Katie Couric stopped off at the supermarket on her way home from work and the following ensued:

Can of Lima Beans: Holy crap! Katie Couric!

Katie Couric: Who said that?

Can of Lima Beans: Over here. To your right. Second shelf down.

Katie Couric: A talking can of Lima Beans?

Can of Lima Beans: Nice tits.

Katie Couric: WHAT?!?!

Can of Creamed Corn: Ms. Couric, I apologize on behalf of the Lima Beans. It’s a dented can and the deadly clostridium botulinum bacteria have begun to multiply. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

Katie Couric: Oh. Poor thing. I’m sorry.

Can of Creamed Corn: Actually, you have pretty shitty tits.

Katie Couric: I’m calling the f***ing manager!

Can of Creamed Corn: Really? Are you going to tell him that a can of creamed corn said you have shitty tits?

Katie Couric: Damned right!

Can of Creamed Corn: Jesus, you’re even dumber than I’d thought.

A couple weeks ago, when I was experiencing some serious post-surgical “ouchies,” I found myself captive to television in the wee hours of the morning. Although I spent most of the time drifting in and out, I remember a few things that left me scratching my head.

Storm Chasers
Who are those peeps? They ride in tanky-looking things that appear to have been fabricated by the Little Rascals. What’s the idea here? Pictures? They seem to break their asses finding a storm, and when they find one they chase it, then when they’ve caught it, they shit their pants and run like hell away from it, the last part seeming like a smart move.

Late Night Infomercials
Who knew I can actually buy a steam-making thing that looks like an upright vacuum cleaner that I can use to clean the top of the stove?

Who knew that I can use a choppy-grindy thing to make delicious meals in seconds, provided that one makes delicious meals a half-cup at a time.

I’ve begun to kick myself in the ass for having spent so much time in school and actually going to work when I could have made multiple gazillion dollars in real estate by working about ten minutes per week.

Hmmmmm, maybe I really could use a couple Japanese Samurai Swords or some decoratively painted state quarters.

We all know what great things happened when Abbott teamed up with Costello, when Jackie Gleason teamed up with Art Carney, when Barnum teamed up with Bailey, when Burns teamed up with Allen, when Laurel teamed up with Hardy, when Simon teamed up with Garfunkle, when Bonnie teamed up with Clyde – oh, wait.

Well, brace yourselves.

Here it comes.

Better you should sit down.

Are you ready?

Here it is.

Dogette of Two Nervous Dogs and Laura of Fetch My Flying Monkeys, both well-known for humor that is as subtle as a Howitzer, have decided to team up at a new site, the purpose of which is to provide advice. Yes, indeed. An Advice Blog. Hopeless altruists, they are.

You ask, “Yo, Jimbo, what kind of advice are we talking about here?”

Don’t be a smartass and pretend that you don’t need advice. Everygoddamnedbody needs advice, and Dogette and Laura are chock full of it.

I can envision that they will entertain questions about virtually any topic. To wit:

Matters of the Heart
Dear Dogette and Laura,

My wife stabbed me multiple times when I forgot to put the garbage out. People say that once I’m released from the hospital, I should leave her. I think I should give her another chance. What do you think?

Health and Fitness
Dear Dogette and Laura,

I’m forty-six years old, and I finally learned how to swim last week. I’m thinking about swimming across the English Channel.
A couple people have told me I can do it if I lay off the booze for ten days. Sounds right to me, but I would like your opinion.

Punctuation
Dear Dogette and Laura;

I, have, “trouble” knowing “when” to use “quotation marks!” I – have commas, down pretty well, but I really, “need” some help with “quotation marks.” Do you have any tips?

Medical Matters
Dear Dogette and Laura:

I’ve been feeling poorly lately. I have no energy and my stools are psychedelic. I took one of those quizzes in an old issue of Reader’s Digest, the results of which suggested that I may have rabies. My friend who works at the gas station told me that he thinks it could be epizoodic or a side-effect from the pills I take for my ingrown asshole. I really need your help on this one.

I know you’re thinking, “Yo, Jimbo, this sounds great. When will the new site be up and how can I find it?”

Damned if I know. They say it will up “soon.”

Stay tuned. I’ll let you know.

Daughter, TJ, was at the House by the Parkway for Thanksgiving, and I picked up the guitar so we could do a bit of music while the turkey was roasting. As many of you know, TJ is a very good singer.

So, as we were sort of taking turns with tunes, which always highlights the difference between our styles, I being more of a saloon singer and she being more of a real singer, she mentioned that friends of hers (who have since become friends of mine and Mrs. Parkway’s) are planning yet another karaoke party. They are serious karaoke peeps and have all the very best equipment. They’ve held these parties in the past and, I’m told, they well-attended and are lots of fun. They’ve always invited us, but, for one reason or another, I have not been able to make it. This year looks like a “go.”

TJ said, “I know they are going to want us to sing a couple duets.”

