Light Rods Explained

This evening, I met up with Marisa, an old high school friend of mine. Sometimes, no matter how different you become as adults, there are just some stories that can only be shared with old high school friends, so we did some of that. We also did some reminiscing about the good old days and got onto the topic of little sayings we have that other people don't get. Everyone has these with their friends, but, despite our fondness for other inside jokes (like "sugar wafer, sugar wafer, sugar wafer...chocolate mint?!?!"), we both agreed that we wish our word "light rod" would enter the common parlance. We both know exactly what a light rod is when we see one, and neither of us know any other word that so perfectly sums up these men. So, here, my attempt to explain "light rod", in the hopes you can get some use out of it.

First, we've got to go back...way back....to, say, 1992 or 1993. Picture it. Emerald Isle, NC. Two 16 year old girls with dad's car, a newly discovered fondness for rum based cocktails, and a Rob Bass tape. On those hot summer nights, we had three main objectives:

1. meet boys
2. find alcohol
3. conceal activities one and two from Marisa's slightly older brother, who was roaming the same hunting grounds on the small island.

Now, before you get the wrong idea, we were all talk on the boy thing (mostly), but we did meet a lot of them. This led to Marisa's dad's car being stolen, but that's another story. Plus, we got the car back and her dad never found out - he still doesn't know, so don't mention it. But anyway, it was the meeting the boys thing that led to "light rod." There was this one little stretch of road that the kids would cruise up and down, back and forth (because that's what we do as kids in NC), and we'd frequently see the same people. One such evening, we had the car pulled over but were still sitting in it, when we were approached by a guy we'd seen around several time. He approached me and began whispering something in my ear. Here's how it went down from my perspective:

Him: Blahblahblah LIGHT ROD blahblahblah
Me: Uh....What?
Him: Blahblahblah LIGHT ROD blahblahblah
Me: WHAT?
*at this point, much to my alarm, i started getting ear tongued. it was mercifully brief, but because I was in a parked car and he was leaning in the window, I had little chance of escape so he got one last chance to whisper to me.*
Him: BLAHBLAHBLAH! LIGHT ROD!! BLAHBLAHBLAH!
Me: Light rod?!?!
Him: (in disgust) Fine, be like that, be like that.
Me: Um, ok.

I still have absolutely no idea what he was saying to me - I wasn't trying to be mean to him. But with this exchange, involving the original (and still quintessential) light rod, a new category of men was born. The easiest way I can think of to describe to you what a light rod is to tell you that all members of Color Me Badd (pictured above) were light rods. Remember the Color Me Badd lyrics:

I'm so glad you're my girl, I'll do anything for you...Call you every night and bring you flowers too?

Yeah, that is JUST what a light rod would say. It's not that girls don't like their boyfriends to be nice to them, but light rods are whiny, desperate for love and so "romantic" you need to take a shower - you kind of want to punch them in the face and steal their wallets. They're men who use lines. They're likely to have one of those little mustaches. If you come across a group of white male R&B fans, there's a good chance you've hit the light rod motherload.

You know, I give up. I don't think I could ever really explain to you exactly what a light rod is. Maybe you really did have to be there. All I can do is present to you this - light rods in action:

This One is for The Ladies

Well, ok boys, you can read it to.

But just between us girls, let's not get used, ok? With all due respect to a woman who I could never agree with but who has accomplished a lot, don't you find the suggestion that us girls are so wishy-washy that we're happy to trail along behind any one of us that gets plucked out of the pack extremely insulting? I know I do.

When women were fighting for the right to vote, one of the arguments favored especially by Britain's Conservative Party (but picked up by many anti-women's suffrage activists) was that women were just too silly and emotional to be counted on to make serious political decisions. The argument went that women would not vote on the issues but rather some frivolous factor, and that their votes would be enough to effectively change the outcome of elections, thereby leaving the public with a government not up to the job of leading. (As you might imagine, informal polling indicated that the majority of women would not vote for the Tories, hence their argument women would pick a bad government.) Some proponents of this viewpoint believed women were just too dippy to be trusted to vote on the issues, and others tried to couch it in "oh, don't you worry your pretty little head" terms.

