2. Go to the Chesterfield County Fair and eat a fried Twinkie ... every 10 minutes.
3. Attend the Hank III show at The National on Saturday. In between songs, shout requests for the Monday Night Football theme song.
4. Attend a Flying Squirrels game and go nuts. Not in that “family-friendly-dancing-in-the-stands” kind of way. Literally go CRAZY.
5. Take your significant other to see the new Drew Barrymore romantic comedy Going the Distance. Immediately afterward, suggest that living 3,000 miles apart might not be such a crazy idea after all.
6. Take a road trip on 95 South without a car.
7. Instead of a backyard barbecue, invite your friends over for a “Summertime Funeral Service.” Make everybody dress in black and mourn the loss of the season by roasting watermelon rinds and pool toys in a fire pit.
8. Give proper English names to whatever is left of the plants in your vegetable garden. Then personally apologize to each one before you yank their roots from the soil.
9. Celebrate the true meaning of Labor Day by working all weekend. Or, if you are pregnant, experiencing the horrific pains associated with childbirth.
10. Take the family “Hurricane Tubing” off the coast of Rhode Island.
11. Crowd-surf during the REO Speedwagon set at the American Music Festival in Virginia Beach. At the start of “Can’t Fight This Feeling,” kiss a stranger on the mouth.
12. Spend the weekend feeling sorry for yourself. Eat too much sugar and then fall down a flight of stairs on purpose.
But if you are a musician, please don’t let the fact that I think you’re magical go to your head. Just remember that Doug Henning was magic, too.
One of the best magic shows I’ve seen in a while was a film called It Might Get Loud.
Director Davis Guggenheim (aka Mr. Elisabeth Shue) uses archival footage, photographs and extended interviews, as well as a staged “summit” between the trio in an oversized warehouse full of amps and sound equipment. The result is a patchwork of musical styles, eras and attitudes ... stitched together with some amazing guitar work. Not just “OK guitar work.” AMAZING. It sounds trite to say that they make it look easy, but they make it look ridiculous. And refreshingly, there is scarcely a whiff of ego in the room. One of the most endearing moments is when The Edge and White crack the same goofy, schoolboy grin during Page’s run-through of “Whole Lotta Love.” It’s the same "Holy crap, this is Jimmy Page playing ‘Whole Lotta Love’ ” expression that any of us would have in their place.
Appropriately, It Might Get Loud is a film best enjoyed with the volume up. And it helps if you’re already a fan of the featured players’ music. But even if you’re not, it’s worth watching just to see the electric-guitar equivalent of three guys pulling rabbits out of their hats, quarters out of their noses and sawing women in half with a distortion pedal.
Please allow me to apologize.
Allow me to explain.
For one week’s time I traveled south to the ancient lands of the Maya. It was there that I discovered the wonderful bounties of the buffet, the endless blue of the saltwater pools and the Mexican people’s passion for 1990s pop music. You could call it a vacation. I did.
On my return to Richmond, I had a nagging feeling that I’d left something in Mexico. As it turns out, Mexico left something in me. It felt like a ferret. A restless, angry ferret who wanted out. This uneasy ferret feeling kept me home for a couple of days. I used the time to watch educational children’s television and complain loudly to anyone who would listen.
Then there was another health-related thing. This one didn’t involve me directly, but my presence was required, and I spent nearly a week inside one of those sprawling medical-building complexes. While I did have my laptop (and limited Internet access), there was little inspiration or motivation to write. You might think that writing would have been helpful, maybe even therapeutic. But eating jellybeans and club sandwiches worked much better. So instead of turning my feelings into words, I just jammed foodstuffs into my mouth.
You know, Blog, you shouldn’t take it personally. I’ve been ignoring my Twitter and Facebook for a couple of weeks now, too. About the only thing I’ve done on Facebook is wish some folks a quick “Happy Birthday.” And the only reason I worry about doing that is that I’m convinced people cross-check their friend list with their birthday posts to keep score of who really cares (and who they should really care about). I’ve missed a few birthdays. And when I do, I’m convinced that when I run into these people in real life, the first thing out of their mouth will be, “Too busy to type?”
You see, the thing is ... I was. Too busy. Or too distracted. Or whatever.
But that was then. I’m better now. I’m back.
My fingers are limber, my mind is relaxed, and if I sit here in front of a blank screen long enough, I will eventually think of something insightful to say ...
But you know what? Even if I read that label, odds are pretty good that I would have taken a drink anyway. That’s just what I do. I ignore things and complain about them later. I’m kind of a jerk like that.
