too bad that “Daddy already had a skating partner at home,” while I was with my son. This woman was not drinking, as it was 10:30am and we were at a children’s skating event. So I called my wife again.

Wife: What? I’m in the middle of writing.

Me: I just wanted to let you know that a sexy Russian mom just hit on me at the skating rink.

Wife: What did she say?

Me: She said it was too bad I already had a skating partner at home. Implying that SHE would like to be my skating partner.

Wife: You said she was sexy. What does she look like?

Me: I don’t know, just attractive. She looks like a 20 something mom, out with her 4-year-old daughter.

Wife: Take her picture.

Me: I’m not going to take her picture.

Wife: She’s not that pretty if you won’t take her picture.

Me: I’m not taking her picture, that’s creepy.

Wife: Whatever, I have to get this writing done. Are you eating lunch out or are you coming home.

Me: Out…no, home. We’ll come home.

;

The picture was too blurry to see any details on the woman. The video didn’t turn out either. I am convinced that my wife just blew off the whole encounter as an attempt for the Russian mob to steal my pristine kidneys, for which I am sure there is a large bounty. Although I believe the possibility exists that my kidneys could be the target for black market harvesting, why is this more plausible than accepting that I was found attractive by a younger, visually appealing bi-lingual female?

But don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating here that I’m a prize to be won. I’m not saying that I’m attractive OR desirable in anyway. Even on my best days, I wonder why my wife hasn’t faked her own death and run away with someone that has washboard abs and an advanced degree in ANYTHING but sales. She’s smart enough to do it. This isn’t the point, the point is: Why are a rare number of ladies attracted to me when I am so (comfortably) unappealing?

Last week at a bakery/deli, I was alone and not looking my best. I have a beard experiment going on right now (no need to wait for the peer reviewed journal, the experiment is failing), and although I’m headed in the down direction, my weight is above both Speedo AND cartwheel levels, meaning it wouldn’t be good to see me in either. Most of you can attest that my fashion sense could best be described as “accidental.” On this particular day, I can tell you that I had all the confidence and swagger of an exchange student in a high school locker room (not much).

Imagine my surprise when I order a sandwich from a lovely young woman at the sandwich counter of this fancy bakery/deli/coffee shop and have THIS little back-and-forth conversation as she rings up my debit card.

Waitress: (looking at my card) So, is your name really Steve Damm?

Me: I hope so, or this would be considered fraud.

Waitress: (giggle) Really?

Me: Yes, that is my ACTUAL name. Why? Do you know the other Steve Damm that lives in Seattle and owned Damm Fine Printing? Because if you do, please tell him I’m sorry for all my old musician friends calling him up in the middle of the night thinking he was me.

Waitress: No, I’m not interested in THAT Steve Damm, I’m interested in the Steve Damm right here. (She looked at me with eyes that said she was neither fall-down drunk nor looking to score some black market kidneys.)

Me: (Completely taken by surprise) Oh my.

I began to seriously blush. Not a-little-color-in-the-cheeks blush either, it was a fire engine red swelling in my face. I have blushed maybe three times in my life and all of them have been memorable, as it is nearly impossible to embarrass me (See above, clothes, weight, hobbit, etc.).

Waitress: Oooo, looks like I made Steve Damm blush.

Me: No, I just remembered I’m severely allergic to baked goods.

She handed my card back to me and I reached for it with my left hand. She saw my wedding ring and gave a playful groan.

Waitress: Bummer, looks like you’re off the market (this was clearly a statement and not an inquisitive question).

I must say, the fact that she respected my marital fidelity was kind of a turn on. Not that any of that would cross my mind. I’m repulsed by philandering and even if I was interested, the idea of an affair just seems incredibly inconvenient. Who needs another person in their life to disappoint? Not me, I’m disappointing my maximum as it is.

Although the experience was brief and was over due to mutual respect of my rock solid marriage, she did say my full name unnecessarily two more times. Strange. When I got to my car, I was feeling all the confidence and swagger of a high school football player in a room full of exchange students (much). Then I looked in the mirror and realized the woman I was speaking with must have been legally blind and I should have tipped more.

As expected, I called my wife to report that a sober, assumingly fully kidney’d woman was VERY forward with me. As I was driving away, I gave her the details:

Wife: Is that all you said to her when you walked up? What are you wearing today?

Me: That’s all I said. And I’m wearing the grey sweater and the same pants as yesterday.

Wife: Same pants huh? Really?

Me: Yeah, they weren’t dirty and they were ready to go.

Wife: Did you have that big coat on covering you?

Me: Yeah.

Wife: oh, okay. Did you get a picture of her?

Me: No, I was a little flustered and then it was time to leave.

Wife: Go back and get her picture. What was wrong with her?

Me: I’m driving away, I’m like six blocks from there now. (hands free headset as per WA State law) Just take my word for it, she was very pretty. This is unmistakable.

Wife: I don’t know, you think Bette Midler is hot. I won’t be able to judge without a picture.

Me: Bette Midler WAS hot and I’m not going back.

Wife: Whatever, I’ll see you at home. Call me and tell me how our son’s day went. Congratulations on that girl hitting on you.

My wife is right to question all of these instances. I mean, I’m not a horrible person or hard to get along with, but I do NOT send off a sexy vibe. So there must be something “wrong” with these three women, and I think I know what it might be.

After watching some more current films and seeing traces of TV and magazines, I’ve noticed that the new “in” thing for men to do is look terrible. Hair messed up, wrinkly and generally disheveled seems to be a winning look for men in their 20’s to 40’s. Which means I have waited long enough for my natural state of being to become fashionable. Remember that old saying that a stopped clock is right twice a day? I guess these encounters were my time: Sweaty Drummer, Roller Skating Dad and Vacant Expression Sandwich Orderer are all winning looks for Steve Damm.

So it’s a rare thing for me to be hit on and the fact that it happens at all doesn’t give me the hope that you think it might. No, instead it tells me that humans are making more and more bad decisions and lowering their standards. That makes me a bit sad for the human condition, and that’s the Damm truth.