Crazy, huh? Except, it seems like these notions still exist. Women may have the vote, but somewhere, a lot of people have decided that women would throw ideology out the window and vote for a woman - just because. They were wrong during the suffrage movement - show them they're wrong now, too.

The Night I Can't Remember - Or Forget

Have to admit, I'm stealing an idea here. I was reading the "5 Reasons I Should Quit Drinking" post on this blog - I always like reading other people's drinking stories. Seven years in Glasgow gives you lots of experience drinking, and I'm pretty sure I could keep this blog going for years on drinking stories alone if I was so inclined (ok, I'm not saying I'm proud, but there's a cultural thing going on there that could be - and maybe will be - a post in itself). Inspired (??) by the drinking stories I've read today, I thought I'd share my own, most humiliating story. Everyone has one that plays in the back of their head when they're deciding whether or not to have one more drink - this story is the one that haunts me. I hope you're not eating.

First, I should say I'm not going to mention any names of anyone else around at the time. OK, so, I was in London for work. I was working for a record label at at the time, and there was to be a big show for one our artists that night. The show in itself was a really big achievement, so it was an exciting day all around. Before the show, I had to spend the day with one of the PR guys taking another artist around to various radio stations. Let's just say that things got a little.... stressful. Adding to the perfect alcohol consumption storm of excitement and stress was the fact that a trip to London always means meeting up face to face with people you spend a lot of time on email and the phone with, and everyone wants to have a drink and a catch-up.

As the night went on....there was lots of catching up and lots of drinking. Honestly, I can't remember exactly when things started going wrong. I remember cans of Red Stripe and pints of Guinness. I remember sitting with a friend of mine during the show and her commenting that she wasn't going to remember any of it the next day. The major warning sign here was that, even with the knowledge that I had consumed a lot of alcohol, I BELIEVED I WASN'T DRUNK AT ALL. A red flag if there ever was one. The next thing I have a memory of is being backstage with a pint glass of whiskey in my hand. I don't remember drinking it - I'm pretty sure I didn't, but it surely wouldn't have mattered much at that point. Standing up to leave backstage and head to the van was the first time I remember realizing I was in fact highly intoxicated.

We piled in the van - some (American) artists from the label and various Scottish musicians. I know I performed a solo acapella version of Dire Straits So Far Away From Me, which is a bit confusing - it's not one of my go-to songs, as it were. Then, I don't know what I did to alert him, but I remember my boss, who was sitting next to me in the front saying, "Roll down the window! roll down the window" as he leaned across me, rolled down the window and pushed my head out. I threw up in my hands. I clearly remember thinking to myself, "oh good, I've managed to throw up in my hands. Maybe no one will notice!" Then, I made the decision that the best way to get rid of the evidence would be to casually run my hands though my hair.

Bad choice. I remember my boss saying, "Oh for fuck's sake! pull over the van!" He bundled me out and told them we'd walk the rest of the way to the hotel. I recall then throwing up again over a railing into Hyde Park as he laughed and laughed and laughed. I believe I cried and exclaimed, "This is the worst thing I've ever done!" (Stepping out into the cold night had brought me back to reality.)

The joke was really on me when I had to get up four hours later to catch a plane back to Glasgow. The flight was at Luton, which involved a major journey across London. I had to take refuge in a stall in a bathroom at King's Cross for awhile. I made it to Luton and my flight was delayed. Trust me, it was punishment enough.

There's no real moral to the story - I mean, don't get drunk, throw up in your hands in front of a bunch of people and then wipe it through you hair - you already knew that, right?

Louis Theroux and Pen & Pixel

In my never ending crusade to bring things up that are at least five years old, I come to Louis Theroux. If you don't know Louis Theroux, a brief introduction - he's a British journalist, very disarming and very funny - well, the best way I think of to describe him to the uninitiated is that if you like things like The Daily Show, The Onion, The Colbert Report and so on, you'll love Louis Theroux. He has a great series called Weird Weekends, and I believe the clip above was from a series called The Call of the Weird or some such thing. I've seen him cover things like mail order brides, wrestling - you really can't go wrong with Louis Theroux.