I had work to do. Words to write. Activity that required a certain degree of mental spryness. And I thought that coffee would help. I was wrong. It just sat like a black cloud in my belly until I wanted to go to sleep, and then it woke up and asked my brain to come out and party. Coffee can be so inconsiderate that way.
Then again, if I had not partaken of the hot coffee beverage so late, I might not have been awake enough to enjoy Craig Ferguson. You know Craig, he’s the Scottish talk-show host who comes on television after David Letterman says goodnight. He’s the guy that people watch who don’t care for Jimmy Fallon or Jimmy Kimmel. He is hilarious. He is insightful and honest. No seriously, he is amazing.
If you’re a fan already, I’m not telling you anything new. You’re already in love with his goofy wit and his ability to transform every meandering tangent into a giddy surprise. If you don’t know him, you should. I’m not suggesting that you drink coffee and stay up late every night. Don’t do that. The bags under my eyes will tell you that giving up sleep is nothing but a bad idea. But what you can do is record his show and watch it at another time that is more convenient and less sleepy.
I’ve experienced Craig before, so it’s not like I’m new to the Ferguson party. But it’s been a while since I was up for watching a late-night talk show. I have a long list of other things I’d much rather do than listen to Morgan Freeman talk about his pals Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu. Most of those things involve pillows and snoring. And let’s be honest ... a fair amount of drooling.
But because I was awake, and because Craig Ferguson was on the television ... I was suddenly less saddened by the state of the world. He made me laugh out loud, and for that I am grateful.
Take the other night for instance. His guest was the funnyman Steve Carell.
Now this guy Carell has earned a reputation for hilariousness, but next to Ferguson, the guy seemed like more of a high-school guidance counselor. They had their moments, but mostly it was Craig working his comedy kung-fu and leaving Steve to sit in slack-jawed amazement. Who can turn Steve Carell into a straight man? Craig Ferguson, that’s who.
There are few people who make an hour of talking about nothing as entertaining as Ferguson. He begins every interview by tearing up his question cards. Round and round he goes, where he stops nobody knows. He wings it. Flies by the seat of his pants. But it’s a whole bunch of fun to watch. And you should. But skip the coffee. That junk will ruin your morning.
In fact, for most of the time I’ve been alive, this is one of the most unfunny things I’ve ever known.
On Thursday, the cable channel known as ID (Investigation Discovery) will air an episode of a show called Wicked Attraction. It’s one of those true-crime re-enactment shows that details the unspeakable acts of terrible human beings. This show in particular highlights what happens when a pair of terrible human beings are drawn together to do bad things to good people. Usually, the focus is on a pair of lovers of some sort ... husbands and wives ... boyfriends and girlfriends ... that sort of thing.
Thursday’s episode is about Ricky Javon Gray and his nephew Ray Joseph Dandridge.
If you don’t want to see it, stay away from channel 111 between 10 p.m. and 11 p.m.
I’ve made it clear in the past that my wife and I are fond of the late-night crime shows. We tune in to watch the forensic stuff, the long court battles, the haunting prison interviews and taped 911 calls. We’ve always been drawn to the drama of the stories. Afterward, we’re always thankful those things happened to somebody else. But the Harvey story is different. And Thursday's show might just change the way I look at every one of those other shows.
For every episode on every channel that focuses on death, crime and murder ... there are hundreds of people who cannot watch. Hundreds of people for whom the pain is hard enough without the bad acting and ominous narration. People who know that life’s worst days were bad enough the first time around. They don’t need to watch the instant replay.
The Harvey tragedy was a crime that changed my life. I knew them, but not well. Their loss as people, as a family ... as friends of friends and neighbors of neighbors was profound. The world was a brighter place when they were here.
What haunts me today is the randomness.
To say I think about it every morning is not an exaggeration. The Harvey family comes to mind every day when I leave the house. And it doesn’t matter if the people I leave behind inside are asleep or awake ... the front door gets locked. If I forget and trot down the front steps ... I trot back up and turn that key. As long as I live, the front door will remain locked. That’s just the way it is.
But I’m getting away from the point.
This show on Thursday ... it just sounds like salt on the wound. It’s like the newspaper article I wished I’d never read. And watching it feels like something I might regret for a long time.
Honestly, I don’t know whether I will watch or not. I don’t want to.
But another part of me feels like I owe it to everybody else who lost someone ... everyone who suffered and then had their suffering turned into a late-night distraction for insomniacs and true-crime junkies. I had no problem looking murder in the face when it was happening to someone else. Now that it hits closer to home, I’ve got to make a serious choice.
And I have no idea what to do.
