Bob Seger

The Sound Of Dementia

/ Diane Henders / 36 Comments

I really hope it’s not dementia, but my rate of misreads has increased considerably since I found the kiss-ass typo back in April.

Soon after that, I read ‘in my whorehouse’ over on Murr Brewster’s blog.  It wouldn’t have surprised me if she actually had written that, but she didn’t – it was ‘in my wheelhouse’.  (Murr is one funny blogger – go see for yourself!)

A short while later, I thought our Chamber of Commerce was mixing sacred with secular when I saw their poster advertising  ‘Holy Sponsorships Available for Play With The Presidents’.  A second reading revealed they were actually advertising hole sponsorships for their annual golf tournament.

My dirty mind kicked in when I saw the following tweet:  ‘I’ve ordered myself some Golden Snatch earrings…’  It took me a few moments to figure out that it was a Harry Potter reference and the earrings were actually little-bitty replicas of the ‘Golden Snitch’.

And I guess I wasn’t sufficiently recovered from that when I did a double-take at a condom ad trumpeting1 ‘GET UP TO ASS IN SAVINGS’.  It was in all caps with a sans serif font, which is always harder (I said ‘harder’… *snicker*) to read than mixed case (that’s my excuse, anyway).  After I’d finished giggling, it took me a couple of tries to decipher ‘GET UP TO $5 IN SAVINGS’.

Another ‘say what?!?’ moment arrived in my email when my Meetup group invited me to enjoy ‘Lesbian food and belly dancing’.  I’m a major foodie, but I’ve never heard of that cuisine before.  Turned out it was ‘Lebanese’ food, which didn’t seem quite as exotic, somehow.

Even business headlines weren’t safe.  I read ‘Things Sales Winners Deformity’ instead of ‘Do Differently’ and ‘get back to bananas’ instead of ‘back to business’.  And I discovered a cabinet company that offers ‘customer insults’.  Or possibly ‘customer installs’, though insults are well within the realm of possibility.

I can’t remember which community site entreated ‘Looking for a spare cowboy to borrow for a few weeks’.  But it turned out they were only looking for a spare ‘carboy’ to brew a batch of beer.

My mind was clearly on bodily functions the day I read ‘Fanfart’, which sounds like something to avoid at all costs.  The article was actually referring to ‘fanart’ – art done by fans of specific books.

But by far my most disturbing misread happened when I was perusing a music website.  I’m a huge Bob Seger fan, and I was indignant to discover they were snidely referring to his upcoming concert tour as “The Sound of Dementia”.  So he’s in his late sixties, so what?  Seger is amazing, and that was completely rude and uncalled-for!  Closer inspection revealed that the site was in fact a list of upcoming concerts: “The Sound of Dalmatia Tour”, “Bob Seger”, and “NeYo”, among others.

So I settled my ruffled feathers with the knowledge that the dementia was all in my head.  I didn’t know dementia had a sound, but in my case it’s apparently rather empty and echoing.

* * *

1 Would you believe I misread my own words while proofing this?  I saw “humping” instead of “trumpeting”.  Please… somebody help me…

Highway Child(ishness)

/ Diane Henders / 15 Comments

(Apologies to Bob Seger, Jimi Hendrix, and the Stones)

Before you read any further, I’d like to note that my travelling companions are (usually) mature and admirable people.  Please don’t judge them harshly.  You’d be a basket case, too, if you had to spend fourteen hours in a car with me.

————————————–

A couple of times a year, I drive from Calgary, Alberta to just outside Winnipeg, Manitoba.  The trip is about 800 miles one way (1,200 kilometres).  When I’m driving by myself, I do it in about twelve hours.  If I have company in the car, it takes closer to fourteen.

The mind does frightening things when it’s cooped up in a car for that long.  When I’m on my own, I beat my brain into submission with loud music.

When there are other people in the car, things get… strange.

I frequently drive with my sister and a friend whom I’ll identify only as Swamp Butt, in order to protect the guilty.  Since she can’t retaliate without revealing her true identity, I’ll also disclose her nickname for me:  “TB”, short for “Tiny Bladder”.

Three grown women in a car for fourteen hours.  What a wonderful opportunity for deep discussion, bonding, and meaningful dialogue.

Snort!

There’s something about the trip that makes us revert to the mental age of ten.  Some examples:

When you drive directly into the sunrise, the angle of the light reveals the fact that we all spit when we talk.  And not just on plosive consonants.  It’s a constant, fine spray of spittle.  There’s no way to prevent it.  Sorry, but it’s true.

Being the refined and sophisticated person that I am, I pointed this out within seconds of discovering it.  My sister heaved a huge sigh of relief.  “I thought it was just me,” she admitted.  “I’ve been trying to stop doing it for miles.”  She then proceeded to demonstrate various facial contortions designed to reduce the spray.  Much merriment (and aerosolized spit) ensued.

Later in the day, we passed the umpteenth pasture with cattle dotted across its expanse.  I glanced over and said, “Black cows…”  Fateful pause.  “…Look BETTER in the SHADE.”  At which point all three of us did the head bob as we chanted the instrumental part:  “NAH-nah-nah-nah-NAH-nah-nah-NAH!”  Swamp Butt followed up with the solo from the back seat, “Dee-DEE-dee!”