;

Not Funny

I’m sorry to everyone who had high hopes that my blog would be a fantastic success or at least consistently worth reading or entertaining. Unfortunately, over the holidays, I woke up one morning and I was no longer funny. I think it was December 28th, but I was at work that day so I don’t know if it happened then because I am never funny at work.

Upon returning home on the evening of December 28th, I attempted to tell a joke to Oscar and Grace, my two miniature Dachshunds. What happened next shocked me to the core. Neither dog laughed at what I said. Oscar heard my voice, but the way he was looking at me communicated that not only was the joke not funny, but that he might not love me anymore. Grace, who is always good for at least a chuckle and an eye roll at my former humor, didn’t even raise her head. It was like I wasn’t even there, like she couldn’t understand me. Yet, when I asked if they wanted to go potty outside, they trotted over to the kitchen door, waited for me to open it and then relieved themselves in the backyard. So you know they understand English.

I made what I thought was a very funny remark about the day’s news to my wife. She asked me what I was talking about and said that she hadn’t listened to the news that day. I believe the joke attempt was around some kind of clever wordplay, of which my wife is a big fan when a comedy giant like Steve Martin or Alan Arkin does it. But after staying up that evening and painstakingly diagraming that joke several times (including a slow motion breakdown of it that I video recorded in my basement), and checking it against other funny humor models of the same type, I was able to determine again and again that the joke was not funny.

Was I out of new material? It sure seemed so. Over the next few days, I was bothered by the lack of response from everyone I attempted to ham it up with. So I quickly fell back on the large catalogs of jokes I have told over the years. I chose what I thought was one of my best jokes, prepackaged with set-up, clever punchline and surprise ending with a kicker joke at the end. I practiced telling it several times in my car and to a man on the elevator at work (he didn’t laugh because the joke wasn’t over when I got out on the fourth floor and he was going to the sixth floor, he was a software developer anyway and they are always terrified of me when I speak to them in the elevator).

When I got home that evening, I felt confident that the joke that worked so well before would make my wife laugh and promptly told my son to take the dogs outside and clean up the messes in the yard, so that my wife and I would have the uninterrupted 2.3 minutes needed to tell the joke and then fill the rest of the time with the appropriate amount of laughter. I sat my wife down in the dark brown chair so that she would be relaxed enough to listen but not completely relaxed and not be mentally alert for the details of the joke as I was absolutely sure would happen if she sat in the tan reclining chair.

I told the joke just as I had practiced a dozen times, getting the complex order of details correct and waiting the appropriate amount of beats to allow for what comedians call “timing.” The response was very disappointing. My wife looked at me and said, “You’ve told me that before. Why did you go to all this trouble to tell me this again?”

I explained that I chose that joke because she had thought it was funny before. She said it was very funny when I told it to her the first time but then got up and left the room. I had known that I had told it to her before and after she reminded me of this, I wondered if I hadn’t waited my usual five years in between retelling favorite jokes. I checked my records, and it turns out I had last told her that joke on July 10th, 2006, meaning it was almost a full 5 and one half years in between the telling of the jokes! That is a full six months of “humor cushion”. SO WHY DIDN’T SHE LAUGH?!?!?!

Unfortunately, science cannot tell us much about where humor comes from or what makes a person funny. How I wished that I could simply go to the doctor, pay my outrageous co-pay and get a blood test to determine how to retain my witty, playful style. Instead, I was concerned that now my personality would be as drab and unappealing as the clothes that I usually wear. What would I do to stand out in a conversation? I have always relied on my sense of humor to “balance out” my terrible breath when speaking to someone at close range. I know it is unpleasant, but if I can give you a little chuckle during our close proximity communication, I figure your interaction with me wouldn’t be a complete loss. Now I wonder if every face to face conversation is just that: a complete loss.

The other day at the store, I saw a girl in a ballerina recital outfit buy 6 ready-to-eat corndogs and skip on down the street. I couldn’t think of one thing to say.

I saw a man IN a Target shopping cart holding a clean garment bag trying to get random cars to pull him around the parking lot. …Nothing came to mind.

I was behind a blind woman at the post office who was trying to mail a live duck to someone and I couldn’t connect any dots to create a humorous image. I can’t help but feel that if this had happened prior to December 28th, 2011 we would all be having a tremendous laugh. Those situations are where jokes come from. I know! I used to craft them.

So THIS is the reason I haven’t been blogging for your amusement. I’m pretty sure you would not have been amused. I’m not going to turn this into a fitness blog or a comic book blog. We’re just going to have to see if I am able to crack wise soon… before I forget the password to upload material to this blog site.

I hope this isn’t what drove Hemingway to put a shotgun in his mouth. That guy used to be hysterical, and that’s the Damm truth.

Christmas Songs

Earlier today as I was bopping around my kitchen preparing food and getting into the holiday spirit with a little Christmas music, I started getting a strange feeling. Little question marks started popping up in my head as the internet radio kept playing the classic yuletide staples. On occasion, I would sing a few lines (yes, I’m not afraid of my family hearing my voice, and I’m pretty sure my neighbors think I’m crazy anyway), and I caught myself singing a few things that I thought were rather bad representations of what I would call the “True Meaning of Christmas.”

I posted about one of the songs and how I felt on The Facebook but I’ve decided that this specific occurrence wasn’t the only bad song subject and I started looking around. Now, others may have brought this to light in the past, after all epiphanies aren’t necessarily original thoughts, but they are personal to those that have them, so if you have thought these thoughts yourself, or have heard others extrapolate from this idea, my apologies. I just have to get this out.

We Wish You A Merry Christmas – This is the song that started it all. The chorus is simple enough, being the title of the song, but the verses are rude and demanding. Commands, to either the host or the help as if shouted by drunken louts who demand figgy pudding not just whenever but RIGHT NOW! As if that weren’t enough, the next lines threaten to stay put, demanding more pudding …”FASTER… CUZ WE AIN’T LEAVING YOUR PARTY TIL WE GET SOME FIGGY PUDDING!” No “please” or “thank you”, just make with the pudding already, and by the way, Merry Christmas. Greed, one of the seven deadly sins, sung about in celebration by millions of people each holiday season. Jesus wouldn’t demand figgy pudding. He would just make sure everyone had some.