Me: “Cool, so let’s pick out a couple tunes that might work.”

Given that I can carry a tune and she can sing, and given that we both have lots of experience singing publicly, picking out a couple duets to sing at a karaoke party should be a snap, right?

Wrong.

Here is just a sampling of the problems:

1. The Lyrics/Theme (the Ick Factor).
When you think about male-female duets, most of them are love songs, and I don’t mean love, in the abstract sense, but rather “Googley-Eyes at Each Other” or “Let’s Hit the Sack” – type love songs. It’s impossible for a father – daughter duo to sing those songs without pegging everyone’s “Ick Meter” at a solid 10. Think about the lyrics to “Endless Love” or “Baby, it’s Cold Outside” and imagine a father singing those songs with his daughter. Ewwwwww. Mondo creeeeeeepy. Major Ick.

So, we came up with some possibilities that avoided the Ick Factor.

2. The Key.
Our respective vocal ranges are such that we tend to sing comfortably in different keys. Given her wide vocal range, there are some tunes in which our ranges overlap. This key thing is less of a problem (or a non-problem) if I’m playing guitar, as I can just find a key that works best for any given song. But, at a karaoke party, one is stuck with key used in the background on the karaoke disc, which, more often than not, I’m told, is in the same key as in the record. Finding a workable key further reduces the possibilities from the list of songs that survived the Ick Factor cut.

3. Finding the Karaoke Version
At this point we have some songs that survived the Ick Factor cut and may be sing-able in the key of the original record, but now the problem is to find a karaoke version in either the key of the record or perhaps a different sing-able key. Oh yeah, assuming you can find such versions, they can’t be “over-produced” (i.e. where the harmony part is already provided so one person can sing the melody with pre-recorded harmony). We’ll do our own harmony, thanks.

I haven’t begun the serious karaoke version search yet, but I’m not real optimistic.

I’m beginning to think that if there really is a demand for a duet, I may have to bring my electric guitar to the party and turn off the karaoke machine for a bit, but I don’t want to run afoul of karaoke etiquette. ”Ooooh, look. Mister Fancy Schmancy brought his guitar. What a dork!”

Life is full of tough choices, peeps.

Father – daughter duet suggestions? I’m all ears.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING FROM THE HOUSE BY THE PARKWAY

I declined my invitation to the White House state dinner the other night honoring the Indian Prime Minister, explaining in my response that I had a prior commitment to have my fingernails pulled out one at a time. Still I was curious about who attends these Presidential Shindigs, so I checked out the White House Press Office list of attendees. I found quite a few gems (The names are as they appear on the White House Press Office’s website):

I should note that I a was surprised by how many people have been identified as “The Honorable” So and So.

The Honorable (Mr.) Robert Gibbs, White House Press Secretary. How long have press secretaries been given the title “Honorable?” Seems a little nuts to me, particularly in the case of this dipshit.

The Honorable (Ms.) Lisa Brown, Office of Staff Secretary. “Honorable?” Sounds a bit like the office manager to me.

The Honorable (Chief of Protocol) Capricia Marshall. I’m guessing that the Honorable Ms. Marshall will be in charge of party favors, in which case everyone will get an Honorable ShamWow.

The Honorable Anita Dunn, White House Communications Director. I wonder if she brought along her little red book.

The Honorable (Secretary) Hillary R. Clinton, Secretary of State. Hillary the Honorable? You’re killing me here.

The Honorable (Senator) Chris Dodd, United States Senator (D/Connecticut). Chris the Honorable? Now you’re really killing me.

The Honorable (Speaker) Nancy Pelosi, United States Representative (D/California) and Speaker of the House. OK, you’ve killed me now.

The Honorable (Secretary) Timothy F. Geithner, Secretary of the Treasury. He cheated on his taxes honorably.

The Honorable (Senator) Richard Lugar, United States Senator (R/Indiana). Perhaps the only Republican legislator there. Can you say RINO?

The Honorable (Governor) Bill Richardson, Governor of New Mexico (D). I wonder if the Honorable Governor and the Honorable Hillary shared a moment.

There were a few notables on the list who, presumably, are something less than Honorable.

Mr. Thomas Friedman. I’m not the least bit surprised that this leftoid, global warming bullshit spewer made the cut. If I had to sit next to this bag of wind all night, I’d drown myself in my soup.

Brian Williams (NBC), Katie Couric (CBS) and Robin Roberts (ABC). Do these people expect anyone with a brain larger than a lentil to consider them to be journalists?

General Colin Powell. An appropriately pigmentes RINO.

Sounds like I missed a real swell time.

I loves me some great percussion and I’m always taken by a silky smooth bass lick. This song has both and, best yet, here it is, live (no studio gimmicks, no retakes). For years, every time I’d be hanging with the Usual Suspects (where music is a constant), as the part of the song that contains the bass lick would approach, I’d slam the brakes on the multiple ongoing conversations, and it would go something like this:

Me: “Listen! … LISTEN!! … It’s coming up in a few seconds!”

