Mental Notes

Running On

2011-03-23T12:43:00.002-04:00

BY Rick Rantamaki http://rantamaki.blogspot.com/

“Everyone runs in her own way, or his own way. And where does the power come from, to see the race to its end? From within.” – Eric Liddell

Saturday morning, just after sunrise, I found myself standing on the cool grass of the steeplechase field at the Georgia International Horse Park in Conyers, GA (the exact location of the 1996 Olympics’ steeplechase) with a timing chip strapped to my ankle and a number pinned to the front of my shirt. (My number was “180” and though randomly drawn, I couldn’t help but think of how perfectly it symbolized the past year my life). Over a hundred runners huddled together eagerly awaiting the start signal to compete in a 10K (6.2 miles) trail run through the woods. [Cue Vangelis] Each of us there for our own purpose, our own reason.

I’ve never competed in a running competition – of any sort: not a hundred yard dash, not a 440, not even a potato sack race. (Sure, I had to complete a mile “run” while in boot camp, but the time limit imposed by the military was so bloated you could visit the mess hall and spit-shine your boots and still finish comfortably within the alloted time.) So, I had no idea how events like this unfold. I just wanted to run with folks who shared my desire to dash through the woods. Thus, my mindset was simply to run my own race – in the company of others.

I shook each foot to ensure my legs were still beneath me, then fluttered each arm to remind myself to relax.

An electronic blare from a bullhorn signaled the start of the race and the mass of runners sprinted from the makeshift starting line painted across the grass.

The open field was just long enough to permit us to sort ourselves out as we approached a narrow opening in the woods. The opening funneled down a gravely slope and onto a sandy roadway which ran along the banks of the Yellow River. I could see the leaders up ahead, but I’d let several folks pass as I settled into a comfortable pace. No sense in over-exerting myself; I wanted to make sure I finished my first race.

The sandy drive along this opening-mile stretch was riddled with hoof prints – a stark reminder we’re not the primary runners on this trail. Thus, the footing was a bit precarious.

I soon found myself trailing a pack of guys who seemed to be going just slow enough to hamper my progress – and based on a course map I’d studied before the race, I knew before long the trail would narrow down to a single path, so I politely slipped passed the guys one at a time.

Sure enough, after climbing a short but steep slope, the trail turned sharply onto a slender path, which descended deeper into the woods. With all of the twists and turns, and my complete unfamiliarity of the trail, it didn’t take long before I had no idea which direction I was going or where the next turn would lead me. (Thankfully, the course workers painted directional arrows on the ground to guide us along, or I might still be wandering those woods today.)

Amidst the tangle of trees, I was finding my rhythm. Keep my strides short, take an extra step rather than lunging over obstacles, and keep my arms relaxed. I leapt a muddy stream, climbed an embankment and found myself in a gas line clearing (imagine a giant mower cutting a single, 25-foot wide line through the woods). I could hear someone on my heels, so I move aside and waved him around. He thanked me as he passed. The trail then twisted into the woods on the opposite side of the clearing.

I could see a number of other runners slipping through the trees on another trail (none of whom looked particularly swift) and for a moment I thought, there must be more folks ahead of me than I thought, till I realized those were the 5K runners on an adjacent trail.

Now, I don’t consider myself a runner, per se, but rather someone whose feet happen to move while he meditates. Real runners wear stopwatches and heart rate monitors while sporting the latest in high-dollar running gear and sipping highfalutin energy drinks. I’m just a newbie. Why, only nine months ago I couldn’t run the length of a football field without being completely winded. And trail running, heck, I just started that a few months ago, for a change of scenery.

Somewhere near the second mile, I was winding through some trees and needed to clear my throat. As a courtesy to any runner who may have been behind me, I glanced over my shoulder before spitting. But before I could get my head back around I was suddenly on the ground rolling over my shoulder and popping back up on to my feet – all in the blink of an eye. Fortunately, since I’d already glanced back, I knew I wasn’t in the way of oncoming runners, so I took a moment to quickly assess the damage. The toes on my left foot were screaming. My hands and elbows were covered in dirt, both of my ear buds had been yanked out and the other end of the wire had come unplugged from the mp3 player. No time to deal with the non-essential items, so I balled up the wires and stuffed them into my pocket. Another glance over my shoulder assured the path was still clear as I started running again.

What the hell was that? I wondered. It must’ve been a rock, or a tree root. My toes sure felt it. Well, I can get a better look at them. . . in about four miles.

There was a water station at the half-way mark. A solitary girl was offering me a paper cup as I approached the table. “You’re doing great,” she said. I’d slowed to almost a walk to ensure I grabbed the water cleanly (no need to showcase my tumbling skills. . . again) and thanked her. Then I tried to run and drink at the same time. This is tricky enough on a smooth paved surface, but add in a twisting undulating trail and, as I found out, you end up wearing most of the water.

The one lengthy hill (which was a bit longer and steeper than I’d expected) sapped most of my energy. So, once again I adjusted my pace to ensure I could complete the event running. As I continued along the trail, I took whatever opportunity I could to reassess my status. I brushed my hands and elbows and couldn’t find any abrasions beneath the dirt. So that was some good news. My foot, however, felt as though I had kicked a fire hydrant. Glancing down at my feet spinning below me, the toes still appeared to be attached, so I pressed on.

The sound of cheering, from wherever it emanated, meant the end was near. Sure enough, I broke out into a clearing and could see the finish line. By now the sun was out in full force and the temps had climbed another 10 degrees since the start. The runners had strung out so much over the length of the course that we were trickling in one at a time.

Immediately upon crossing the finish line, the timing equipment folks stepped in to retrieve the timing chip from my ankle. As the girl knelt down to release the Velcro strap, she asked if I was okay. I thought, is this a standard question they ask at the end of these runs? “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, then headed for the water station.

I poured myself a drink (one I intended not to wear) and watched a few runners cross the finish line. Then I focused on my foot. Though my toes still stung, I was able to wiggle them – a good sign, but what caught my eye was the trail of dried blood on my shin. Apparently, I’d scuffed my knee during my roll at mile two. Oooh, THAT’S why that girl asked if I was alright.

I got some more water and rinsed the blood from my leg – no point in unnecessarily grossing anybody out. Then I headed to the scoring table to find out how I fared.