The Little Drummer Boy – I’ve had a problem with this song for a while now. I have said it before, and I’ll say it right here. Playing the drums for a newborn baby, Messiah or not, could do irreparable harm to the babe’s sense of hearing. Another thing, babies aren’t impressed with the kind of manual dexterity that even the BEST drummers have. Judging from the fact that you don’t have anything but your drum and aren’t actively gigging in Bethlehem, which we all know was in full swing the night Mary and Joseph pulled into town due to a lack of space in the local hotels and inns, your drumming skills are not going to impress the Son of God. The song would have been better if the boy would have sold the drum and bought the baby a blanket.

The Twelve Days of Christmas- This song is indicative of the widening gap between rich and poor. The gifts in this song are so extravagant and eccentric that poor people wouldn’t know what to do with most of the items. Maybe we eat the geese, and pawn the rings? People are still buying gold right? What do I do with leaping lords and pipers and turtle doves? On the ONE day of Christmas that I celebrate, my true love will find a reasonable gift that I will enjoy. I greatly prefer this approach than having to awkwardly explain to contracted dairy workers that I have no cows to milk. This is not a song that should be sung joyfully by the 99%.

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer –This song isn’t nearly as bad as the others. At its heart it is simply a tale of overcoming adversity. It can be used in bullying curriculum too if arranged correctly. However, it is tied forever to the stop-motion animation Christmas “Classic” holiday special of the same name that many of us grew up with. The script is alive with cruelty and misogynistic undertones. Even Santa tells Rudolph’s father, Donner, that he should be ashamed that his son was born different. What if Rudolph was born without legs? Would Santa drop by and fire Donner from his sleigh team because he thought it was Donner’s fault such a thing happens?

Baby It’s Cold Outside- No means NO! Geez mister, take her home. Make sure you keep your hands nice and respectful and you won’t get a mouthful of Chick-lets from her brother who is waiting by the door. This song makes me uncomfortable, and not because it is cold outside. Run lady, RUN!

Santa Baby-My first thought whenever this song comes on is: greedy whore. Nothing cute about singing about all the high end stuff you want. Stay away from her Santa. She’s high maintenance. Instead of a Sable under the tree or the deed to a platinum mine, why not a reality show where you can invite others to try to KEEP UP WITH YOU. Or better yet, maybe ask for absolution or forgiveness.

It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas- This is a song that says how wonderful everything is about the Christmas Season. It’s beautiful, there’s wonder in the air. Everything is perfect…except having the children around is kind of a drag. When does school start again? Because it’s clear that the songwriter has had enough “family togetherness time”.

Up on the House Top – Here’s a song that goes for broke when it reinforces stereotypes with gender bias toys. Hammer and tacks? Yeah, prepare to be pulling those out of the sheetrock for the next two weeks. A whistle? You’d give a boy a whistle? Do you like listening to nonstop, single pitch whistling? Because that’s what you’re going to hear, whistling. A Whip? What kind of sick person gives a child a weapon used only for inflicting pain on other living creatures? Don’t give me the “Indiana Jones swinging” defense either. Indy wasn’t invented until AFTER this song was written and nobody, NOBODY gives a person a whip to use as transportation, I don’t care how many chasms you have in your neighborhood. That’s just the “boy” toys. The stocking of little Nell has a doll that opens and shuts her eyes. Where’s a trigonometry book? Where’s a rock climbing harness? No, Nell really needs to concentrate on those home-making skills. Not literal home making, say, with a hammer and lots of tacks, but figurative home-making. Here’s my advice for little Nell. Girl, you be whatever you want to be. You don’t have to take what any morbidly obese man in a red suit gives you just because society pushes it onto you.

Frosty the Snowman – This is a song more about reincarnation and Hinduism if you ask me. After all, he’ll be back again…someday.

We Three Kings- Imagine how Mary felt; a new city, a lot of questions about the pregnancy, and Joseph goes and forgets to check his Expedia confirmation number for the room they were supposed to have and now her special child has to literally be born in a barn. Now, weary from childbirth, she’s supposed to host three king’s in a stable without so much as one place setting of her good Mikasa from back home. All she wants is a shower and to ask a health care professional if it is normal for an infant to glow with everlasting light after being born. But instead, she has these three kings bringing three gifts, only one of which she knows anything about. All she really needs is some money. The gold, it seems, is in the form of a foreign currency and will need to be exchanged into money that can be traded locally. Because it happens to be Christmas, all the banks are closed, so it appears, they’ll be spending another night in the manger. Perhaps one of these three kings could double up in the three rooms they reserved at the Four Seasons Bethlehem (because unlike Joseph, they actually printed out THEIR Expedia confirmation number). But apparently kings don’t “double up”.  And now this kid wants to play the drums right at her newborn baby for a “gift”, why doesn’t the kid just sell that thing and give Him a blanket?

I’m sure there are more horrible ideas trapped in other songs, but these are just a few that bother me. I’m actually quite happy with ignoring most of these nasty little song points and just build together the parts I like. If you think about these things too much, it will pull the joy out of Christmas. Joy and togetherness is what it’s supposed to be all about, and that’s the Damm truth.

Wishes

Wishes, we all have them. Some big, some tiny, but they are ever present in all of our internal monologues.

The idea that a person could want something so much that it magically happens has been with humans since we were breaking rocks to make littler, sharper rocks to scrape animal hide. “It would be very nice to just find some decent stone axes, instead of having to knock these rocks together. I’m banging the heck out of my new opposable thumbs,” probably said a cave person.

I don’t think it’s a purely human idea either. Anyone making a ham sandwich with a dog watching can practically FEEL the dog trying to telepathically move the sandwich from plate to the dog’s mouth, or at least to a lesser distance to the dog measured only by speed of snout vs. speed of human hand, minus flinch factor. That might be an actual animal thought diagram. You’re welcome, Science.

People love to wish for things, and do so with the help of birthday candles, holidays, lamp rubbing, star sighting, belly patting, time observance, planet and/or moon alignment, poultry bone breaking rituals or really for any made up occurrence, probably on the spot.