Everyone Else: “What?”

Me: “The bass lick! Listen! … Just Lisssssten!”

Everyone Else: “Oh yeah, the damned bass thing.”

Me: “LISSSSSSTEN … Here it comes! … Here it comes!! … Riggggght NOW!” [Bass lick plays]

Me: “Wow!”

Everyone else: “OK.” [conversation immediately resumes]

They’ve always been at humoring me about such things. Now it’s your turn.

LISSSSSSSSTEN!……….The bass lick appears at 3:49 and then again (a bonus!) at 4:36.

Wow.

The last time I had real surgery (i.e. with general anesthesia – not that colonoscopy, sedative kid’s stuff), I was five years old (my appendix was removed), so this was all quite new to me. Here are a few initial impressions.

After going through registration and several preparatory processing stages in the hospital, where great pains (thankfully) were taken to ensure that I was the guy whose name matched the plastic bracelet on my wrist, I was ultimately rolled into the “Holding Area.” There, multiple people, including the anesthesiologist, yet again, verified who I was and that I had not been lying on the previous occasions about not having false teeth or about not wearing contact lenses. As a final check, the surgeon came into the Holding Area and spoke to me. We had previously met, so he knew that I was his patient and, as such, didn’t do the wrist thing. He did follow the hospital rules and physically marked the spot that was to be operated on. I guess that’s to make sure that the people in the operating room could stop him if he started working on my leg or something.

I was then rolled down a seemingly endless hall to the operating room. Upon my arrival, a masked, hooded and gowned lady greeted me with, “Welcome to Surgical Suite No. 18.” I said, “Thank you,” but I was thinking, “I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”

The first order of business was to move me from the rolling bed to the operating table. It went flawlessly, but there is just something unnerving about an operating table, as it looks like a slab on which meat is sliced (I suppose that’s what it really is), except, of course, that it is padded.

My immediate thoughts were, “Why is the surgical suite as cold as a walk-in beer cooler?” and “I’m not exactly dressed properly for the weather in here.” Trying to appear nonchalant, I glanced to my left to see a surgical nurse preparing an array of stainless steel plumbing type instruments that would rival any tool collection in Home Depot or torture chamber. Yeef!

I then stared straight up for a few seconds at the light over the operating table and thought that the damned thing must be as big as the lens in the Hubble Telescope. Yeef!

Finally, I looked to my right and saw a TV screen. One of the masked, hooded and gowned ladies cheerily said, “You’re going to be on television.” Not a moment of great creativity for me, all I could think of to say was “Cool,” but I was thinking Yeef!

By this time, more than a little overwhelmed by it all, I thought, “Just give me the farookin’ anesthesia, and let’s rock.” The anesthesiologist must have read my mind, for at that moment, he slapped a mask over my mouth and nose and, while I slept, the masked, hooded and gowned folks in Surgical Suite 18 rocked.

I’m happy to say they did nice work.

There is probably a handful of you who’ve wondered if I’ve decided to give up blogging in favor of something less time intensive, such as, for example, collecting twine. Nope.

The reason I’ve been away from the keys (and will not spend much time at the keys for a few more days) is that I had surgery on Friday. No, it was not an emergency, nor was the condition life-threatening, but it was something that had to be taken care of.

I’m convinced that one of the tactics used by surgeons to ensure a steady income stream is to downplay how positively brutal post-surgical recovery can be, particularly for the first two days. After the first two days, one is just really sore and feels generally weak and shitty. The last time I had surgery with general anesthesia I was five years old. I seem to remember recovering faster back then.

I’m walking about now, albeit SLOWWWWWLY, and sleeping way more than I usually do.

So, that’s the story, peeps.

Later.

Update 11/22/09: I would like to thank everyone for the good wishes, all of which made me smile inside. Predictably, some of the comments were wonderfully smart-alecky (No, I will not change my name to “Jamie,” although “Grace” might be nice). I loved and appreciated every one of them. They most definitely helped.

I’m finally feeling considerably better. I even have managed to get my sorry ass outside for a few “strolls” (Still not ready to begin righteous groundpounding).

Thanks again, peeps.

I had thought I would write more about the entire experience of visiting Washington D.C. on Veterans Day, but that turns out to be a problem, because, despite having seen several memorials and having been dumbstruck by Arlington National Cemetery, I cannot get my mind off the Vietnam Veterans Memorial (a/k/a “The Wall”).

There are no spires, fountains, or dramatic figures on The Wall; just 58,261 names – the names of those who served, but who never got to come home. As I slowly walked past each of the many panels covered with names, stopping at most of them, it struck me hard that most of the people whose names appear on The Wall would have about the same age as I am now. I knew a couple of them.

It’s only because of life’s crapshoot and the mystery of how the military decided what each of us would do and where we would be assigned to do it that I was able to look at the names on The Wall instead of being one of them.

May they all rest in peace.