The timing sheets were separated by age groups. I scanned the "Male 40-44" sheet and didn’t see my name. There were already a dozen guys listed on it for my age group alone. Sheeze, I didn’t think there were THAT many guys ahead of me. So I waited around while they handed out medals to the top finishers in each age group. . . for two reasons: 1) to applaud those who finished up front, and 2) to see if I recognized anyone I may have passed along the course (thinking that might give me an idea of my finishing time).

The emcee was handing out medals for the top three male finishers in the "45 to 49" age group when I heard him say “. . .from Dacula, GA. . .”

Huh, I thought, someone else is here from Dacula. Whaddu know.

Then he said, “. . .Rick. . . Ranna. . .”

Holy crap! He’s trying to say MY name! Turns out I finished third in the "45 to 49" age group (they bumped me up an age group because my birthday falls within their race season – in fact, my time was good enough to have finished second in the "40 to 44" age group) and I finished 18th overall! I was stunned and thrilled.

When I slipped out of my running shoes before leaving the horse park, I discovered two of my toes were already black and blue and the outter half of my foot was swollen. Nice. And I can hardly wait to do it again!

Copyright 2011 Rick Rantamaki

Holiday Travels (Part I)

2010-12-02T12:03:00.001-05:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamki.blogspot.com/

This year, in an effort to minimize travel time, I choose to fly to my Holiday destination – a decision I would question later.

I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the latest, invasive, TSA screening procedures – given only to select travelers (i.e. me). That’s right, after essentially disrobing down to my socks, I was diverted from the standard metal detector line and into the chamber of desecration, whereupon my body was subjected to radiation and electronic inhalation, to be scrutinized by a voyeur sequestered in a secret sound-proof room (to stifle the laughter, I presume). All the while, I was trying to maintain visual contact with my belongings as they rolled along through security without me.

The TSA officer then asked me to step out of the chamber and directed me to stand on little yellow footprints painted on a black rubber mat. The officer then redirected his (or her – I really couldn’t tell) attention to the lady who had passed through the chamber before me. Via a shoulder-mounted two-way radio, the officer informed someone that the woman’s pants included decorative sewn-on buttons near each hip. As this exchange took place the woman looked at me with disbelief. With my hands still in the air and an eye on my belongings (which continued to merrily roll along), I gave her a “don’t-say-a-word-we’re-breaking-outta-here-tonight-via-the-sewer-system-so-you’re-gunna-have-to-crawl-through-some-stuff-you-won’t-wanna-talk-about-afterwards” look back. She got the message. Another few awkward moments passed, then the woman was finally cleared.

The TSA officer then turned his/her attention to me. A little electronic chatter spurned the officer to ask me what I had in my front left pocket. I pulled my eyes from my belongings (which were enjoying themselves at the concourse bar and grille) and asked if I may drop my hands. “Yes,” he/she replied. I slipped my hand into my pocket and discovered a familiar object. Damn, I thought, this is going to incite further probing. I pulled it out and revealed it to the officer, “It’s the key to my truck.” One key attached to a remote, this might just shut down the airport. I cringed.

The officer repeated my words over the radio. Then slipped his/her hand into my pocket. Hello! Once satisfied my pocket was clear of anything inorganic, the officer wrapped both rubber-gloved hands around my left thigh, then slid them up to my groin. Am I going to have to leave a tip? I wondered. Not unless there’s a happy ending, I convinced myself.

The officer then stood back and said, “You’re okay,” and waved me on. You don’t know me very well, I thought.

I caught up to my belongings just before they boarded the plane.

Fortunately, the airline I was flying permits passengers to select their seats when they check-in online. I chose a window seat (I’m easily amused with windows). As I approached my row I discovered the only row on the plane without windows was mine. “There’s my ‘window’ seat,” I mused to the other two passengers seated in my row. They looked at the windowless wall and chuckled, then began ribbing me about my prowess at seat selection.

“Don’t be so quick to laugh,” I warned them, “I just drank a liter of beer and I have an overactive bladder.” They eyed me uneasily.

I sat back and waited for the flight attendant to drone her way through the safety instructions. Only an hour and a half and I’ll be at my destination, or so I thought. Unknown to us, another plane had decided to circle back after experiencing mechanical difficulties. We waited on the tarmac for another half hour. I stared at my missing window as I wondered why the airlines are so paranoid about mp3 players during takeoff and landing. Last I checked, my mp3 player doesn’t have aileron controls (and “shuffle” doesn’t seem to scoot the plane down the runway either).

A baby began wailing, or was it my psyche. This is how my vacation attempted to get off the ground.

(more to follow)

Copywrite 2010 Rick Rantamaki

Another Pile of Ruminations (watch your step)