And I believe in all of this.

I make no apologies for it. I’m happy to throw coins in fountains or look for four leafed clovers as long as it still promises to magically get me something for nothing. I have thought so hard on this, that I now only have two wishes that I alternate between.

The first wish may sound plain and unoriginal, but it is to win the lottery. However, I only use this wish when I feel the jackpot is past a certain dollar amount, an amount enough to allow me to put my plan into motion. The Jackpot would need to be over $300 million, therefore I only start wishing this particular wish after it reaches that level. Wishing for a lesser amount would be greedy as I would be wishing for a lottery win far more often if any old amount would do.

What is this plan? Well, I’ve made no secret that I would purchase a luxury submarine from www.ussubs.com . Either the Seattle or Phoenix class would suit my purposes. These are around the $80 million mark. Now a $300 million lottery win would work out to being around $130 million after taxes and a fee for taking the upfront payout. (Lotteries SAY that you would win $300 million but they mean only if you take it over 25 years. If you want one lump sum all at once, they say, “Well we don’t have the whole $300 million ON US RIGHT NOW! But here’s $150 million or so if you want to be that way.” Most people want to “be that way.”) My family and I would travel the world, getting into adventures and seeing the sights of our globe while delighting in a never ending supply of sushi and Otter-pops. I dare to dream. I would take you for a spin on my sub. I would. Every responsible adult owes it to themselves to map out a plan for winning the lottery like I have. Otherwise you end up frittering away your fortune on silly stuff.

The second, more frequent wish is for the powers and abilities of The Martian Manhunter. ..

*cough*

Why the Martian Manhunter? Who is he? Why not Superman or Batman? Well, I’ll tell you.

The Martian Manhunter is probably the most versatile super hero in comics. Are there more powerful? Yes, but versatility I value much more than raw power. Like Superman, he has super speed. He may not be as fast, but definitely fast enough to get where he wants to go faster than anything else on this planet. He has the power of flight, Martian heat beams, X-ray vision, incredible strength, and invulnerability. The only thing he doesn’t do that Superman can is the frozen breath thing. Although useful, I would trade these abilities for the OTHER powers the Manhunter has. He can become both Invisible and intangible but not mutually exclusively. He can read and link minds together (HUGE). But he is also a shape shifter and may become any person or animal he can think of.

Think of it. Abilities that could allow you to take care of any other wish you may have. Rock hard abs? Done. Ugly Mole? Gone. Want to give your mom the thrill of a lifetime? Show up at her birthday party as James Spader. I’m sure even the least creative of us can think of fun ideas with some of these abilities. Mind reading, though incredibly invasive, might be useful. I myself would want to know the secrets that only a few have the answers to. Answers to huge mysteries like: Who really killed Robert Kennedy? Or who did Carly Simon write “You’re So Vain about.” I believe the answer to both is Mick Jagger.

What about flying to work invisible? You could even pretend to be your boss. The sky is the limit.

I know what you’re thinking. You can’t wish for super powers, you can only wish for REAL things, like money or for that unfortunate dinner party where you wet your pants to be erased from everyone’s memory. But I would like to remind you that we are talking about the magical bending of reality based on superstition and not anything that is bound by reality. If it is possible for a wish to come true, then it is also possible for me to shoot laser like beams out of eyes that look like Ryan Gosling’s, and that is the Damm truth.

The Talk

I’m thinking about having a talk with my son. We talk all the time about six-year-old kinds of things: Bey Blades, Harry Potter, Pixar movies, music, Kung Fu and his friends at school. This talk I’m THINKING of having is more of a “life’s lessons” kind of thing.

I’m a pretty happy guy. I have some whiny complaints here and there but surely my life is good. I’m happily married to a fun and smart lady who had the good sense not to take my last name. My son who is learning to be funny but is very kind and taking to the piano is precious to me. I have a good job and plenty of TERRIFIC friends and relatives to round out a pretty good life.

The reason I want to talk to him is that I have figured out something that has really made me pretty happy. I want to pass this little gem off to him and let him do with it from an early age of six that I only began to figure out in my mid 30s. I feel like this is so important a piece of information that I can’t risk not giving it to him one more minute because if I were to die now (probability percentage in the low teens currently), I wouldn’t be able to let him in on a wonderful secret.

I want to tell him that he’s never going to be the best at anything.

Oh, I can already hear your eyes rolling. But come on, it’s true. The moment I realized I wasn’t going to be the best at anything, the weight of the world lifted and I was able to really enjoy my life. I wasn’t trying to prove myself to anyone or better my score for the sake of success. I was just able to see the big picture rather than tunnel vision to an impossibly difficult goal. I was liberated! Liberated by the threat of greatness.

Humor me here. I don’t know if his little six-year-old brain is able to fully comprehend the gravity of what I’m giving him, but surely it would be an idea he could grow into. I could continue to nurture it as well, provided I don’t have some kind of fatal accident or drop dead of a heart attack or other illness.

I envision the talk going something like this:

Son: Dad, I’m going to be the best Kung Fu master in the whole world!

Dad: No you won’t.

Son: (puzzled) I’m not? Why can’t I be the best Kung Fu master in the world?

Dad: I don’t doubt that if you applied yourself, you could learn a very decent amount of Kung Fu, but nowhere near enough to be the best. The best Kung Fu masters begin as babies and study only Kung Fu, their whole lives. You’re already too old to make that kind of commitment. You might learn enough to get yourself into trouble, but not enough to be the best.

Son: Well then, what can I be the best at?

Dad: Probably nothing…if you’re lucky.

Son: Why would it be lucky to not be the best at something? I want to be the best at SOMETHING.

Dad: I know it sounds like it would be something good, doesn’t it? But really, it’s just a curse that would probably make you bitter and waste most of your life in the pursuit.

Son: Why would it be bad? Bad is bad and best is best.

Dad: Well, if for some reason, you happen to END UP the best at something, it isn’t that bad, because that means you didn’t throw your whole heart into something only to have it crushed by some other Bozo who naturally does it better. You see, when you fight and claw your way to the top of anything, there’s always several other people trying to pull you down, and many others just want to watch you fall. Nobody is the best at anything forever. Everybody who was the best at something eventually comes down and isn’t the best anymore. Sure, they may fight their way back to the top for a little while, but trust me, that won’t last and it will just make the onlookers point and laugh harder.