I’ve never really liked Gino Vanelli’s music, or the song “Black Cars”.  To me, the 80’s were a musical wasteland, mercifully relieved by a few outstanding artists like Bob Seger.  But the point is, the “Black Cows” segment was repeated over and over, apparently getting funnier each time.  It’s now a tradition.  Such is the hideous danger of long-distance driving.

Eventually, the brain becomes so sodden with fatigue that it’s not actually necessary to have a stimulus for mirth.  We’ve dissolved in helpless giggles while standing in line at Subway.  Not talking.  Not even looking at each other.  The mere words, “I’ve been in the car too long…” are enough to make us weep with laughter.

Oh, and Swamp Butt?  She snorts when she laughs.  Not every time.  The snort is reserved for special occasions.  But when it finally erupts in all its raucous glory, pandemonium ensues.  Hysterical, helpless hilarity.  We haven’t actually had to pull over yet, but it’s been close a few times.

And then there’s the reason for Swamp Butt’s nickname.  Farts become excruciatingly (and I mean the word in all its connotations) funny after too many hours in the car.  They’re also pretty much unavoidable.  Medical science tells us that humans pass gas 15 – 25 times a day*.

Well, guess what?  Fourteen hours is over half a day.  Times three people.  Equals somewhere between 26 and 44 farts in the car (‘cause I’m a geek and it’s math.)

Here’s another thing you need to know.  Canola smells like cabbage farts.  (Honest.  Those pretty yellow fields?  When it’s cut, it reeks.)  And there are a lot of canola fields between here and Manitoba.  So the next time you let one slip while driving, just nod wisely at your passengers and murmur, “Canola”.  You can thank me now.  Note:  This may be less convincing in the wintertime.

Anyway, on our last trip, Swamp Butt seemed to spot a lot more canola fields than there actually were.  And just as we drove into the parking lot in Brandon to drop her off, she cracked off another one.

Loud.

Seconds before she got out of the car.

We all tumbled out, laughing, shrieking and choking.  I’d like to say that we drew some attention, but we didn’t.  Guess folks in Brandon are used to that sort of thing.

We have not yet devolved to burping contests (well, usually not), armpit noises, or mooning other drivers.  We’re much too mature for that.  I hope.  Please, God, let me be right about that.

What’s your pinnacle of silliness while long-distance driving?

———————————————-
*Who gets paid to do these studies?  There’s one for the ol’ resume:  “Undertook in-depth research of human gaseous emissions.”

Die-Hard Bob Seger Fan

/ Diane Henders / 12 Comments

This past week, I was in Toronto to see Bob Seger in concert.  For me, Bob Seger has always been (and probably will always be) the complete package.  The music, the lyrics, the voice – nobody else quite measures up.

I’ve been a fan for a few decades, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him live.  When I found out he was coming to Toronto, I bought my concert ticket and booked my flight from Calgary ASAP.  Could I afford it?  Not really.  Did I think twice about it?  Hell, no.  He’s saying that this might be his last tour, and I was willing to do whatever it took to see him.

Little did I know.

First, there was the cost of the concert ticket and the plane ticket, as well as taking four days off to get to a Tuesday-night concert on the other side of the country.  No problem.

Trying to save a bit of money, I stayed with a friend in her studio apartment.  I slept in a narrow walkway on the floor, on a makeshift bed of two cushions scavenged from the loveseat.  I’m 5’10”.  The loveseat?  About 4’6”.  But it was fine once I stuffed a chair cushion under my feet.

Her two cats had never witnessed someone sleeping on the floor.  I was thoroughly and frequently inspected.  I sleep on my back, which would be an unimportant piece of information unless you also know that the cats’ climbing tree was right beside the spot where I slept.  You don’t know the meaning of “rude awakening” until a six-pound cat drops from a great height to land on your unprotected belly at three o’clock in the morning.  Lucky thing I really like cats.

My friend kindly offered to pick me up after the concert, reasoning that it would be difficult to catch a cab downtown at that hour on a Tuesday night.  I stood at the corner of Bay Street and the Gardiner Expressway waiting for her, watching the long line of cabs whisk all the other concert-goers home.  The parking lot across the street emptied.  Soon I stood completely alone in the darkness in an unfamiliar city.  It was okay.  I only had one proposition, and he graciously took no for an answer.

On the way home, I was singled out for the “random” physical search at the airport.  Four out of the last five times I’ve flown, I’ve been chosen for this search, so I have to question the randomness of the selection process.  Normally, I’d be mildly flattered that they can’t keep their hands off my body, but… really?

I figure the Airport Authority is missing a huge customer-service opportunity here.  If I have to get groped, they should offer me a lineup of attractive security guys to choose from.  Getting felt up could at least be an enjoyable experience.

As my plane descended in Calgary, I kept glancing out the window and seeing only whiteness.  “Must be low overcast,” I said to myself.  The jolt of wheels on landing strip alerted me to the fact that there really was only whiteness out there.  A foot of snow had fallen the previous night.  I wore runners.

It was the best trip ever.

Seriously.  I loved every minute of the concert.  He put on a great show, and the joy of being there was well worth a few minor inconveniences.  I didn’t come down from my concert high (non-chemically-induced, thank-you) for days.  Hell, I’d pay good money to hear Bob Seger sing anything.  Even “Happy Birthday”.

Any other Seger fans out there?  What’s your best/worst concert experience?