Browndog the big rap singer

    When we had two dogs, I always thought that the fat white dog, ‘Cino was a treat whore. She was the one that came running in to eat, demanded a treat, even before dinner, and while waiting for dog food would jump straight up in the air. She had a vertical leap to rival Michael Jordan. Or at least Charles Barkley. Matter of fact she was built more like Barkley than Jordan. We also had the Brown dog.

     When ‘Cino went to dog heaven, Brown dog was been possessed by the ghost of ‘Cino. But not all of her ghost was in him. I did not think an exorcism was in order, but she definitely had taken to part of his personality. He became a treat whore. He got to the point that he would go to the door, go outside and then come back in just for the treat. They always got a treat for going outside. He had that one down!

    Brown-brown, as he was often called was a dog of many personalities. He was the mellow one. Almost cat-like. He loved hard, and was fiercely loyal. He had a menacing bark, but was a pansy. Even keeping his junk intact didn’t change his docile nature. He loved belly rubs and showing off his junk. Both of our dogs were the jiggily-I-Love-you-So-Much variety.

     However, his biggest personality was rap singer. He had his own jingle. “He’s the browndog, he’s a Big rap singer…he’s the browndog…” He sang every time we came home, and whenever he was excited. He always greeted us with song. ‘Cino was the barker, browndog the singer. God forbid that you didn’t love him up soon enough. The noise was deafening.

     The other day I was, if you can imagine, typing a blog. As I was typing in my QWERTY modified hunt and peck style like the great newsies of yesteryear, I felt a cold wet nose push my left elbow, and then created THE new word sImnefogjailkhf. I have yet to decide what this word means, from what root language it hails, how it is actually pronounced, or what word was originally intended. It is a most likely a word the dog language. I think it means treat whore. Or rap singer...

      I turned and half expected to see the old girl, sad eyed and slightly pouting, begging for a treat. I knew this was impossible, for she is no longer among the living, but I was surprised to see Brown-brown, sitting there looking much like ‘Cino looking for a treat. I chose to ignore his request, and continued to type the pithy words of wisdom of the blog of the day.

     A few minutes later, the brown dog walked away. Then he came back and did a short rap and looked at the treat bin. Then he looked back at me. Then back at the treat bin. Yup, Browndog, the big rap singer, was a treat whore.

     Browndog was low-key. He had a low dominance factor. We didn’t realize how dominant ‘Cino was until she was gone. He could have been called Eyeor (sp?) from the Winnie the Pooh series. He had the “woe is me look.” But he was a good dog. A lover not a fighter and a lot smarter than he looked.

     My wife had him addicted to canned food as well. It smells like vomit, however, I am not sure what it tastes like and I do not want to find out either. I thought he liked the kind that looked like Dinty Moore, but he prefers the kind that looks like corned beef hash. As you know if you regularly read my blog, I have had both dog snacks and cat snacks. And I prefer dog snacks, but I have not eaten one in a few years, but I have no idea what dog food or cat food taste like.

     The other day I was picking up some more canned dog food. You know, the kind of food that looks like corned beef hash. I grabbed the cans and headed to the beer aisle where I grabbed some Molson. Then I headed to the register. I went the self check-out. As I walked up to the only one that was available I saw a sign, “no cash” Seriously? You can’t take cash? WTF??? I went to the next aisle.

      The clerk rang up my groceries and the bagger asked if I wanted paper or plastic. I responded with “plastic, then I cart it away after he is done with it in the same bag it came home in.” she wrinkled her nose and kind of laughed. Then she then asked what I wanted to put the beer in. I said, “I would carry it out, without a bag, because Brown dog only drinks Molson. And he would probably be drinking in the car.” I know open alcohol and all, but you just can’t tell Brown dog anything. Hey, HE IS a big rap singer.

     The last couple weeks he had been dragging ass. Not the chipper singer when we came home, he barely moved, for hours at a time. I was sure he was not long for this world. No matter how much we prepare we are never ready for the loss of a friend. I woke up one night last week and half-carried and cajoled him to the food dish. He ate a couple mouthfuls from my hand. He didn’t even eat his treats. We lay on the floor and slept for a minute or maybe an hour. I knew, but was not ready to accept what was imminent. My wife urged me to call the vet. I had some lame excuse, like I was working, but eventually I called the vet. He could be seen on Saturday.