Son: They laugh at you if you are the best?

Dad: Were the best. Remember, it never lasts. Tiger woods, Michael Phelps, Barry Bonds, these are all guys that wanted to be the best and now they are punch lines to jokes. You know who came in second to Michael Phelps?

Son: I don’t know who Michael Phelps IS.

Dad: EXACTLY! He was a hot item barely before you became aware of pop culture. He got beat a couple times after the Olympics and now he’s just a has-been. While the guy that came in second to Michael Phelps has a pretty good life. Nobody is ripping him apart in the press. No crazy pressure to keep on winning. He can even impress people with lines like, “I swam against Michael Phelps,” and “want to see my silver medal?” Cool lines, and the Paparazzi never follow him around.

Son: What’s a Papzarazzati?

Dad: I’ll tell you when you’re older. The important part is that being the best sucks. It can make you jealous and bitter, or the people around you jealous and bitter. That can lead to terrible things. Tonya Harding was a figure skater that had another figure skater clubbed in the knee because she wanted to be the best. Do you want to hurt other people to be the best at something son? Do you want to be the person that IS hurt? Jennifer Lopez played the part of a pretty girl who was one of the best singers in Mexico and she was killed out of jealousy because she was the best. Jimi Hendrix was killed by his manager because he was one of the best. In fact many rich and famous “best” rock stars destroy their lives and the lives of others with the pressures to stay on top. Do you want to die to be the best? Don’t cry.

Son: I don’t want to die, I just wanted to do Kung Fu.

Dad: I’m sorry kid. But it’s so much better to just be okay or kind-of good at something, that way nobody asks too much of you and you can enjoy the simpler things in life.

Son: But I’m best at the piano.

Dad: Not even close kid. (queue up video of 6 year old Chinese piano prodigy on Youtube.) Did you see that? She was amazing and you know she’s not even the best at the piano. Nobody even knows her name. She’s living in a country with two billion other people and yet her Youtube video only has 6,000 views. She’s probably practicing right now and what are you doing? Fake Kung Fu, and you haven’t even cleaned up your chess set from our match earlier. Good job on that match by the way, I didn’t let you win. You beat me fair and square in that chess match.

Son: Well, maybe I could be the best at…

Dad: No. No way. Not even close. I’m glad you like chess, I’m sure it’s opening up pathways in your brain that you’ll use to negotiate difficult situations and work environments later in life, but don’t think that because you were able to beat your old man at a game of chess that you’re going to be the next Bobby Fisher.

Son: Who…

Dad: He was the best chess player EVER, and he died alone in exile because being the best at chess drove him crazy.

Son: I’m just sad because I’ll never be the best at anything.

Dad: Well, I’ve never been the best at anything and I have a pretty good life. I have you and mommy and Oscar and Gracie…

Son: Well they’re the best dogs!

Dad: Uh-uh. Nope, they are good dogs but Gracie barks too much and Oscar has weapons grade gas. Best dogs do neither. …Buddy, just try YOUR best and do what you’re supposed to do. But remember, You’ll never be The President of the United States, you don’t want that job anyway, no matter what you do, half the country will always hate you. You’ll never be an Astronaut and that’s OKAY! It’s very hard, very dangerous and nobody likes science anymore. You’ll never be a famous actor or rockstar, the majority of them are awful human beings but you can act, and you can rock, but those famous lifestyles are strictly for sociopaths. But if it is so important for you to be best at something, remember mommy and daddy love you and you’ll always be our best child.

Son: I’m your only child.

Dad: Don’t push it son. Let’s go get a burrito.

Son: Okay.

I know it seems a little harsh and maybe echoes of bitterness in my life, but I may have prevented years of necessary therapy to undo an “over achiever” complex. We’ve been conditioned to think that it’s a good thing, but do we really like these people, or secretly despise them? I honestly don’t know but I can tell you that anyone ruining the bell curve usually gets the stink eye, and that’s the Damm truth.

The Mind of a Drummer

I’m a drummer.

I just lost half of you, didn’t I?

*sigh*

Well I am, and I have been for quite some time.  It’s one of those things that just works out.  I tried it, and it took.  I wouldn’t call it natural talent, because I worked hard at playing the drums and doing it well.  But I will say that being a person with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD to those only familiar with it through night-time dramas and gossip circles), and the clinical depression that often accompanies ADHD, drumming is a tailor made therapy that probably kept me out of jail and IN college.

Here’s a short aside.  Having ADHD is a little like having a curse and a super power.  I have trouble focusing on one thing, listening, detailed questions…you know what I’m talking about.  But what I have no problem with, is doing six things at once inside one closed environment.  Drumming is very much a busy closed environment.  Closed meaning, while I’m doing it, I’m very focused on the tasks but there’s little chance of me being distracted away from it.  I have four limbs doing different things with the same general goal.  My mind is stimulated and my depression is quelled by the physical activity that goes along with it.  The result is a happy guy with a trade that suits him.

So that brings us to today’s subject.  I’m often asked, in the exact same phrasing, the question all drummers are asked about playing: “How do you do all that stuff to the drum set, with all your different body parts doing different things, how do you keep it straight?”  Google that line, I bet you get several drummer blogs or message boards.

I’m happy to say that although I blush every time someone asks that of me, I couldn’t definitively explain how I did it.  I would simply answer, “I pretend I’m a very hungry octopus and that all my drums and cymbals are delicious crabs that I have to grab and eat.”  Simple, scientific and accurate, but is it the perfect explanation? Up until a few weeks ago, I thought so, but thanks to the wonders of technology, I can present to you what exactly DOES go on in the mind of a drummer while playing a song.

I got the idea after watching War Games.  The part where they are showing the old footage of different experiments in Professor Falken’s  computer lab inspired me to build a machine that would capture my brain signals and thoughts and translate them into a verbal chart of activity while I played.  Using an old Tandy 1000 computer, a Betamax cassette recorder, two Furbies and a Speak and Spell, I created a machine that would help me answer the ultimate drummer’s question: “How do you do all that stuff to the drum set, with all your different body parts doing different things, how do you keep it straight?”