2010-04-29T13:21:00.001-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Right. I'm not to mention anything about our office's Subway-sponsored production of "The Tempest" in three-part harmony scheduled for lunchtime today.
[From the Rickisms file] Songjà vu (song’ zhä vü) noun 1.) Psychology. The familiarity of an album’s, or media player’s, sequence so much so the listener can hear the subsequent track moments before it actually plays; a forehearing. 2.) Slang. You’ve been listening to this album way too long.
Dear U.S. government, there’s this new-fangled thing called the “Internet” which might be a more cost-effective, “greener” method of checking your commodities (i.e. census). Please consult with Mr. Al Gore (the Father of the Internet) for details. Signed, Middle-Class America.
Uh, yes, I have a question. What if, say, a friend goes to a wild party and has sexual relations with several unfamiliar partners, only to discover the next day his shorts resemble the inside of a used handkerchief. Should that friend be concerned, or will this go away before the big party next weekend?
Failed pickup line No. 138: “Bet you score high on the Wonderlic exam?”
Septic guys are in the parking lot repairing our sewer woes. I asked them if they’ve heard of a game called “sinkers floaters”.
[RE: Newborns] It's like riding a bike. A bike that burps, poops, and cries - sometimes all at once - and leaves you floundering alongside the freeway of life, drained and sleepless. Congratulations!
You can catch flies with honey, but you'll need a jigger of whiskey to snare yourself a Leprechaun. Just sayin’.
I’d thought I’d let you know (while I’m still coherent) that in preparation for tomorrow’s festivities, I’ll be gettin’ me Irish on with this here half-pint of whiskey, then shortly afterwards I’ll be gettin’ me shamrocks off all over town. Consider yourself warned.
Care to debate my lineage, or would you rather wear this mug? ‘Cause you’re given me good reason, to throw you from this pub. Now I have mind my manners, put my differences aside. But another swig of whiskey, and you’ll feel me Irish pride.
“Only a moron would pick this team to advance in the tournament – given the overwhelming, previously undisclosed, information we’ve been spouting since the tipoff of this wildly lopsided game.” (Is a loose translation of what the announcers are REALLY saying about my March Madness selections.)
When do we stop calling them basketball shorts and start calling them capris?
Back in my day (when milk came in cartons), running with the basketball was called traveling: a violation which awarded the other team possession of the ball. Today, however, a player who carries the ball from the top of the key, past 27 defenders, thru concession alley, runs under the basket for a reverse layup, is called a big-time player.
The weatherman says it’ll be a clear, sunny, and dry hump day – so, that must explain why I’m on top of my game.
I just read an article which listed tips to keep your keyboard clean. I don’t think it’s the keyboard that’s dirty; I think it’s the phuckin’ words I’m typing.
The Feds already determined the honey bee population is perilously low. I guess the bees had to have their Census Forms turned-in earlier than us.
It’s quite remarkable considering the doctors said I wouldn’t live a day past my 7th birthday – on account of my alcoholism. Who’s laughing now?
Archaeologists recently unearthed a 3,500-year-old door to the afterlife in the tomb of a high-ranking Egyptian official. Upon opening the door they were surprised to find the tattered remains of my March Madness bracket, which was described as being, “grotesquely misinformed.” After flushing their eyes with an ancient remedy (urine), workers fled the site in fear of an eternal curse. Oh the humanity.
I failed to stifle an inappropriate laugh when confronted by the latest wave of door-to-door mega-church recruiters, which, I guess, explains why they backed away as though snakes were crawling from my eyes.
If you’re keeping score, I’m pointless.
Just discovered the asterisk on my I.D. indicates, “Mentally challenged, but pretty high functioning in some respects.” Ouch. And I thought the lady at the DMV slipped me the handi-capable plate ‘cause she was flirting with me.
I had the new-hire read the opening paragraph of the employee manual, then I told him to rip it out. “Be gone ol’ mission statement entrenched in yesterday’s ideals. We are not a stagnant office content with status quo. No, my new friend. We ride the wave of new technology to the ever-shifting sands of tomorrow.” Then we discussed bathroom etiquette.
“Here is where the magic happens,” I told the new-hire, who was respectfully noting my orientation. “Here is where ideas meet the pipeline.” I then stood back and let the automatic urinal flush.
I'm prepared for anything, unless something happens.
Yes, your child is adorable - the way he flails his arms around while listening so intently to our conversations – now can you get him to stay in YOUR booth?
A new baseball season is underway, which can provide some entertaining background – for those of you scoring at home.
Whoa, hold on there John Deere. Just because your yard is a lush undulating green expanse during an otherwise dormant season for warm climate grasses, it's not because you’re blind-eye method of neglect has magically rewarded you with the perfect lawn. No sir-ee. Those are called weeds. Yep. And they’re having an orgy ALL OVER your yard.
Doc says I have a club foot, I say I’m improving my lie.
When the judge said take a 30-minute recess, I naturally assumed there’d be a playground out here. I stand corrected. Now, may I please have my kickball back?
My son’s enticing pleas of “tasty bait” and “c’mon, it’s good for you” immediately shifted to his Schwarchenegger impersonation once he set the hook, “Ahhhhh! You ah dinnar to me NAW!” (I don't know who was more surprised: me or the fish.)
I’m Busy writing another commencement speech for graduates of the ICS Medical Transcriptionist correspondence program. (They hang on my every word.)
Y'ever laugh at something while forgetting someone in the room actually likes Coldplay?
Ate a whole roll of Smarties this mornin' and I gotta say, I'm just not feelin' it.
Sometimes you gotta wonder; is it the medication, or lack thereof?
A salesman approached as I was scrutinizing a high-tech washer/dryer combo and offered his assistance. As I peered at the price tag atop the washing machine I asked, “Is there some reason why these prices are marked in pesos?”
For those classmates who voted me, “Most likely to purchase energy efficient appliances,” I have finally fulfilled your prophecies.
An Ohio death row inmate tried to delay his execution by claiming he was allergic to the anesthesia used in the lethal injection. Really? Wouldn’t that be like trying to convince the hangman your allergic to rope?
I know we’ve been going in circles for some time now, and I may have dumped on you a time or two when no other options were available and you could’ve easily erupted on me, but you didn’t – you held your ground and I respect that. So here’s to you Mother Earth. Have a happy Earth Day!
A 41-year-old Wisconsin woman was arrested Wednesday for shooting pedestrians with blow darts from her minivan. When authorities contacted the woman’s “representative” he reportedly said, “Look, she’s new, alright? Obviously, we have a conflicting interpretation of the term ‘blowjobs’.”
Fading to a commercial break, the camera focused on two guys wildly applauding in the studio audience. Both were wearing dark-blue v-neck sweaters over buttoned-up polo shirts, and both had heavy-product-Twilight hair. I remarked, “Hah, they’re dressed exactly alike.” To which my wife replied, “They came out of the same closet.”
George W. Bush will be releasing a memoir soon. It’s rumored to be loaded with pop-ups and press-n-snickers. I think they should title it, “They Misunderestimated Me.”
Turkish scientists claim to have discovered the remains of Noah’s Ark atop Mt. Ararat. Much to their surprise, they also found James Cameron filming a scene in one of the Ark’s many stables. “Funny,” the Turkish scientist mused, “but I don’t recall the bible saying anything about Noah’s wife posing for a nudie-portrait.”
If the Census Bureau knows response is lackluster, doesn’t that indicate they already have a headcount?

Ruminating Once Again

2010-02-18T12:05:00.004-05:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Back by popular demand, even more daily ruminations (also known as mental vomit) to satiate you while I assemble a real post:

• Look, without those good folks collecting their uniformity-disbursements (what you refer to as “welfare”), then all of the wealth and power generated by your labor cannot be equally distributed among the masses and the system would fail. Is that what you want? Do you want the system to fail? I didn’t think so. Now back to work, you.

• Speaking of young love: I had a crush on one of my teachers - this was WAY back in the 70’s, of course. She had abundant brunette hair (ala Stephanie Powers) and a raspy Kate Jackson voice, she was captivating – and single too (that’s right, even back then I was paying attention). I ran into her years later and she didn’t even recognize me. THAT’S when I knew I should stop sending her Valentine cards.

