THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED...AND OTHER TRAGEDIES.

My lovely wife has told me that Saturdays are the day for sleeping in. Apparently everyone in the house believes this to be true except for me. I've slept really light this week. I've begun grinding my teeth again in my sleep. It's crazy. I'll wake up with sores in my mouth and have a faint memory of my wife talking to me in the middle of the night, massaging my jaw. It's a horrible thing (it's actually called bruxism). You go to sleep tired (because you didn't sleep the night before either) and you wake up four or five hours later wake up with your jaws, teeth and head hurting.


My lovely wife stayed up late trying to diagnose me, solve me. She's like that because, well, she's a clinical psychologist. They offered many solutions: take calcium before going to bed, lavender oil rubbed onto your neck and jaw, 2000 mg of magnesium before bed, hot bath before bed, counseling, drink less alcohol, where a mouth guard (yeah, like a running back), cognitive-behavioral therapy. All sound like good solutions, however, I'm not much for evening baths, rubbing oil on my beautiful exterior will only cause me to break out, I'm not drinking alcohol, I've worn the mouth guard and they suck and I've never been a good candidate for counseling. That'd leave magnesium and calcium. I'm not even good at taking pills because, well, I never do. It's not a stance I take, I just never need them. I guess I'll try it. Magnesium doesn't sound like something you should be taking, though. Whatever.


The causes of bruxism are even odder. Bruxers (there's a name for people like me...I guess "bruxer" is better than "insensitive prick"--like I normally get) could develop the grinding by changes in sleep patterns, aggressive personality type, early Huntington's or Parkinson's disease, stress (one that remains a top suspect) or, my personal favorite, internalized anger. My lovely wife, as sweet as she is, has suggested that I might not even realize that I have anger issues because I exert that energy in a subconcious state. It got me thinking: am I like a hulk-like character? Could this be an effect of the growth hormones I've been taking? Is this like roid rage? I just love the thought that I have internalized anger. It's like I'm carrying a little devil child or something. Or a possession of some sort. Kiddingly, I asked my lovely wife if she's scared to sleep with me--afraid that I might go off in the middle of night when my anger is externalized. She wasn't. Us bruxers are high-strung individuals. But to think, as high-energy as I am, that I could be internalizing something or anything is beyond me.

Random note: Dale and Sarah, it looks like SXSW ain't happening this year. Again. Sucks, but there's just too much snow in Colorado to spend a weekend trapped in a crowded bar watching a 30-minute set from 2Mex. Not that I don't want to see you all too and check out the new pad, but it'll have to be another time. I know you're disappointed. I can sense it internally.

THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED

So I found out a slight defect to Da Pocket Prophet the other day (Zune). I was just about to walk out for lunch and had set it in my lap while I typed an email. I stood up and Da Prophet fell about two to three feet to the ground. I look down and, would you believe, the LCD cracked. It still played, but now I couldn't negotiate my way around. It just looked like my Zune hit a bird going about 150 miles an hour. I present Exhibit A. This came only a few days after snapping the screen on my phone. It's probably the internalized anger. Found a replacement part (with tools) on Ebay for only $60. Small price to pay to enjoy 1989 all over again. Oh, and if I haven't mentioned, I am on 1989 now. I blew through 1988. I keep finding a few things from 1988 that I need, but I felt comfortable taking the step into 1989. I think I've mentioned this somewhere.

(listening to LL Cool J's "I'm the Type of Guy")

Last night, I had the opportunity to participate in a unique cultural exchange, if you will. Now, for my readers and those new to The Root Down. I'm white. Not pasty, but definably white. I come from a German heritage. I'm not confused about my ethnicity. No matter how much Sly Stone and EPMD I listen to, I will never get blacker. And nor would I want to. I am who I am. That being said, I have also realized that not all white people are created or educated equally. I discovered this last night at the Rodney Carrington show. For those not in the know, Rodney Carrington is one in a long line of country comedians (see also Ron White, Larry the Cable Guy, Jeff Foxworthy). He's been doing it for a long time and he's sold a lot of records. His biggest schtick is the songs he has written about, uh, anatomy. Yeah, I know it sounds juvenile, but when you find your niche, exploit it. So we have a country comedian that sings songs about his and others' anatomy. What sort of audience do you think an act like this attracts? Well, if you said "predominantly uneducated white trash that spent their entire mortgage on Busch and Carrington tickets," you'd be right. Look, I don't mean to bag on them, but when I was in line to use the restroom, I saw about twenty guys go in, piss and walk out with not one of them washing their hands. I, however, turned the faucet on for the first time of the evening. If that doesn't make your skin absolutely crawl, you must not wash your hands after finishing your business either. I don't mean to bag on them, but I don't think I've ever seen so many lethally intoxicated humans still able to march up about fifty stairs to retrieve two more Bud Lights for themself and their date. I don't mean to bag on them, but they laughed at, essentially, the same joke about infidelity for over two hours. When you live with acute mental retardation, I suppose it only takes one joke with fifty different deliveries. In that way, Rodney's a damn genius.

I knew I was in for a challenge when Rodney came out mockingly dancing to Will Smith's "Get Jiggy Wit It" and, as the music shuts off, Rodney's first words are, "I like that African music--makes me horny." Then, the place went up in a roar of laughter. During the course of his act, he knocked on rappers, blacks (not necessarily one in the same, in case you didn't know), gays, Muslims and, well, what kinda country comedian would you be if you didn't find creative ways to smear marriage and fidelity? He was really in his wheelhouse. I don't think he had one joke that didn't result in a riotous uproar of laughter.

I was asked afterwards if I enjoyed the show because, by someone's observations, I just sat there the whole time "with my arms crossed and didn't laugh once." I explained that I was typically "stoic" during comedy shows, but the truth is that I didn't really find him funny. Part was that I was offended, but moreso that I just didn't find him that funny. I wasn't trying to purposefully bum people out, in fact, I kinda turned my shoulders away from the people I was sitting with so I didn't have to share my displeasure with anyone. I was actually shocked when I was called out on it. The cat was out of the bag--I can't enjoy a comedian.

Afterwards, we were in line to meet the great Rodney Carrington and some dude came from backstage asking for Anderson Merchandisers first (that'd be Wal-Mart for those scoring at home). The irony is that, while we've sold probably close to 75,000 Rodney Carrington albums over the year, Wal-Mart has sold a whopping zero. That's because, well, they don't believe in the first amendment. They won't carry Rodney because he cusses and sings about his unit. But, despite protesting against comedians like Rodney by not carrying his product, Anderson gets to get in first into the meet-and-greet. How awesome. We heckled from around the wall yelling things like, "We support the first amendment," and, "We're pro-smut."

Whatever. Rodney was actually very polite. I was somewhat regretful for so quickly drawing direct attachments between him and his moron fans. We posed for a picture and I showed my gratitude. He was equally grateful.

Tux has finally gotten the hang of the potty training. It's about damn time. He got it right before being sent off to Obedience Class. We'll see how it turns out. I wish there was a session that covered "Resisting the Lure of Licking a Smelly Ass." That'd be really helpful. I'll make to write that in the "additional comments" field of our survey at the end of the eight-week run.

This dog's life is about to change.