    Last night he went on a road trip to see Uncle Chuck and Chris. Granted it is only a 25 minute drive, and most times you would have thought it was getting an audience with the king. The rapping would start as soon as the collar was out. Not last night. He struggled to get in the car. He was a bit perkier for the evening. He seemed pretty good. Maybe he just had a cold… He ate some food, and some table scraps. He almost walked thru the screen door, but I think he had had a bit too much to drink. He is a big rap singer after all.

     He collapsed when we got home. I had to carry him up the stairs. He probably had too many Molson’s. Well, we all have our moments when we delude ourselves. He did not look good. Blame the beer and the hard parting life of a rap singer if you want. That’s what I did. But I knew.

     We took him the vet today. The old boy was not acting like the big rap singer that he is. He was struggling. The news was bad. He probably would not make it thru the week end. The day was here. Major suckage… We had him euthanized. It hurt. A lot. He was a good boy, and a great friend. I will miss him. Somewhere he is rapping with other dogs and hanging with the fat white girl.

Just another day in paradise

You get my drift?

     I was driving today to get my taxes done. I know it’s hard to believe that I could come up with a blog while driving what with all the voices in my head, the stress of taxes, and my self-professed inability to multi task. There are probably a few drivers thinking that I was putting on makeup, texting, reading the paper and setting Sheila to a new destination. The fact is I was driving and conversating (add to dictionary Norman, the spell checker) with myself about the newest ramblings for this blog…

     Spring stinks…There. I said it. Don’t get me wrong, I love spring, but seriously, there are some rank, rotten, odoriferous, and obnoxious spring smells. There are good ones as well. I love those. I am not talking about those steaks and twice baked’s. Get my drift?

     The first odor of spring is the drifting stench of thawed out poodle bombs. Actually browndog bombs, but poodle bombs is such an eloquent term. Well, it is either browndog, of the iceman from the glacier on the roof. I recently checked the gutters and they were filled with some sinkus-stenchus americanus. Why do rotting leaves smells so bad? Maybe it is not rotting leaves maybe before the iceman ran off in his Speedo, he left a little present. (BTW, you can now reference these references from my blogspot, by typing in a keyword, in the JADIP finds stuff search engine, cuz that’s how I roll. I am always thinking of you, my faithful followers.)

     For instance you know that the Grand River smells like the Mancave toilet after a three day Stanley Cup Finals drunk, where in your over-served stupor you decided that you REALLY could just let it mellow. And then forgot about it for the next week. You get my drift. I knowYou have driven by the I-196 area in question where if the wind is right the smell drifts in and stays like an unwanted in-law.

     Then as I wander down the e-way, past the farm pastures, another assault on my olfactory function drifts through the open windows. For a moment I wonder did I just shart? The fields are filled with fresh manure that some farmers still use as fertilizer. I wonder if they know that there are chemicals that do not smell, as much as dung, but work as well. Maybe they don’t work as well. I am not a farmer, but I do know that manure, if you get my drift, stinks. You may want to say I don’t know shit. You may…However, I do what shit smells like.

     Poop stinks so that the dullards of the world do not mistake it for food. Although for some reason dogs think it is perfectly okay to eat other animals’ excrement. The fat white dog used to eat rabbit turd like it was Rasinettes from the bunnygods…However, dogs also can lick their genitals. See God does have a sense of humor.

     Then I hit  the gas station. I do not know why, because I am not Bill Nye, but petroleum products are more pungent in the spring. Even the trash cans near the pumps proliferate putridity as the weather warms. Nothing like the smell of stale Starbucks twisted around partially pre-masticated hotdogs and other discarded refuse. Yummy! You get my drift?