• Well, actually it was sort of a mix up in the delivery room. Y’see, we’d decided to wait until you were born before naming you, thinking the moment would inspire us. But with your mother heavily drugged and myself so caught up in the excitement, I just repeated whatever the doctor said . . . and that’s how you got your name, Placenta. Why do you ask?

• Toyota, in an attempt to resolve a braking issue, has asked all Prius owners to bring their cars in for modification. “We’re concerned the braking system may fail unexpectantly, THAT’S why we’re removing the floorboard and providing each customer with a coupon for a free pair of shoes. It’s our way of saying, we Yabba-Dabba care!”

• Though considered a poignant depiction of a drunken rampage, The Saturday Evening Post opted against running Norman Rockwell’s painting of my family on their cover. A decision which ultimately served the best interest of all parties involved.

• Ankle deep in the pristine Ohio snow, my estranged father pressed his hands deeper into the pockets of his Harley jacket as the icy winds threatened to obscure his parting words. “Son,” he said, “What doesn’t kill you. . .” the cliché hung unfinished as he waited out another frigid gust, “. . .only makes you a carrier.”

• Not once have I been mistaken for myself.

• I upped my meds today! Up yours!

• I have a dream that someday computers will function in a nation where they will not be judged by their operating system, but by the content of their programming. . . and postal workers and bank tellers will rejoice, for they shall be given a day each year to reflect upon their ever-diminishing roles in society.

• I am having a momentary lapse of reason (and by “momentary” I mean “constant”).

• "Yeah, I’ve had 3 near-death experiences; I’m lucky to be alive. Well, the first one I slipped on a wet floor in Wal*Mart. The second time I got caught in a revolving door at the bus terminal, and the third time was just a couple of months ago when I peed on a ‘lectric fence. I saw a bright light that time, but I didn’t go into it."

• For sports fanatics, the practicality of the DVR was immediately clear the moment it was introduced. For casual TV viewers, however, the DVR’s significance wasn’t realized till their schedules conflicted with an episode of American Idol.

• I’d always imagined that someday someone would write a story about my abnormally normal life. . . what I didn’t figure was my reluctancy to divulge the sordid details, especially since I’m the author.

• "Cold out today. Cold yesterday. Even colder today." [Hillbilly small talk.]

• My New Year's resolution is to rely less on this stupid Magic 8 Ball and more on the remarkably accurate Farmers' Almanac.

• Possibly due to exposure to lead paint (and/or experimental bouts with recreational drugs), my imagination is now limited to two backdrops: perverted and disturbed, and only a handful of seedy characters remain to take the stage. This is why I snicker every time I hear the line, “Y’see little fellow, every year I shine up my jingle bells for eight lucky reindeer.”

• Warm holiday memories (circa 1970): My father was known as the kind of man who, "never showed his liquor" (to anyone that might drink it) and THAT, my friends, explains why we kept unwrapping empty beer bottles. What's in your eggnog?

• Despite my best efforts, I failed to convince my son's class that I was a Scottish bagpiper; they just saw me as the tawdry vacuum cleaner wrestler I was. (Somehow I knew wearing a kilt in December wasn’t going to work out well.)

• Spirogaph, Spirograph, does whatever a spiro-thingy does. Twirly cirlces with plastic gears, makes me drunk just like beer. Hey there! There goes the Spirograph!

• If it weren’t for the things I said I’d do, then it wouldn’t appear I’d gotten anything done. (Just so y’know.)

• I've been banned in three states from playing Truth or Dare. . . and two countries. (For reasons I wouldn't dare disclose.)

• Holiday Tip #138: A burned out bulb can ruin any strand of lights. To make the strand uniform once again, simply unplug and enjoy some more spiked egg nog. Cheers!

• After hours of backbreaking work, stapling and re-stapling strands of lights on the roof and trying desperately (for the most part) not to step on those brittle little light bulbs, I was somewhat surprised to discover, as I wearily assessed my work from the curb, I’d inadvertently spelled ‘SEASON CRETIN’.

• “Keep smiling,” my father once told me, “they’ll never know what you’re thinking.”

• Who put the 'me' back in 'mental'?

• The problem with elders trying to be hip is that they may break one in the process.

• I stepped in something; I think it's Monday.

• Mayan officials admit blunder in 2012 apocalyptic prediction, “Seems our calendar mason left a crucial portion of his calculation at the base of the temple’s 365 steps. By that, I mean, he failed to carry the one.”

• If it weren’t for rumors and innuendo, I wouldn’t appear to have a life at all.

• If you don’t get me, please contact your local cable or satellite provider.

• Someday I just may live up to all the hype, THEN I'll break out the fog machine.

• I can’t meet your expectations, but I’ll certainly distort them.

• Just because I agree with everything I say, doesn't exactly make me the first to disagree with myself.

• In 2012, a Barcelona-based company plans to open a hotel in space. Yep, an orbiting La Quinta Inn. They say a three-night stay will set patrons back about $4.4 million dollars. And here I didn’t think the hotel industry was listening when I said I’d pay anything to silence those damn ice machines.

• Thanks to decongestant medication, I’m adrift between the shores of lucidity and madness. So, for those who wish to engage in a profound discussion (on most anything), now’s your chance.

• I’m no longer contagious; pass it on.

• C'mon people, we've got to work together here. There's no "i" in sarcasm.

• For those women in my past who might've wondered if they let a good thing slip away, well rest assured, my shabby investment portfolio says otherwise.

• No, no, it's not a kid's menu; it's my investment portfolio.

• A lot of new faces at the homeowner’s meeting last night and just as it was about to conclude, they had us introduce ourselves. Like roll call, each homeowner stated their name and address; I was last and said, “Hi, I’m Rick. I don’t live in your neighborhood; I thought this was the AA meeting.”

• At times, eloquence can be less of a dance partner and more of a toe masher-er.

• Some things just go better with banjo.

• Your thick head is hindering my super-mind-reading powers, thereby negating your assumptions.

• I remember NOTHING. Thanks malt liquor!

• There I was, amidst a number of Nobel Prize winners, each of us grappling with the realization of a lifelong dream and the almost unlikely swiftness in which it was obtained. But as the hotel lobby continued to fill with other winners, I began to reassess the significance of an award given to me by a bathroom attendant.

• Ever notice how “futuristic design” really means, “we’re bringing back the 60’s”?