The answer is below.  Now keep in mind, the machine isn’t perfect and may have picked up some cross talk in my nervous system, but it seems to be pretty accurate.  There are abbreviations that I’ll help with here, so you have better understanding, as the code is fairly rudimentary but you’ll need to know what parts of me are responsible for what.

LH: (left hand) responsible for the snare on the 2 and 4 count generally, accent crashes, follows right hand around the drumset.

LF: (left foot) operates the hi-hat pedal cymbals keeping straight time or accenting strikes by opening slightly while stick hits it and choking the sound by closing.  Sometimes operates a light switch dimmer for stage lighting.

RF: (right foot) Bass drum foot, plays around the 1 and the 3 counts.

RH: (right hand) dominant hand, keeps time (rides) on the hi-hat or ride cymbal, usually 8th notes across a 4/4 beat, leads the rest of the limbs in combinations for fills and accents.

BPM: (Beats Per Minute) number of quarter notes played within one minute.  For instance, Louie Louie by the Kingsmen is about 92 BPM.

Wow, all this setup… I hope the answer to this question is worth it.  Without further junk, here’s the thought process of a drummer while drumming:

(…….s it online?  Oh, wow!  There are words! This is awesome! Speak to band members to show them how awesome you are.  No time. ) Starting? Starting song? What song? Speak, ask what song. Speak, ask what song again.  No song name recognized. Listen for guitar intro pattern…registering: Match song…

All Along the Watchtower (Dylan version) Match guitar tempo 110 109 111 BPM… match RH Hi-hat begin…NOW, stabilize tempo at 110 BPM.  Anticipating bass guitar intro, ready RF for Simulta…WARNING, EARLY BASS PLAYER INTRO! Ready RF (for mediocre late entry) on three.  RF ready left hand for 2 and 4…NOW.  RF follow root bass line. RH crash every line of chorus. Tempo? 112 BPM reduce to 111 BPM reduce to 110. (that got away from us quick, I better watch the tempo.  Not many people here tonight, it’s Friday though, no, it’s Saturday, I wasn’t at work today. ) RH move to ride cymbal for chorus…NOW. (

(Smile, good lord, has my mouth been open the last 6 bars? Just smile.  Anyone in the audience I know? There’s Steve and Ingrid.  That’s nice of them to come out.  This is probably their 12th time seeing us.  I should have the bartender send them a drink, maybe appetiz… Is the house music still on? Someone left the jukebox or stereo playing?… Black Eyed Peas. Doesn’t mix with Watchtower…Did the Jehovah’s Witnesses come by this morning?  Didn’t see the new addition of the Watchtower.  They hit us on Saturdays AND Sundays now. Yep, that’s loud house music.  We gotta get that off…) LH stop playing 2 and 4 on snare. RH play 2 and 4 on snare while continuing ride pattern.  LH wave at guitar player…NOW.  LH motion indicating sound above head… Eye contact with guitar player… LH point to head, point to ceiling speakers.  LH point to ears with drumstick and to ceiling house speakers.  Mouth words “Turn Music OFF” to guitar player.  Repeat request.  Repeat request.  LH point to bartender then to house speakers. (AHA! Guitar player is relaying the message and… there go the Black Eyed Peas.)  return to verse 2 of Watchtower. LH back to 2 and 4 on snare.

Tempo? 115 BPM.  (115 BPM? COME ON!) reduce to 114 BPM, reduce to 113 BPM (better wait here for a couple bars or it will sound like we’re pulling out of a nose dive. I wonder what my wife and kid are watching at home.  What was it we watched last night?  The Cat From Outer Space.  That’s right.  I forgot Sandy Duncan was in that. Had she lost her eye before that movie or after?  I looked but I couldn’t really tell.  You could always kind of tell on Sammy Davis Jr. but not on Sandy Duncan.  Maybe I was distracted by her smile.  What other movies has she been in?  I’ll have to IMDB that tomorrow.  I’m never going to remember that… better start pulling the tempo back again.) Tempo? 114 BPM. (CRAP!) reduce to 113 BPM. Reduce to 112 BPM. (The bass player knows something is up with the tempo.  He’s looking at me.  Yeah, yeah, I see your polite smile, I know we’re all over the place right now, I’m working on it.) Reduce to 111 BPM. (Seriously, I know we’ve swayed 5 BPM in the last 32 bars but I think we’re still steadier than the end of Asia’s, Heat Of The Moment.  THAT SONG threw the metronome out the window at the end.) Reduce to 110 BPM.

Final chorus approaching.  Ready semi impressive fill to begin on 2 of last bar of verse and ending on 2 of first bar of final chorus.  RF play straight eighth notes through fill.  RH lead fill around kit, hit splash cymbal on the ‘and’ of 3 fill rest of space with as many descending tom-tom notes as possible.  LH, just follow the RH and stay out of its way.  RH, LH, RF end simultaneously on 2, CRASH, SNARE, BASS DRUM respectively…Initiate semi impressive fill… NOW! (Whew! I can’t believe I landed that!  Did anybody see that?  Is anyone clapping?  I don’t hear clapping.  Rhythm guitar player just gave me the “oh” face.  Cool.  Where the hell is everyone that indicated they were planning on coming to the show on our Facebook invite?  Seriously, just mark that you aren’t coming if you aren’t coming.  I’d rather you put you weren’t coming and then show up.  THAT’s the way you do it.  Not the other way.  I have a nephew’s birthday party tomorrow.  Which one?  He’s going to be four.  I bet he could fit in my bass drum.  That wouldn’t be very good for his little ears, but it would be cool if he jumped out of the bass drum like he was breaking a high school football banner.  That would scare the crap out of the bass player.)

Big finish approaching.  Tempo 110 BPM and dropping, decrease over 2 bars from 110 BPM to 90 BPM…NOW.  LH RH hit crash cymbals fast. RF straight eighth notes on bass drum.  Wait for guitar player to jump.  ALL LIMBS HIT WHATEVER YOU CAN AS FAST AS YOU CAN!  NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!   RH, LH, RF Big single crash………….NOW!