     As I am driving, I am bombarded by malodorous malfeasance. Spring has sprung a leak and it smells like those shrimp you put in the refrigerator 3 weeks ago and forgot about. Oh wait, that smell is Coopersville. I think it was named for the amount of chicken coops. From what I have heard there is no turd that is worse than chickenshit. Now, however, Coopersville has a land fill. And that my friends are "why I don’t eat shrimp"…http://www.americanwaymag.com/charles-barkley-basketball-tnt-nba-nbc-phoenix.

     No, wait a minute, that is why Coopersville smells so bad now. Come to think of it Coopersville stinks even during the winter. I can understand why people do not want a landfill in their back yard. Get my drift?

    Spring time is also the time of year for the LIONS to stink up another promising young college athlete’s life. Yes, the LIONS Superbowl happens in April. Every f’ing year. Being a LIONS fan means you have to drink the KOOL-AID. Hopefully it was not mixed by Jim Jones. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Jones  (actually it was flavor-aid or something else...whatever, koolaid, it is still publicity) You can only have hope that this year they don’t screw it up and that they pick well. KOOL-AID!!!

    This year I call it the SUH per bowl. (You can Google this in the JADIP finds stuff search engine on my blog page.) It has always been a gamble for any team to draft. But Matt Millen perfected the art of gambling and losing... And brought it to a new level. thank god he is gone!!! The LIONS draft during his tenure smells worse than a dead man in a van for three days.

    I really do know what that dead guy smells like. It is not a smell you can forget. EVER. A dead animal in a crawl space is close. You may wonder how I know this particular odor. I could tell you but I would have to kill you. Just like that guy in the van. (Just kidding). You get my drift?

     Many years ago, in the spring of 1986 or ’87, I was married to the first ex- Mrs. Johnson. We were living in Louisville, KY. We were looking for a house. We were going to put down roots. We found the perfect house with three bedrooms with hardwood floors, one and one half baths, on a big lot. It was convenient to the city, the highway, and our jobs.

     It was on a crawl space. Intermingled with the lilacs and the dingle-lilies was a scent that can only be described as ab-so-f’ing-lutly-god-awful. (Yeah, like I really know what kind of flowers and such were blooming. Seriously?) It had a rotting meat smell. It was baffling. We checked the crawl space. No dead meat in there. We checked everywhere.

     We found nothing. Every where we went drifted the sticky sweet, yet undeniably awful aroma of a tyrannosaurus’s dentures. Baffled we stood near the street. Unfortunately, that was when we noticed that the smell was worse. Maybe it was the sewer. Maybe it was a dead alligator?

      It was not the sewer. However, a few minutes later, the street was filled with the sound of sirens and flashing lights. Apparently the smell was not from our dream house. It was from the van parked in front of the neighbors’ house right next door. Right by where we were parked. There was a dead guy in the van. He offed his wife or girlfriend inside the house next door and then put a bullet in his brain case in the van. He had been there a few days ripening up. Spoiled our day. Probaly killed our marriage. (RRRIIIIGHT!)

     We did not buy THAT house…

     The next smell cannot even be described. So horrific, so putrid, so inevitable. Just like death. The smell of tax time. Yes friends, the fifteenth of April is right around the corner. Tax time sinks. More than a dead guy in a van. More than Coopersville. More than the LIONS draft day. More than browndog bombs. MORE THAN ANYTHING!!! Doesn’t matter if you owe or get money back, you still have to file. And the forms, oh great googgily-moogily…

     Don’t even get me started on these particular assclowns. Suffice it to say, never over pay the IRS!!! (Idiots Really Stupid) if you get my drift…They have a way of not knowing WTF is going on unless they want your money. I usually try to keep as much as I can during the year, so the feds cannot use my tax dollars to do something stupid. Like exist. Seems like I f’ed up this year… Muchly costly!!! If you get my drift…

Just another day in paradise

Since you’re askin’

     I know you regular readers are wondering what on earth I could possibly be thinking about for another trip to the bloggering hole. Well, since you’re askin', here it is. Another raucous round of insanity from your favorite blogger.

     I do not often stand on a soap box, mainly because I am afraid of heights, I may fall off and injure myself and our healthcare system sucks, but I will today. I have some things that are bothering me and I just think you all should know. Damn the co-pay and full speed ahead!!