• You can mend crooked feet with corrective shoes, you can fix crooked teeth with braces, so. . . shouldn’t you be able to heal an idiot by having his baseball hat straightened?

• I didn’t escape, it’s a work release program.

• Modern day pied piper Mokhairul Islam (pronounced “Mo”) mitigated over 83,000 rats from Dhaka (the capitol of Bangladesh, of course). His government rewarded his services by presenting him with a 14” color TV. “Only a million more rats,” cried Mo, “till I earn the blessed digital converter box!”

• To hear these options in Spanish, press the “Call End” button now. . .

• I'm no doctor, but I've seen one on TV.

• HEADLINE: “Uninsured are 40 percent more likely to die.” Huh, and I thought you had to become a crazed, skin-bleached, pedophilic pop-star to achieve immortality; now all I have to do is get insured. THIS changes everything.

• HEADLINE: “British Catholics urge prayer before sex.” Can you imagine what kind of prayers one might hear over there? “Dear Lord, I beseech thee, please, please, *please* make THIS my final week as an altar boy.”

• Utilizing gene therapy on a couple of once color-blind monkeys, scientists believe they’ve triggered the primate’s ability to see red. “Big deal,” says local buffoon Rick Rantamaki, “You could’ve given them the lab bill and got the same results.”

• C’mon, is it really fair to permit an androgynous athlete to compete against women? (e.g. Caster Semenya, the South African “female” track star) It’s like comparing apples to Adam’s apples.

• Though I know it’s Wednesday, today feels like a Tuesday – since Monday was a holiday, which actually felt like a second Sunday and Sunday really felt more like an extension of Saturday. So later this week, when a co-worker begins his usual spiel over how he wishes it was Friday, I can tell him to, “Shut up, it's not really Thursday.”

• Sending me home early is NOT fair; just because I play lawn darts. . . overhand.

• Times are SO tight, I’ve resorted to using my fake ID again – ‘cause those senior citizen discounts are killer.

• At 25, China’s table tennis champion Wang Hao has finally been deemed by officials as “old enough” to have a girlfriend. Wang’s manager and close friend told local reporters, “It’s high time they let my Wang hang out with the ladies.”

• I got drunk; woke up here. End of story.

• I have ALL the answers (just not in the correct order).

• Is it illegal to harvest tapeworms and sell them as a dietary solution?

• You can take a girl out of the trailer, but you can’t take the “in” out of “bred”.

• Welcome to my life; at least you're free to leave anytime.

© Copywrite 2010 Rick Rantamaki

Championship Schmampionship

2009-11-19T07:25:00.004-05:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

So you want your team to win a championship, eh? But what does that mean to you? Really. . . give it some thought. Unless you’re on the team, or somehow related to a team member, or part of team management and/or ownership, or ticket sales, or have a hand in merchandising, a championship only serves to provide you with a few days of bragging rights, maybe even a week or two, at best – especially given the ever-shrinking off-season(s).

(Of course, this argument does not address gambling, which is illegal in most states, even though it accounts for 98 percent of all gambling. . . but, since that’s illegal, I’m going to avoid that illegal-ness in this post. . . but, that doesn’t mean I won’t address it later.)

Perhaps a championship would justify that shirt, jersey, or hat, you’ve been proudly sporting around town, professing your undying love for your favorite team. (Which is merely a marketing tool for that franchise – and yes, that includes colleges. You actually pay THEM to advertise FOR them.)

But, what does that merchandise say about you? That your hometown team is the best (be it recently or in the past)? That you’re proud to live in, or once lived in, the team’s hometown? That you root for a winner, therefore, you are a winner? Or, does it signify the opposite, say, that you fear no ridicule for wearing the logo of a team that hasn’t even come anywhere near a championship. . . in ages, if ever. (This used to be the moniker of Red Sox fans, but now their logo has come to mean, “This bandwagon has a better view,” or “I root for a team that is willing to do most anything to outspend those damn Yankees.”)

And how about those player specific team jerseys? C’mon, think about it. Given the modern free-agency market, not many players start and finish their careers with the same team. So, that hundred-plus dollar jersey you’ve been wearing to most everything (including weddings. . . and funerals), may become obsolete by the time the trading deadline rolls around. . . then you’re left feeling like yesterday’s fool (i.e. me on the doorstep of another failed date).

But, let’s go beyond trying to justify fan wardrobe. Let’s examine the impact these championship games really have on the average fan (I'll use myself as an example. . . so you can put your hand down). I once thought they’d mean more [to me]; that somehow a championship would make my life better. Say, for instance, my co-workers (who would, undoubtedly, be impressed and inspired by my amazing ability to become a fan of a championship caliber team) would carry me around on their shoulders, while other co-workers lead the procession, shimmying their shoulders like they were in a Pat Benatar video, as we glide through the corridors in the churning fog singing “What a Feeling”. But then again, my expectations may exceed reality.

Look, I’ve been an avid (not rabid) sports fan for most of my life. I look forward to watching major sporting events. I used to even get swept up in the whole Olympics thing, but that was back when the Cold War pitted us against those evil commies. “USA! USA! USA! Do you believe in fabricated miracles?! YES!”

Today, I essentially root for teams based on two simple factors: my childhood favorites (these are my primary teams), AND I’ll root for the team of whatever town I’m residing in – an obligation as a vested tax-paying citizen.

As an Atlanta area resident, my perception of championships and what they mean to me has certainly been altered.

I’d experienced nothing quite like the Braves’ worst-to-first run in ’91. It was pure ecstasy during the closing weeks of that magically, improbable season. Atlanta was a town filled with tomahawks and war chants, messages of encouragement written in soap on car windows, and everywhere you turned folks were honking their horns in support as they rode by (or maybe they were just correcting my driving technique). Every pitch during those playoffs and the ensuing World Series had us torn somewhere between agony and euphoria. If they had actually won the World Series that year, I think the entire town would’ve exploded in delirium, and there would've been “. . . cats and dogs living together. . . mass hysteria.”

The downside of such a tremendous rush is just that, the downside. The Braves essentially owned their division for 14 consecutive seasons, and not even when they won the World Series in ’95 (ironically enough, by defeating my favorite childhood team, the Cleveland Indians) did it even come close to the magic of that worst-to-first season. Mainly because many of the players on the ’91 team were already gone and the fans had grown accustomed to the business-side of the game.

The thrill was gone. We were, in effect, simply rooting for the uniforms – the names were interchangeable and the sense of personal investment was lost.