(Whew, grab the towel.  I need a drink of water.  Oops, looks like I spilled it.  Danger! Electricity nearby? Nope, we’re safe.  Need to get more water though.  Wait, what’s the guitar player doing?  Another song now?  Nope, just noodling.  Hey let’s see what the machine picked up…

And that is what goes on in this drummer’s head and how I keep it all straight.  I’m sure that every drummer is different but please let this serve as your humble answer to your question:  “How do you do all that stuff to the drum set, with all your different body parts doing different things, how do you keep it straight?”

I don’t know if that machine picked up everything, but I’m no Edison.  The electrodes I made were attached to a truckers cap for goodness sakes.  From what I am reading here, it looks like a pretty accurate representation of the drumming mind, and that’s the Damm truth.

What I have learned so far

I’m on a collision course with 38. 38 years. I know it may be a bit melodramatic, but I’m feeling my mortality. I look at other men about my age and measure their achievements against my own. This is futile because it shows that I don’t know much about life yet. Measuring one’s self against another is incredibly difficult. Hard to measure happiness, easy to measure money, but if money can’t buy happiness, your baseline starts to become erratic. You can measure friendships, but that too is nebulous. Friendships are frequently in flux and measuring as such is like trying to hold a carpenter’s level to the wave’s of the ocean, which is not only futile, but DON’T DROP DADDY’S NEW LEVEL INTO THE WATER!!!!

Mostly I measure myself against others by number of teeth. (I’m down one by the way, if you think I’m being too harsh. Oooo, did you just judge me for judging others based on teeth, not knowing that I have a false bridge right at the front of my, ehem, grill? Shame on you.) That first part is just a joke. That’s not how I judge people.

I have learned things though in my limited, yet not so trivial to me, lifespan. Speaking of trivia, some of my favorite stuff that I have picked up is trivia. Did you know that I know roughly 48% of the worlds trivial knowledge? I’m going to toot my own horn here and say that 48% is pretty impressive, considering I only speak one language (I’m sorry Mr. Wilson, I tried to speak the Spanish but it wasn’t in English). In addition to the trivia, which I won’t be covering here. I actually have learned some fairly important lessons and facts that I’m willing to share here with both of you reading this.

So at 37-and-almost-a-half, I impart some of these little gems of wisdom to you:

Never eat at Skippers. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it. I know, you haven’t seen one in a while and wouldn’t it be fun to relive some fond memories you have of Skipper’s from when you were a kid? Stop! Really think about your memories of that place. If you’ve ever been there as an adult, you’ll recall the feeling of how grease fried everything is. Walking into Skipper’s is like asking to be covered in a spray tan fed from a french fry trap. I have had to burn several outfits after visiting Skipper’s and it was relatively easy after the film coating of oil that my threads had on them upon departing. I will say that my hair was always more manageable, however, this is a small consulation to how my stomach felt every single time I dined there. If I were to get a tattoo, I think it would be a reminder on my left hand that read, “Never eat at Skippers, even if starving,” and on my right hand I may get a backup tattoo that said, “Instead of eating at Skippers, eat your left hand, you use this one more.” You can thank me the next time Skipper’s is the only place in town to eat when you’re driving through on a road trip, while you’re safely across at a gas station eating Slim Jims and a pack of gummy worms. You just made the rightest wrong choice of your night.

The Swiss Army Knife by Victorinox is probably the greatest tool I own. I’ve had two, one was given to me by my mother and father when I was 12. I used it for everything and I still have it. The other was given to me by my wife as a gift for our first married Christmas. It was a special addition with a digital watch. It has a pen that I’ve signed many an important document with. The usefulness knows no bounds. I’ve put together many pieces of IKEA furniture with it (Yeah like the tools they include actually work) opened ridiculously wrapped packages and fixed countless pairs of eyeglasses with the tiny screwdriver held by the corkscrew. It single handedly saved a business function for our comapany one evening in the penthouse suite of a hotel when the 12 cases of Corona beer showed up without a bottle opener. “No problem,” said my inanimate friend, “I see those limes need cutting too, let’s use my long blade for THAT.” Sure I get a ribbing for whipping the knife out at all occassions to fix anything or if something needs opening, but the stuff gets fixed and opened and then quietly returns to it’s rightful home, in my front right pants pocket. For the record, THAT’s what you’ve been staring at.

Dogs are better than cats. Cats may be easier than dogs, but when the chips are down, a dog is going to stand by you no matter what. Yes, on occassion a dog may leave a surprise on the carpet or in your shoe, but it is usually out of passion for you. Cats? Cat’s could care less if you’re here or there. It’s the Sybil of animals. If you’re a cat owner, you have been scratched and bitten numerous times by the sweet little animal cuddled in your lap and purring right now. Case in point, every so often, you hear an “Odd News Story” about a dog in some foreign country that ate it’s owner. It makes the news because it is genuinely strange news. It just doesn’t happen. The only two reasons a dog would ever eat it’s owner is if the dog was trained to do so to survive under the implicit orders of the dogs owner upon the natural passing of said owner. OR they find out later that the dog was a bear. Now you don’t hear these news stories about cats. WHAT YOU DO HEAR are the stories of cats eating their owners after they died (maybe even killed them, I’m not putting anything past the felines, you saw what that white tiger did to that magician, and the magician saved that cat from extiction). The stories are so common that they aren’t even reported. Dozens of people every year are eaten by their cats. Dogs will lay down beside you and die of devotion.

It’s totally fine to cry in public and in front of other people. Sadness is a natural emotion and needs to come out. SHUT UP! IT IS! It’s the Yin to laughter’s Yang. If you haven’t had a good cry in a while, I recommend Steel Magnolias and Field of Dreams, the only two tear inducing devices necessary.

Being a dad is awesome. Not some casual use of an adjective “awesome,” but actually AWESOME. As in I’m in AWE of SOME of my kid’s abilities. I love being a dad. Is cloning the same as being a dad? Because…

I may give you some other bits of what I have figured out at a later date, but these should serve you well if you ever adopt any of these philosophies. I know they haven’t done me wrong and that’s the Damm truth.