     A few days ago, or maybe it was a week or so ago, I was watching the MIGHTY REDWINGS, and a commercial came on the tube. Unfortunately, for me, the magic DVR was caught up so I was watching the game live. Hence, I HAD to suffer thru the commercials.

     The first advertisement was a commercial for the Bernstein Advantage. For those of you that are unaware, the Bernstein’s are a group of lawyers. That alone gets my socks a rottin’ but worse yet they are ambulance chasers. And they have the stones to appear in their own commercials.

     Since you’re askin’ being the star of your own commercial is not in and of itself always a bad thing, but all three, the two brothers and one sister, all have Marty Feldman eyes. And worse yet, one boy is blind. Do ya think they could put some Ray’s on this joker? Nope. Even Cyclops from the X-men wears protective lenses. He does have the ability to shoot a powerful red beam from his eyes, but the Bernstein’s probably can as well. At least I think they do, or how else do they win cases? Maybe it is something with their Marty Feldman eyes that causes  the opposition lawyers to lose cases from the inability to keep a straight face.

    Next up there was an ad for Jimmy Johns. Most of Jimmy John’s ads are incredibly, ridiculously, stupid, but this one is a trip down mega stupidity lane. Two guys are trying to defuse a bomb. They cut a wire and the ticker keeps going so the older guy makes a call. Does he call any of his loved ones? Nope. He calls and a second later Jimmy Johns delivery is there. Since you’re askin’ no amount of alcohol makes this even remotely funny.

     And while we are on the subject of Jimmy Johns, I am at war with them. I ordered a sandwich recently, for around $5.00 and got a large hunk of bread and a tiny bit of meat. Thankfully, they gave me two packets of mayo, so I was able to substitute the fat calories as opposed to protein. Since you’re askin’ mayo does act as a lubricant while trying to choke down a large hunk of bread. A Crown and coke helps as well.

     Great googgily moogily yet another commercial came on the tube. Frantically, I hit the FF button, but Dammit, I was still live… Metro PSC is trying to entice me to buy their phone service. I can live with that, but then, the actors they chose were Indian, (from the country of India, not Native American) and while I am not trying to be racist, because I hate everybody equally, (Just kidding hate is a subject that I will broach in a future soap box blog), but because of a couple, no several, bad experiences with the HELP line from India.

     Every one of you has probably had a similar experience. You call because you cannot get the computer or some other electronic thing to work correctly. You look up the help line and call the 888 number. Someone named Paul (Seriously? Paul? C’mon, really?) with a heavy unintelligible accent says something that you think may be, “How may I help you?” You cannot understand what “Paul” is saying. Obviously, you swallow the reply, “WTF did you just say. Why don’t you learn to speak English and then we will talk.” So if you are like me, you say, “Oh, hey man, that solved the problem.” Then promptly hang up. Metro PCS may have great product. Since you’re askin’ I will never know. I blame “Paul”.

      Since you’re askin’ there was one more commercial. And, no, it was not PSA about healthcare reform. I do not think I have seen a single commercial about that subject. I wonder why? The next bothersome brain trust bust was about Lexus automobiles. For a moment, however slight, I though this would be better. Nope. I was wrong! The ad tried to get me all excited about how many hybrids that they had in their product line. WhoopedeeF’inDoo!

      Since you’re askin’ there were no sharp objects around with which to slit my throat, so I suffered thru the pain. Three Vicodin would not have dulled this assault on my intelligence. It started with a view of the four or five models and then morphed into about 17 million. Yup. Give or take a few. I lost count after three, just like the Owl in that tootsie pop commercial. Lick, one, lick two, Crunch three.

      Just because the cars are SOOO damn fuel efficient we thought we would use a few million to parade around in the shape of a gas pump. And drive in circles like that blind Bernstein guy. Or Stevie Wonder. (That reference was for you CB!) F that! Maybe it was all CGI, and most likely it was, but what I SAW were 17 million cars driving around WASTING gas. Since you’re askin’.

     The WINGS came back on and I hit pause. I wrote down these ideas on a couple of envelopes I pulled out of the trash, (in RED PEN cuz I was watching the REDWINGS) And I was sittin' on my lucky couch!!! (da da da da dada). Since you're askin', I paused long enough to avoid any more commercials for the rest of the game.