In any case, I thought of this clip today after being assaulted by an incredibly hideous graphic in my inbox that I was certainly inspired by those wizards of design at Pen & Pixel. I was working in a record store when this Pen & Pixel stuff started becoming popular, and I remember just turning the releases over and over again in my hands, marvelling that someone actually paid these designers for their work. I've always wanted to be a fly on the wall of the meetings at which the prints were approved, like, "yeah, this is good work. But see if there is anything else that can be encrusted with diamonds. And tell them we want a fluorescent green tray."

So anyway, this clip is hilarious (though warning, it's a bit long). It's also pretty interesting to see the cynicism of the designer. But let it be said that not everyone shares my Pen & Pixel aversion. The company is still going strong. Explain if you can.

Of Rice, Peas and Used Cough Drops

It's Friday, so how about a funny story? I have to admit it's not all that funny to me, but other people seems to find it *hilarious*. OK then, let's do this!

About, oh, maybe three months ago, my friend - let's call him...Matt - and I agreed to meet for lunch. When debating where to go, I suggested we head to a Jamaican restaurant. "Matt" NEVER wants to go to the Jamaican restaurant with me because he doesn't think he likes Jamaican food, plus he's a big baby and is scared of eating chicken on the bone ("I might choke! wah wah wah!"). Myself, I like to get down with the Jamaican grub often. So to speak. Well, this particular day, Matt wasn't feeling very well and was too weak to protest, so he mumbled something about, "I thought you might say that. Fine. Whatever." Whatever indeed. I drove, Matt sat and sucked on cough drops.

Well, we went to the restaurant, ordered our food, Matt ordered chicken on the bone and couldn't eat it, blah blah blah. The portions are huge, and we both had loads of leftovers. Handily, the food is served in takeaway containers. Matt graciously gave me his box of leftovers, because, you know, he hated it.

So, the next day, I decide I'm going to have leftover Jamaican food for lunch. I pull a box out of the fridge - apparently Matt's leftover box - and take a bite of rice and peas. Suddenly, I crunch down on something crunchy and sweet. I was immediately alarmed - it's good, but I'm not going to tell you that this restaurant is the cleanest I've ever been in. As I'm frantically calculating what this crunchy sweetness in the rice and peas could be, an image flashed through my mind. An image of Matt, removing a cough drop from his mouth and placing it on the side of his box. Yeah, that's right. I ate his used cough drop. Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

God, I'm almost sorry I brought it up. The memories - they're still fresh. Suffice it to say that I got rid of all of the leftovers. Even mine.

Matt pleads innocence, but I think he set me up. Don't worry. Vengeance will be mine. I'll let you know when Matt gets his. Mwhahahahhahhaha. No really - Mwhahahhahaha.

Shameless. Watch It. Now.

I've got loads of writing that I should be doing - which obviously means I'm surfing the internet instead. My friend in Scotland just promised to send me the last few seasons of this show - Shameless - on DVD, and I can't wait, so I've been watching clips on YouTube. This video of the old opening credits isn't the best quality, granted, but you'll get the point. Can't recommend this show enough, and fortunately, it's available on DVD in the US now - so buy it, Netflix it, whatever you do - but check it out.

I got the most fantastic piece of spam today - it said the sender was CNN and the subject was "John McCain Will Invade Your Vagina." Wow. Dear god, I hope this is some kind of mistake. Can I get some kind of retraction soon?

It seems like I shouldn't end with that, but yet, I got nothing else. Um, sorry. Watch the video.

Cheapskate Demos - Yes, Please

As I was logging in to write this, I saw a headline that Laurence Fishburne has joined the CSI cast, and of course that made me thinks of It of I Love New York 2 fame claiming he got the address of the house from "Larry Fishburne." bwhahahahhahhaha. Am I alone here?

Well, then, moving on. I got an email today from someone who reads the Music Careers website I write who was quite indignant that I suggested that a person should not spend a lot of money on recording a demo in an expensive studio. I should note this is not the first time I have gotten such an email on the same subject (usually, they're from people who work in studios - funny, that). Gotta tell you, I totally stand by what I wrote. Spending a lot of money on a demo is dumb. If you're going to be selling your recording - essentially releasing it yourself - while you're shopping it around (see more about this below), then investing in the recording makes sense. If you're not, then you're just wasting your money. Record labels know demos might be rough. It's kind of expected. No record label in the history of record labels has ever said, "wow, this music is kind of crap, but the demo is so professional! Draw up the contract!"