Local Business Marketing

Running a business sounds incredibly difficult.  I understand this and salute those brave enough to attempt it.  Startup capital?  Business plan? Quarterly taxes? All things that should make the average person’s head spin.  The thought of only one of those three random facets of business running is enough to put your head back into your screen and close the imaginary flap on your cubicle wall.  But there is one place where I have a little knowledge in the business arena, and that is marketing and advertising.

I’m no DDB or Cole and Weber, but I do know that marketing your business, and in turn advertising it, is a key part of making your small business work.  Not to make the business successful, not a “hit”, but just squeek by and break even.

Let’s take this poor sucker down the street who poured his life savings into turning a once successful coffee stand into a drive through hamburger joint.  Looks like he spared no expense.  I would drive by and shake my head as I saw him setting the place up.  Why was I shaking my head?  Because this guy that makes a totally awesome hamburger and fries and has staked his retirement on the success of this tiny little operation did everything right… with the exception of any kind of realistic marketing analysis whatsoever.

You see, this man set up a hamburger stand directly across the street from the number 1 hamburger stand IN THE WORLD.  So close, you measure it in feet, not yards.  It’s so close, you can almost read the McDonald’s menu from the drive through of the little stand.  And yes, the burgers may be better at the little stand, but you can get four burgers for the price of one at the huge competition. Does the little hamburger stand have a licensing agreement with Dreamworks movie Puss In Boots, gauranteeing a cheap but desirable plastic toy to every child that comes through?  Before you look it up, the answer is “no”.

The owner may have asked why the coffee stand went out of business.  After all, the building is little but solid, with all the great things necessary to run a food service out of.  The stand served coffee that was exceptional, I’m told, and was operational for only a few years… until the number 1 coffee shop in the world (no, not Tom Horton’s) had moved in literally one driveway over.  Next door.  The minute those green and white corporate doors swung open, that coffee stand was doomed.  But when the coffee stand owner built there, no such competition existed, and it did a good business. When this happens, you will be squashed.  But the burger guy was squashed before he began.

I picture the conversation between the coffee stand owner and the burger joint venture capitalist going something like this:

Burger guy:  I see you are selling this magnificent little coffee stand.  Why on Earth would you want to sell it?  It’s been my dream to open a burger joint just like it.

Coffee guy:  Are you kidding me? I’m actually standing in the morning shadow of the largest coffee corporation on the planet and talking over the idling engines of the cars waiting to be served coffee that I didn’t make them.

Burger guy:  Yes, but you didn’t answer my question.  Why would you sell such a perfect little coffee stand?

Coffee guy: (looks at the burger guy for a moment, assessing the situation) Uh, we found we couldn’t compete with the brand recognition and the price point of a coffee that has a universal flavor no matter where you order it anywhere in the world.

Burger guy: Well it seems to me that SOME people would buy your coffee and be loyal to your shop.

Coffee guy: You know, it turns out that they WON’T.  You see that guy in the red pickup about to pick up his latte there at Starbucks?  Yeah, that’s my brother.  I used to give him FREE coffee.  The first time I saw him in that line, he just shrugged and waived.

Burger guy: Surely SOMEONE has remained loyal to you?  Are you sure you’re not doing something wrong?

Coffee guy: I was KILLING IT in the coffee biz until they opened two months ago.  I haven’t changed a thing.  It’s their marketing, you can’t escape it.  I sat down to do my books, to try to figure out how to survive this situation.  A half an hour later, I realized I was sitting in THAT STARBUCKS with a cup of coffee that I paid for.  There’s no way a little guy can compete with that sized corporate game.  NO WAY

Burger guy: Well, it’s been my life’s dream to open up a hamburger stand and this building is perfect for it.  I’ve saved everything for the past thirty years to do it and I’m ready to do it!

Coffee guy: Ronald McDonald will walk across the street himself and burn your business to the ground.  I can’t sell it to you.

Burger guy: My burgers are amazing, I will use good food, freshly grown ingredients and a few family recipes for sweet treats.  I’m ready to do this, so how much for your coffee stand?

Coffee guy:  (ponders,waits, looks the burger guy right in the eye, and without flinching says:) $3.6 million.

Burger guy: Seems a little steep but okay.

I’m betting I’m not too far off.

I had to drive by the hamburger stand daily.  Each time, I would shake my head and be angry, ANGRY at the ridiculousness of having to watch this spectacle play out.  I was the Cassandra of the myth, knowing this was going to explode in this man’s face.

They went through all the stages of a dying small business.  The first week, there’s a “Grand Opening” sign up, and it stays up, usually the whole life of the business.  Then there’s a sandwich board saying the same thing that appears the next week.  Then the multi-colored flags make an appearance about a month in.  The next thing that happens is the flashing “OPEN” sign together with the new “Yes, We’re Open” banner, which was ordered and hung with more denial about their business failure.  “Ha ha! Maybe they just don’t understand that we’re ready to make them a hamburger!” Spirals into Christmas lights, more multi-colored flags, a strobe light and finally, the sign that says: TEMPORARILY CLOSED.  REORGANIZING.

They’ve been closed for more than a year.   You know what would have worked there? Anything else.  Anything but a coffee stand or hamburger joint.  A hotdog place would have rocked right there.

This guy probably thinks it was the economy.  No, people eat cheap in the down economies and he would have been fine if there was a KFC or Taco Bell across the street.  Maybe not Taco Bell, but you get me right?  This was purely BAAAAAAAAD marketing on his part by not choosing the proper PLACE for his business.

This isn’t even what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.  I wanted to talk about the Chevrolet Dealership that has the bad commercials.  Another time maybe.

So kids, if you plan to open up an electronics store, don’t do it next to Best Buy.  If you’re planning to open up a donut shop, don’t do it next to Krispie Kreme…  Coat store, Burlington Coat Factory; guitar store, Guitar Center; pet store, Pet Smart; accordian store, Petosa Accordians.  It may just save your business and that’s the Damm truth.