     Since you’re askin’ I think we should have a NON-BIASED PSA about what exactly the government thinks is wrong with health care. I would watch that. It may be REALLY FUNNY. Funny because they have no idea.  I know what is wrong with health care. The Hockey Ball Incident http://bruceejohnsonjadip.blogspot.com/2009/12/hockey-ball-incident.html taught me more than I already knew.

     Since you’re askin, profiteering drug and insurance companies are the main culprits. Well, that and the fat cat politicians in the pockets of the same, that spend more time pointing fingers and calling names than doing anything productive, all the while know that they have excellent healthcare for life. They never have to worry about weather or not they have a cup on when they get hit in the junk with a Hockeyball. Not that hey would get off their fat cat asses or leave their yacht or jet long enough to even play Hockeyball.

     Profit is fine. Protecting your share holders is also fine. Prescribing drugs that are NEEDED is fine. Making billions on the failing health, of our crumbling society, and doping up the population, for the sake of another 17 million dollar yacht or Leer Jet is a bit over the top. Since you’re askin, even the blind Bernstein guy can see that. Well, maybe he can’t because he is also part of the problem.

Just another day in paradise

MCT and the Drunken blog...

I am writing this blog after Mancave Thursday, (MCT) which is kind of like a bowling league, it happens every week and there is drinking involved. This week we finally completed the paper football table. Not bad, it only took us 3 or 4 months, but a Mancave success is success nonetheless. It is kind of hard to complete any project when there is a hockey game, NCAA B-ball tourney,” Kelley’s Heroes” or MMA to watch. OR the Mancave is 50 degrees. OR there are too many daddy pops imbued by the participants. Sometimes we do get over-served…OR the team doesn’t show…

     Drunken blogging 101. Step one: get drunk. Step two: start writing whatever comes into your head. Step three: make sure Norman, the spell cjheckler is on. Oops I mean spell checker. See what I mean? Step four: concentrate on what you are really trying to say. Wait a minute that is difficult for me anytime. Step five: eliminate step four.

    MCT is all about the project. (And the company.) Keep it simple, stupid! Just like a bowling team, all members of Mancave should attend every week. However a few misses is okay. BLOWING OFF MCT EVERY WEEK IS LAME….(Unless you live three hours away)...kind of like bumper bowling…or rolling a 299, just one lousy pin away from perfect

     I know you may be wondering what exactly a paper football table is, and why on earth would anyone make one. I have made two. That makes me either twice as great or twice as stupid…you decide. I know what my answer is. A paper football table is exactly like what it sounds like it is.

     It is a table to play paper football on. The one we built has lines and a goal post and a beer spot to mark the “offs”. Three off and the other guy get to kick a field goal. I know it is all coming back to you now. You played this in study hall and in the lunch room. Remember penny hockey and penny basketball?

     I would include a picture, but techtarded is my middle name, so just picture it in your head. Remember back when I started this blog, I could not even link it correctly. Thanks to Chris B for the tutorial. If it helps, a football field is green. Not the color of Cookies house, but hey his house is a shade of green. Think Spartan Green. A football field has stripes every ten yards, is 100 yards (300 feet) long by 50 yards wide, so think proportions…I know that any rendition you come up with will suffice.

     Our first rendition of the paper football table was actually the run off table, for the table saw, in the “original” Mancave. One night Rich and I played a game of paper football and decided to make a paper football table. It was awesome. No. Strike that. TOTALLY AWESOME!! The proportions were not quite right, but it gave us another option after our “project” for the night was done, or the game of the week was over. I think a game of paper football burns off about 300 calories, so it is also healthy, however, not quite as much exercise as bowling.