Today’s Braves are a shadow of their former selves. The franchise is under corporate ownership and the personnel changes reflect it. The framework of success which led them through the 90’s has been dismantled and nowadays the team struggles to vie for even a Wildcard spot. On top of that, the whole ballpark experience has become a struggle to defend your life savings – with the surcharges imposed by both the stadium and the league on: tickets, parking, food, drinks, and merchandise. We feel less the fan and more the victim [of yesterday's success]. A championship today seems hardly worth the investment.

Yet another example of a championship realized occurred in 2002 when the Buckeyes (another of my favorite childhood teams) won the National Football Championship.

If you’d asked me in the mid-90’s if I thought my beloved Buckeyes would win a National Football Championship in my lifetime, I would’ve honestly said, “never.” Yes, they won it in ’68, but I was still in diapers. . . so I don’t consider that a championship in my ‘sports-aware’ lifetime. (Note: I'm not counting that controversial '70 title.)

My pessimism regarding the Buckeye's ability to compete with the premier teams was predicated on them being outmatched by schools with suspect recruiting practices and questionable student policies. My team couldn’t lure the talent, they couldn’t draw the upper echelon coaches, and they either couldn’t or wouldn’t adapt to a modern game plan. I was resigned to accepting the Big Ten Championship as their highest ‘achievable’ honor. That is, until they broke through in ‘02 (fortunately, by the time ‘02 rolled around, I was no longer in diapers. . . but virtually into Depends).

What I didn’t expect, in that mind-blowing, watershed moment in my sports world, was the empty feeling that accompanied the thrill of victory. Perhaps if I watched the game in the ol’ stomping grounds, it would’ve meant more – knocking back beers with the ol’ gang, an explosion of popcorn, chips, and hot wings showering down around us as we danced away the game’s final seconds. Instead, I watched the game some 800 miles away. . . alone. The only witness to my fist-pumping leaps about the room was Rusty, our beta fish – I can only imagine what it must’ve looked like to him from inside his bowl. (If I looked ridiculous, ol’ Rusty never said anything, and he carried it to his grave.)

Not long afterwards, though, that victory was tainted by the ensuing Maurice Clarett fiasco, and the questionable tactics I blasted other schools for committing (the recruiting violations and preferential academic treatment of athletes), came back to tarnish the Buckeyes’ championship. My sense of pride slid somberly into a cloud of shame. Oh, how I wanted to savor that victory. (Yeah, and although that crystal football remains in the Ohio State trophy case, it might as well be a lemon.)

So, experiencing a championship as a fan (for me at least) seems anti-climatic. Like when you’ve spent countless hours blasting your way through multiple levels of Doom only to realize the final battle is far less-than epic. If anything, you should have your fog machine ready and enjoy the fleeting moment with some fellow fans, so at least your high-fives and chest bumps aren’t wasted on Rusty.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think my co-workers need a little help with their "Love is a Battlefield" dance floor sequence.

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

An Old Family Recipe - For Disaster

2009-11-16T14:00:00.001-05:00

Hey, it's almost turkey time again! So, by popular demand, I'm re-posting my old family recipe for Wild Turkey Surprise. Now, I'm not much of a chef and, well, aside from fixing a bowl of cereal, this is the only dish I'm permitted to prepare indoors (that was, until last year's fiasco with the fire department, but your results may vary). It's an old family recipe that's really hard to screw up (you can take that as a challenge...unless, of course, you have an aversion to sharp objects).

Wild Turkey Surprise

Ingredients:

2 boxes of wine (the white kind)

1 turkey (no larger than the oven)

4 loafs of bread (preferably stale)

1 box of crazy straws

3 Grade A large eggs (anything lower and you’ll get sent straight to your room – without supper)

8 stalks of celery

6 maids-o-milking (strictly for the entertainment value)

1 large yellow onion

2 teaspoons of ground sage

2 sticks of real butter

1 large knife (should look lethal)

salt and pepper

paprika

Open wine box per instructions. Dispense into wine glass and garnish with crazy straw. Sample. Tell the kids, “It’s a juice box for grown-ups.”

Position oven rack at lowest setting and preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Sip wine.

Release turkey from vacuumed-sealed, impact-resistant packaging. Careful with that knife. Sip wine. Remove turkey neck and giblets and wave them about like puppets until your spouse tires of your “Who’s on first?” routine.

Extend crazy straw range with additional crazy straws. Test new connections. All leaks shall be repaired until the straw assembly is free of all leaks. Send kids out of the kitchen.

Find your choppy-board thingy. Chop onion into little onion pieces. Careful with that big knife! Avoid touching crazy straw with those oniony hands, cause boy that’s not a pleasant combination. Chop up the celery, too, into smaller celeries, too. Refill wine. Call the in-laws to come pick up these meddling kids.

In saucepan (did I tell you you’re going to need a saucepan, cause you’re going to need a saucepan), in saucepan, melt 1 stick-o-butter over medium heat. Add chopped up stuff. Refill wine.

Break bread and moisten with the water. Place in the place of the large mixing bowl. Replace empty box-o-wine with this box I found over here’s the box I told you to get for this recipe. Open with that knife is sharp! Get the door, will ya?

You tell your in-laws that you’re tired of them telling you how to raise their children...and their cat smells funny too. Why do they always look so mad? Jeez, I thought they'd never leave.

Rub the toilet seat with this stick of butter I found and wait for your spouse to go to the bathroom. This is going to be really funny. Do you smell something?

Remove burning saucepan from stove and swat smoke alarm with THIS THING IS HOT! You were gonna have that sofa cleaned with a slip cover anyway I found a bigger cup so we don’t have to mess with that silly glass thingy no more. Who left this turkey in the sink?

And that, my friends, is how you make wine box snowshoes. Be sure to tune in next time when my wife says, “Those maids don’t need any of your help?”

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki http://rantamaki.blogspot.com/

A Veteran's Day

2009-11-12T09:57:00.038-05:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Did you know it took an Act of Congress to decide whether or not to include an apostrophe in Veterans Day? (And you thought they were doing something productive.) This is because inserting a comma after the ‘n’ makes it singular possessive. Though, this doesn't seem to faze some calendar printers or advertising firms. So, with that version in mind, I'll share a singular possessive slice of my initiation into the Navy during Cold War I.