OK, you're right. I can't 100% prove that, but really. Come on.

Music is reeeeaaaaallllly expensive, and so when you spend money on something, you have to spend it wisely. Like buying me a present. Just kidding. But the spending wisely thing stands, and I spending tons of cash on a demo is not good spendin'. That's what I think anyway - you can let me know if you disagree. (Or if you want to talk about It from ILNY2, well, we can do that, too.)

(By the way, speaking of the ILNY2 cast, how creepy is The Entertainer on I Love Money? Ewwww, he makes me want to take a shower. I don't remember him being quite this bad on the other show.)

Scotland: Not in England After All

I'm having a long, technically troubled day, and really, I wasn't going to blog at all. Then, I went to buy milk and a conversation with the cashier and bagger gave me something to write about and an excuse to post a Limmy video.

First, yes, I got into an overly long conversation with the cashier and bagger, but that's another story. Suffice it to say that the fact that I used to live in Scotland came up. Here's a rundown of the conversation - it starts with one of my favorite questions ever (lucky for me, people ask me all time!):

Cashier: "What language do they speak in Scotland?"

Bagger: "They speak English! Scotland is in England, dummy!"

Me: "Well, they speak English, but Scotland isn't IN England. They're two different countries, but they're both in the United Kingdom."

Bagger: "No, you're wrong. England is the same thing."

Mind you, I had just explained that I spent seven years living in Scotland, but what do I know? Anyway, it made me think of this Limmy video. By the way, if you don't know Limmy, he's hysterical. This probably isn't his funniest, especially if British politics aren't your bag (understandable), but you can check out more on his YouTube channel. GTA IV video - highly recommended (if you're not easily offended).

And Scotland is not in England. Please believe me.

My Olympic Moment

Not a moment of Olympic glory, mind you, but maybe the moment when it became clear I could cross "Olympics" off my list of potential careers paths. Now, I'll tell you up front that this is not one of my favorite stories, but it keeps coming up, what with this whole Olympic swimming thing going on. Plus, it IS my friend Krista's favorite story, so Krista, this one is for you. (Well, I think it's her favorite. She's also fond of one that involves a curtain, but this one is definitely up there.)

When I was about 10 years old, I joined the swim team for the first time (under duress). I was incredibly nervous at my first swim meet, but I didn't know there was anything more to it then diving in the water and swimming. In other words, no one had told me about things like false starts. So, I climbed up on the block, and when I (allegedly) heard the buzzer sound, I dove in. I swam like crazy, and I thought I was doing great - after all, when I looked all around, I couldn't even SEE any other swimmers. Then, this net like thing fell on me in the water. My god, someone was trying to sabotage me! I threw it off and kept going - and it didn't seem to cost me my lead, because I STILL couldn't see anyone. I finished the first lap, and while I was doing my flip turn, I felt hands on my shoulders and someone trying to pull me out of the pool! I couldn't believe how blatant this sabotage was getting, but I tried valiantly to fight them off. No dice - they got me half way out of the water. That's when I realized the person pulling me out of the pool was my coach, who then pointed out to me that all of the other swimmers were still standing on the blocks.

Apparently someone - allegedly me - had "false started", and they had sounded an alarm to let all the swimmers know the race had to be re-started. I didn't hear anything - nor did I know such a thing existed, so I was the only one who didn't get out of the pool. The net was some kind of line they throw down to stop errant swimmers like me. So, I had to climb out of the pool and walk back around to the blocks, crossing in front of the gathered crowd - yes, they were laughing. Then I had to get back on the block and go again.

Last place. Well, I was tired.

And I still don't really know what a false start is.

Let's Try That Again

so, i have to admit, this is blog, take two. i have another blog...somewhere. it has the same name. i abandoned it. not a good start, right? hopefully, this one will go a bit better.

so, this blog will be, kind of, whatever. stuff from other writing jobs i'm doing, day to day things, yada yada yada - you get me.

so, also, in the future, every sentence will not start with "so."

phew, now we have that awkward "first blog" of the way. that's always a relief. see you soon.