     Anyone that reads this blog regularly may think that I write all of my blogs in and altered state. They may think that every day is MCT. That is partially true, as the many people I am, while they have an uneasy truce, are constantly vying for the attention they so rightfully deserve. Remember I do hear voices…

     It is kind of like a continual buzz. My head is like Alice in Wonderland. Well, at least the oddities that I saw in the previews for the new movie and the perception I have of the book. It is a nearly blind perception, as I have never actually read the book. However, politicians have never lived on minimum wage, yet they think that it is possible to live that way. That parallel really does not work, Alice…okay so how about this…It is like 300 Spartans defying the odds…nope on that as well…

     This blog is kind of like having me in the room with you. The difference is you can shut me up when ever you want simply by navigating away from the blog. That is what makes this interweb thingy so great, if you do not like the content, then you can simply go elsewhere. However, if we are face to face, I may follow you and keep rambling…Although I cannot imagine what other things you could do that cost so little and bring so much amusement. And remember, we all need a little more amusement.

    This seems like a lot of fun. Wwwweeeeeeee. Bruce’s blogger wild ride! Until I read the results tomorrow. Then I may feel a bit of shame, kind of like spending time in the penalty box. Probably not, as I usually do a couple dry runs and editing. Not this time! I am sending this out, hot off the presses. Roll the dice, baby see how it shakes out!!

     It is amazing that I slur my words when I type and there is little difference between sober and drunken typing. I suck at both. Imagine that? I don’t feel drunk, but my fingers are. “Honestly ossifer, I am not as think as you drun’ I am.” Actually, I had only two daddy pops tonight, (talls, with a splash of coke) maybe I had three, but who’s counting. I should not have had that coca cola chaser…caffeine…

     Counting your drinks is for amateurs. I am not an amateur. While I have a bit of a buzz, drunk is not a reality. Some things seem like a lot of fun when you are drunk. Then the harsh reality hits you like a 7-10 split, or a bazillion Persians. Or maybe 2 Parisians…Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, I am not too drunk to think in the circular pattern that I usually do. WTF was my point? Oh yeah.

     MCT was a success this week. We accomplished a Herculean task. We stopped watching the NCAA round ball tourney, set down our daddy pops, stopped talking smack and worked as a team. The A-Team. That’s right Nabozniak, the A-team! We did all that just long enough to assemble the final parts and pieces. The sweet smell of success! The taste of victory! We rolled a 300…The perfect game.

Just another day in paradise

Hey aren’t you……

     I have always been an applause junkie. I have always had the travelin' bone. Even as a little kid running around the neighborhood sans diaper and turning on the neighbors hoses, I have craved attention. High maintenance has been a word to describe me. I have been mistaken for Richard Dreyfus. Not the old guy in his later years, but the guy that played Hooper in Jaws. I am not sure it that is a good thing or a bad thing...

     Actually, the young Dreyfus does look a little like me. “Hey aren’t you Richard Dreyfus?” “No, but he looks like me.” I was that street musician that played in Saugatuck.

     As many of you know I used to be a street performer. That is not to say that I was a great street performer, I didn’t juggle or swallow fire. I did not do magic. It was not as daring as that. It was simply a venue to play my music; you know those simple folksy story songs. I did not do it for the money. Although the money was sometimes pretty good, I did it for the fame, the applause, the notoriety. And as I love to attest to I was mildly famous.

     It had its ups and downs like anything else. I choose to remember it as a great time. Not just to look at it thru the old rose coloreds, but because it mostly was. I had quit smoking dope, and saved up enough to hit the road in the converted Chevy van with my dog Busker. Life was good! I also had the SEAMONKEY my sailboat to live in…Yeah it was the shit!! I was Hey aren’t you….I was THAT guy.

     Nonetheless, I was a street performer. I played in any town I could find that would allow me to play from Saugatuck on down to Key West. Which, BTW, were few and far between, but then again, I did not look very hard. It was more about being on the road than the destination. It was more about the music than the venue, but I even played on Mallory Square before they made it a bastardization of street performing with rules and auditions.

    I played in Pennsylvania at some college campus. (Turned out it was Penn State, which has a beauty of a campus in Wilkes- Barre.) Don’t ask me how Pennsylvania could possibly be on the way to Key West from Saugatuck, but suffice it to say it was long before the invention of Sheila, the girl in my GPS. Even back then the shortest route was always the one I missed a few turns back. I played in rest areas. I played in St Augustine. I played on the beach as well.