(You may find many veterans don’t talk much about their military days, unless in the company of other veterans, mainly because it’s difficult for civilians to fathom its impact.)

Two weeks after graduating high school, I was on my way to the San Diego Naval Training Center. To that point, in my somewhat nomadic life, I had been no farther west than Indiana. So, when offered a choice between the Navy’s Great Lakes training facility or San Diego, well, what’s a young-blooded American boy supposed to do?

The trip to San Diego not only marked my first trip out west, but the first time I would board a plane. I had no idea what I was in for, except that the beaches of Southern California held promise (glorious golden-blonde promise), though it would be months before I’d see any beach.

Since the bus ride from the San Diego airport to the Naval base was mercilessly short (the base was literally at the end of the airport’s runway), I, and the other trepid fools on that bus, had no time to second guess our life choices.

That afternoon we became well accustomed to standing behind the white line as we were: checked-in, inoculated, had our heads shaved (it's amazing how different someone looks after their head is shaved - it only took a few brief minutes for me to fail to recognize the guy I was just standing next to, let alone myself), and issued our mothball-scented uniform long before we even got a whiff of the powdered milk awaiting us at the mess hall.

The following morning, our company commander introduced himself with a boisterous rendition of the Star Spangled Banner – accompanied by fervent clashing of a trash can and its lid (I distinctly remember thinking, “this only happens in the movies, right?”). We stood in an orderly fashion. . . well, as best as a group of confused civilians could. . . and after countless pushups and a barrage of incentive-laced profanities, we formed ranks like a group of guys willing to do anything to just to survive the morning.

By the end of our first full day, we were beginning and ending every sentence with “sir” and we’d transferred our gear into what would become our home barracks for the duration of boot camp.

I knew we were in for some fun when I entered the “head” (Navy-talk for bathroom) and discovered it was separated into three distinct areas: the sinks, the showers, and smack-dab in between were the urinals and toilets. . . toilets without partitions. Yeah, those toilets were completely exposed to just about everyone in Southern California. You might as well have placed them in the middle of Nimitz Highway. Now, I don’t know if it was the food or the shock of a new environment, but a strange phenomenon played out during our first week there – no one used the toilets.

Our company commander was an angry fellow, or so I thought, because he would show up at odd hours of the night, have us form ranks, and march us around the grinder (a large asphalt lot covered in tiny, palm-piercing pebbles) for hours on end. Every errant move was rewarded with pushups. Being unfamiliar with boot camp protocol, we might’ve thought this exercise was normal, but NONE of the other companies came out at night, ever.

By the second week, the frequency of our pushups helped us develope an immunity to them. We could do them at any time, at any rate, all while mindlessly reciting passages of the General Orders. So notorious was our routine, other companies began to affectionately call us, “The Pushup Company.”

Shortly thereafter, any doubts regarding our seemingly bizarre regiment were realized when our company commander was apprehended by the Military Police (of course, this happened during one of our pushup sessions). Turns out he was an alcoholic. . . a full-time alcoholic.

Now, many, many times during boot camp, I wanted to spit out a witty observation. I mean, c’mon, I was surrounded by unintentional comedy; I was virtually bursting with snappy remarks. But since any break from military rank was met with swift punishment, I held my tongue. (Folks I encounter today benefit from the discipline I learned during that blistering summer in California – well, at least some folks do.)

As the MP’s loaded our company commander into their van, I muttered, “Good riddance, Petty Officer 'Stoli'.” This caught the attention of most of the company, but I didn’t stop there, I finished with, “They’ll love your ‘bottoms up’ expression in the brig.”

The entire company gawked at me as if roaches were streaming from my mouth, and the silence which had overtaken that courtyard gave me plenty of time to wonder why I couldn’t taste them, but suddenly the company burst into laughter.

It was the first time in weeks we’d relaxed. Our tension, our fears, our confusion, our fatigue all came pouring out in an excruciatingly tearful bout of laughter that came as a welcome relief. I think it was the first time my fellow recruits saw me as something other than a marching uniform. Our serenity, however, would be short-lived.

To make up for the physical agony we suffered at the hands of Petty Officer ‘Stoli’, the Navy's brass was thoughtful enough to assign us a Senior Chief as our next company commander. . . who was a Navy Seal. . . who was Filipino. So, not only was he extremely militant and insanely physical, but you could barely understand what he was saying.

Let’s just say it didn’t take us long to realized the phrase “pucking recruit” was derogatory.

(I’ll share more of my military experiences in future posts.)

© Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

Citizen At-Large (Two Disc Special Edition) (2009)

2009-11-05T07:49:00.035-05:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Normally, I’d have deemed this movie “rental-worthy”, but the audio commentary alone sets this flick apart. Truly a classic. Check it out. . .

Citizen At-Large (Two Disc Special Edition) (2009) The hilarious misadventures of an ill-prepared, middle-class white male caught in a struggle between perception and reality. Now available on DVD and Blu-ray.

Cast: Countless B-List celebrities
Director(s): Warren Fillbergh, Niles Moore
Screenwriter: Rick Rantamaki
MPAA Rating: PG-13 (Parental Guidance Suggested)
Features: With Audio Commentary – Rick Rantamaki (Writer) – Warren Fillbergh (Director) – Kip Girard (Voice-over)
Runtime: 214 minutes

OPENING SEQUENCE

BEDROOM – PREDAWN

[Fade-in with sound of alarm clock beeping]

Hand reaches from beneath the covers and blindly swats alarm clock. It’s 4:30AM.

[Begin rapid montage]

Feet land on floor. Eyes are rubbed with both palms. Rise and stretch. Shower door opens. Shower handle turned. Brushing teeth. Shaving cream. Hair mussing. Buttoning shirt. Tie shoes. Kiss sleeping wife.

CHILD’S BEDROOM
Tuck-in and kiss sleeping child.

KITCHEN
Retrieve bottle of water from refrigerator. Grab keys and cell phone on counter.

HOUSE EXTERIOR
A silhouette stands before an opening garage door.

INTERIOR TRUCK
Water bottle is set into the center console. Turn of the key. Dashboard illuminates.

[Begin “Life of Illusion” by Joe Walsh]

HOUSE EXTERIOR [STREET VIEW]
Pickup truck pulls out of driveway and onto the street beneath the glow of a streetlamp.

[begin opening credits]

Pickup truck winds though various streets and onto freeway. Traffic is heavy and sluggish. Truck follows several exits leading to airport as daybreaks.

