iPod shuffle

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

"My Stupid Mouth," John Mayer: A quick synopsis of every awkward date I had between the ages of 18 and 27. 

"Counting Blue Cars," Dishwalla and "Everything Falls Apart," Dog's Eye View: Both minor, '90s one-hit wonders with something else in common -- both songs mention meeting or wanting to meet God.

In "Counting Blue Cars," the singer reminds us of his biblical appointment repeatedly, almost taunting the listener. "Tell me all your thoughts on God," he croons, "because I'm on my way to see her."

I added that emphasis on "her" to point out the casual way the pronoun is dropped. As an impressionable youth, this blew my mind. God is a woman? Why was this never mentioned in all my years of Hebrew school?

In "Everything Falls Apart," by contrast, our protagonist meets God on a train. And, to be honest, our protagonist is kind of a dick:

I said, "Don't you have
Better things to do?"
He said, "If I do my job
What would you complain about?"

You tell him, God!

So who wins in this battle of the Almighty? I prefer our man in "Everything Falls Apart" because at least he does stuff; "Counting Blue Cars" guy, when not, well, counting blue cars, just broods and whines. On the other hand, "Counting Blue Cars" is much more fun to sing in the car.
 
"Hava Nagila Baltimore Breaks,"Joro-Boro: Because if you can only have one club-remixed version of Hava Nagila, this is the one you want.

"Bleeding Love," Leona Lewis: Belle and I heard the song on the radio recently. Then this conversation happened.

Belle: Whatever happened to her?
Me: I guess she bled out.
Belle: [Uncontrollable laughter]
Me: [Uncontrollable laughter because of her uncontrollable laughter]

If keeping each other laughing is the key to a successful marriage, we'll be OK.

"Luck Be A Lady," Frank Sinatra: From "Sinatra at the Sands," it's one killer standard after another backed by Count Basie and His Orchestra. Whether singing or telling jokes on the album, Sinatra sounds like a man in complete in control of the room. Every time I hear this song, I imagine Sinatra at the craps table, Mia Farrow on his arm and yelling "Eleven!" as the dice turn one last time.

The song also reminds me of a framed picture I had on our wall. I first saw it at my grandfather's, at which point I decided I would get one when I had my own place.

For lack of a better word, it's just a cool picture. What is the source of their laughter? (My theory: Someone farted.) Why are they all reacting in different directions? How much less cool would this be if they were not wearing tuxes? It's a great conversation starter and an interesting moment frozen in time.

Frank, Dean and Sammy have lived with me the last five years or so, the first few when I was a bachelor in a bachelor pad. When Belle and I moved in to our apartment, she graciously -- OK, begrudgingly -- allowed me to hang the photo in our living room.

Earlier this summer, as we started planning to buy a house, Belle told me there would be no place for The Rat Pack in our new home. Frankly, I was just glad she decided to take me to the new house, so I nodded in agreement.

I took the photo down from the wall the other week as we prepare to move and truly start our lives together. Like the men it features, the picture is now a symbol of a bygone era.

But the future still feels like nothing but rolls of 11.

Urine trouble

I was sitting on the beach in the Outer Banks earlier this summer when nature called. There was no Garçon de Piss in the vicinity, let alone a public bathroom.

Belle had to go, too, so I followed her into the water (keeping some distance, natch). She was out of the ocean in a few minutes. I remained in the waves.

And I tried.

And I tried.

After 10 minutes, I gave up.

I walked back to our beach chairs, defeated. Belle, my sister-in-law and her boyfriend looked at me with a mix of incredulity and empty bladders.

I like to think of myself as pretty good when it comes to urination: my autobiography could be titled "Wait for the Shake." Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I'll be in the bathroom for so long I fall asleep standing up. I have had no problems going No. 1 in the woods or on the side of the road if I absolutely had to. But I might be the only person who cannot pee in the ocean.

The irony, in an Alanis Morissette kind of way, is that I love the beach. Give me a beach chair and a couple magazines and I'm content for an entire day. Until I have to go to the bathroom, at which point I find the nearest restroom.

I think my issue is how ocean urination is basically peeing your pants. Perhaps I have some repressed memory of feeling embarrassed when I was a wee lad (ha!) who couldn't hold it in. Besides, aren't children taught to wait to use a bathroom and given positive reinforcement for doing so? Maybe, by peeing in the ocean, I would be setting a bad example for the next generation of beachgoers, like Fat Guy in Speedo or Guy Strumming Guitar But Not Actually Playing A Song. (Note to Guitar Guy: You playing a G chord over and over is not going to make bikini-clad groupies come out of nowhere but it will give me a headache.)
 
Yet on some level, I understand that I'm coming out of the ocean with a wet bathing suit no matter what, so I might as well just go. But I physically can't pull the trigger. The act of urinating on my clothing is a mental block I can't overcome. While in the ocean at the Outer Banks, the thought  of pretending I was in front of a urinal crossed my mind, followed by the thought of getting a citation for indecent exposure. 

Instead, I sat down in my beach chair and picked up my magazine. Then a funny thing happened -- my need to pee went away. I was able to enjoy the rest of the day on the beach.

Looking back on it now, I realize my ability to hold it in means I'm living in a golden age of bladder control. That is, when I was a baby, I had no control. Thirty years from now, I'll probably have to go on the hour, every hour. So I'm going to enjoy these years of a regular-sized prostate before it's too late.