     I played at the Toledo Zoo on Thanksgiving week end. Damn it was cold, but I made a few bucks and so it was alright. Somehow on this same trip, I also got kicked out of a head shop. Not that I was still smoking dope, or that there is anything wrong with dope...I needed some papers to roll a cigarette.They kicked me out for saying, "Hey man that is a sweet bong!!" Apparently the term “bong” is not cool, or as they said, illegal...(as opposed to “water pipe” which is fine...just fine???) BTW...The LIONS even beat the vikes in a shootout that year on turkey day.

     There was a great article written featuring the street music scene in Saugatuck, in the Kalamazoo Gazette. It included my picture and a few quotes. It was a nice little publicity thing. Once you become an applause junkie, it never stops. You need the attention. "Hey aren’t you that guy in the paper?" Holland’s little news paper also did a little blurb on me and the street scene as well. “Hey, aren’t you that street musician in Saugatuck?”

     Mostly, I played on Butler Street in Saugatuck, next to the Sand Bar, and On Duval Street in Key West, anywhere I could find a spot. Eventually, the Saugatuck gig became political and they moved us down to the gazebo, where it ceased being street performing and became a stage act. Some how the intimacy faded when I got on stage, it really lost the flavor of the street, even though we were only 50 to 100 feet from the street. And don’t get me started on Mallory and all that, let alone House Boat Row.

     And then I got remarried. Hey aren’t you mildly famous was now a dad. Scary, Huh kids?

     Shortly after I re-married, Roxy, the kids and I were down in Key West. I ran into an old acquaintance, who asked me to sit in for a song or two. I, of course, said "Hell yeah!" As I was playing, the song Prisoner, some one walked by and said “Hey, Aren’t you that guy that plays on the street in Saugatuck?” I smiled and said yeah. Mildly famous. Jus' sayin'....

    Time passes.Again I took to the streets. I played in Rockford and again someone decided to write about me. “Hey aren’t you that mildly famous street music guy?” I guess being pegged as a street musician is better than being pegged in America’s Most Wanted, or in the Arrest News. Mildly famous is not enough, but it was all I could do. I figured really famous was a lot of work. Anytime your passion becomes work, it becomes a job and I really do not like the business side of music. Hey, I also love to fish, but I do not want to join the Bass Tourney circuit.

     Like anything else, the street gig came to a close; it became a struggle to maintain the purity. I did some coffee houses and a couple gigs at One Trick Pony. I played at the singer song writer’s gig at Schuler’s Books and Music. Mildly famous. It is tough to be a “where are they now” street performer.

     Time passes…

     Hey aren’t you mildly famous is now a dad, a soccer coach, and the Regional Commissioner of the Cedar Springs AYSO. Hey aren’t you mildly famous became “Hey aren’t you that soccer guy?”, and a lot of other names I won’t mention to try to keep this blog close to PG. Yeah, being Hey aren’t you... backfired in that little trip down the parenthood path. It was nearly as bad as being on America’s Most Wanted.

     Time passes. Years go by. I have packed away all of “Hey aren’t you mildly famous” in a box in the basement. I have also packed on some pounds. Now I am “the Fatty”, Roxy’s (sometimes jackass) husband; Chris and Libby’s step-dad, Rich’s Friend that did this or that in stories for his ninth grade class, and a lot of other things; some that are nice and some not so nice.

     Years roll on by. I now look more like Dreyfus in Mr. Holland’s Opus than Hooper in Jaws. I have a new gig. I do the best I can. I am sometimes not very good at my new role, but oh well…I do try... “Hey aren’t you mildly famous” is gone to live with Mr. Mo Jo Rison…

     Recently, I was at the Kalamazoo Home Builders Show, doing the working gig I do now, selling and remodeling. I was standing in the booth. A lady walks up to me and asks, “Hey, aren’t you that guy that used to play on the street in Key West?” “You’re a little older,” she says, “and less hair, I mean no pony tail, but that was you, right? I was doing an internship down there and saw you all the time” I am kind of taken aback. “Yep” I reply. Mildly famous.

Just another day in paradise