And I'm also going to enjoy these years when I can still sprint, because that's exactly what I did when I got back to beach house to reach the bathroom.

A not-quite-good-enough Good Samaritan

I was late for my haircut appointment and fiddling with my iPod when I heard a noise above the din of my ear buds.

"Excuse me!"

It was a woman in a beat-up car, waving me over.

"My car died. Can you push me up the hill?"

It was a fairly steep incline that would require a good 20 feet of movement plus a slight turn to get her out of the way of traffic.

Now, I like to think I'm in pretty good shape, but I'm no Ivan Putski. Nevertheless, I went over and began pushing. No luck. I stepped back from the car when I heard another voice.

"Why don't you roll the car downhill to the side of the road?"

This driver at the stoplight made a good point. I let gravity do the work and got the car down the hill and to the side of the road. Thankfully, no cars were coming, but I was ready to channel my-inner-fifth-grade school safety patrol and halt traffic.

(Speaking of, I've noticed more and more police officers directing traffic at intersections where there are no accidents or problems. This ends up slowing down traffic because drivers have to be careful not to hit the officers. If only there were some sort of light system that signaled to drivers when it was time to move...)

Now we're on the side of the road and I'm definitely going to be late for my haircut. The woman thanks me and I'm about to go on my way.

"I dropped my phone in the sink the other week and it hasn't been working. Can I use yours?"

I wanted to do a quick scan of my surroundings to get as good a look at my kidnappers as possible, figuring this had to be a setup. But I gave her my phone and waited.

And waited. And waited.

I thought about all of what appeared to be trash in her car and wondered if she were one of those people who says, "It looks messy but I know where everything is."

I thought about the sales people who, when they want you to sign something, ask for your autograph. It's flattering when you're 12 and for a split-second when you're an adult, until you realize this person would have the worst autograph collection ever.

I thought about Bachman-Turner Overdrive. "Let it ride" or "let it roll?" Let's pick a directive and stick with it, BTO.

I thought about the people walking behind me. We were stopped directly across the street from a hospital entrance. A frail-looking, elderly woman with toothpicks for legs was slowly shuffling toward the hospital, left hand on the brick building for support. Wouldn't it be something if she asked me...

"Excuse me," she said.

You've got to be kidding, I thought.

"Can you help me across the street?"

I stammered something about how I was already earning my Good Samaritan badge with the woman in the broken-down car.

I'm not sure she bought it; fortunately, someone else came along to help the patient to the hospital.

The tow truck had been arranged finally and was on its way. The woman thanked me profusely for helping her. I wished her the best and called to say I would be late for my haircut.

The lesson in all of this, I think, is that just when you think you've seen everything life, you realize you ain't seen nothing yet.

In the shower, on the lamb

The following conversation with myself took place in the shower the other day.

Q. You look great.

A. Thanks, so do you.

Q. Is that a tan?

Photo: Eric Stocklin

A. Yes, yes it is. I just came back from my honeymoon in Cancun.

Q. Please share an unusual observation you made about the staff of the resort you stayed at. 

A. All of the men had great, slicked back hair that stayed perfect all day despite any heat or wind. We left Cancun with some ceramics and a few sunburns, but I would have liked to have taken back some of their hair products.

Q. A honeymoon means there must have been a wedding. How'd that go? 

A. If there weren't 53,981,421 photos from the evening, I wouldn't have believed it happened. I recommend everyone get married if only for the food tasting.

Q. I understand the food was a hit.

A. Specifically, a lamb chop appetizer. I insisted at the tasting we needed to serve hunks of meat, so it filled my heart with joy to hear people were stalking the servers carrying the lamb chops.


Q. And by "people," you mean "men", of course.

A. Of course. I know my audience.


Q. So how involved were you with the wedding planning?

A. You know how politicians will vote "present" sometimes to indicate they were there for the vote when they don't want to vote? I was "present" for almost all of our wedding appointments.

That's not to say I wasn't for whatever Belle wanted; I just didn't say much during our meetings. Here's an actual transcript of what I said when we met with the florist the first time:

-- "Yes."
-- "Five."
-- "Purple, nice."
-- "Don't forget my grandfather."
-- "That's right, lamb chops."

A word of advice to all of you guys out there thinking about getting married. First, man up and ask her. It's the best thing you'll ever do. Second, go to all of the appointments. Don't even wait for her to ask. A lot of it is fun.

It's also a win-win. She gets to brag to all her girlfriends about how involved you are in the wedding planning, and you might get the chance to watch that football game you really wanted to see.

Q. There was as an eight-week span in the fall where you were at Kleinfeld in New York more times (three) than Ravens' home games (two).

A. That's a great line.


Q. Thanks. You thought of it.

A. I saw some things in that basement fitting area no man should see. I still have nightmares about ruching.

Q.  Suspenders?

A. Always. There are few times a man feels comfortable in suspenders. His wedding day is one.

Q. You're starting to prune a little bit. Any parting words?

A. I'm usually one of those people never at a loss for words. Twice in 2012 I have been a blubbering, speechless fool: first, when I proposed; second, when I got married. It's an incredibly humbling, awe-inspiring feeling to be in a room filled with love with the love of my life. All things wedding-related took up the majority of my free time last year and I wouldn't change anything.

Q. You're going to be a good husband.

A. I really, really want to watch the Ravens' playoff game this weekend.