AIRPORT PARKING LOT
Pickup truck pulls up to a parking lot gate and rolls down the window. A hand reaches out and snatches a ticket and the gate rises. The truck enters an ocean of parked vehicles and crawls through a succession of camera angles as it prowls multiple levels of an airport parking deck, no empty spaces are available.

WALKWAY ENTERING PARKING DECK
A WOMAN, leading the way with her keys, has a MAN in tow, who’s struggling with multiple, matching, suitcases. The truck stops at the sight of the couple weaving their way through rows of vehicles, then follows.

LONG-TERM PARKING LOT [EXT]
The truck stalks the couple to their vehicle, which is located at the long-term parking lot - almost out of sight of the airport. The MAN fumbles with the baggage as he crams them into the trunk of the car.

INTERIOR OF PICKUP
RICK: (muttering) “Come on,” (looks at his watch, it’s 6:45AM) “Scheez.”

LONG-TERM PARKING LOT [EXT]
[Both vehicles in frame]

WOMAN: “Where’s my lip balm?”

MAN: (while forcing another bag into the trunk) “Maybe. It’s. In. Your purse?”

WOMAN: “No. I just had it out.”

INTERIOR OF PICKUP
RICK’s grips the steering wheel tighter. He draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes.

PARKING DECK
RICK dashes through frame.

AIRPORT MAIN TERMINAL
Terminal is busy, but not crowded. RICK runs up to a vacant check-in kiosk and proceeds to scan his ticket. The kiosk emits an alert tone.

KIOSK: [with robotic voice] “Ha, ha! Foolish mortal! Did you think you could thwart the system?!”

RICK: “What?”

KIOSK: “You’re too late for your scheduled flight.”

RICK: (looking at watch) “What?! The flight doesn’t depart for another hour!”

KIOSK: “I don’t care how long it took you to park in our grossly overfilled parking labyrinth. Go stand in that long line with those fools who insist on bringing WAY too much luggage. And, while you’re waiting for our lethargic airline representative to reschedule your flight, you can think about getting to the airport a lot sooner next time. Ha ha ha! Thank you for flying with us.”

RICK grabs the kiosk and shakes it angrily.

[Freeze scene]

VOICE OVER: “That’s me and this is just a typical Monday.”

[soundtrack lowers]

RR: Is this thing on?

[an unknown voice clicks in, “We’re recording.” click]

RR: Uh, hi… hi everybody, I’m Rick Rantamaki… I’m the screenwriter for “Citizen At-Large.”

WF: And I’m Warren Fillbergh, the director. We’re also expecting Kip Girard, who provided the voice-over for this film, to show up any minute, but since we only have the studio ‘till noon, we’ll have to start without him. So. . . Rick, I understand you’re a virgin in the realm of audio commentary.

RR: Yes I am, Warren. . . please be gentle.

WF: I’ll try.

RR: You know, when my agent called about this gig, my initial reaction was to fake an illness.

WF: No kidding?

RR: Yeah, I figured; there’s no way I can go on and on about this movie without driving someone insane. . . namely myself.

WF: Ah, it’s not that bad; I do these all the time. Besides, the only people who listen to DVD commentaries are out-of-work actors and prison guards.

RR: Heh. . . yeah, you’re probably right. I tend to blow things out of proportion.

WF: Just think of it as an afternoon of watching movies with friends, except they don’t mind when you talk over the action.

RR: And those guys over there with the headsets aren’t government informants.

WF: Does paranoia run deep in your family?

RR: Only on my parent's side.

WF: Okay. . . perhaps we should focus on the movie then, eh?

RR: Oh yeah, the movie. . . you know, this is my first opportunity to see it. I didn’t realize you guys recorded the commentaries before the movie even hits the theaters.

WF: It’s common practice nowadays.

RR: Huh. Well, this opening parking lot sequence. . . uh. . . helps build tension, which most travelers are, uh. . . familiar with. . .

WF: Sure, and an interesting note about this particular scene is that Jacob Wagner, the actor playing the lead character here, never drove a vehicle before in his entire life.

RR: What?! Are you serious?

WF: Yep, he grew up someplace where the use of automobiles was prohibited.

RR: What, is he Amish or something?

WF: I think. . . or maybe he’s from Brooklyn, I don’t remember.

RR: He must’ve picked it up pretty quick, though; maneuvering around in a tight parking lot like that. . .

WF: Actually, he’s not the one driving.

RR: Oh, that’s his double?

WF: No, no, that’s him behind the wheel. He’s one of those “method actor” types who insists on “being in the moment” – you know how actors can be. So, we had to disguise the stunt driver as a passenger seat.

RR: But this film is loaded with road scenes, wouldn’t an actor with driving experience made filming easier?

WF: Well, yeah, but in order to find someone to play this part – which, I was informed this morning, is the character who’s is supposed to represent you, right?

RR: Yeah.

WF: We needed an unknown actor who could also come across as a naïve oaf who’s constantly surprised by the world around him… and women would naturally avoid.

RR: Uh-huh.

WF: Yeah, well, we couldn't find one. So, the makeup department was forced to recede Jacob's hairline a bit and provide him with an overbite appliance before we finally achieved the desired “look”.

RR: Yeah, I. . . I see. . . ah. . . perhaps we shouldn’t dwell on the casting details. . . uh, this. . . this movie is based on my book, “Mental Notes: From the Brink of Reality”, which, I believe is still available through most major book outlets.

WF: Really? Huh. I never heard of the book.

RR: Wh-What?

WF: I never knew there was a book.

RR: You didn’t know there was a book?

WF: (undecipherable)

RR: It spent 14-weeks atop the bestseller list for, “American Literature for the Clinically Insane”. It’s prominently listed in the opening credits. How could you NOT know about my book?

WF: Well, as a rule, I don’t read much.

RR: You, you don't read— c'mon, even if you haven’t read it, surely you’ve seen me pimping it on the talk show circuit last summer.

WF: I don’t watch much TV.

RR: Really? And the morning radio shows?

WF: I find them distracting.

RR: I. . . I’m stunned. I. . . I don’t know what to say.

WF: What’s the big deal?

RR: What’s the big deal?! You’re telling me that you agreed to direct a movie based on a book you’ve never heard of?

WF: Yeah.

RR: Written by a guy you’ve never met?

WF: I wouldn’t say that; we met in the lobby.

RR: I meant before today. We’ve never met before today.

WF: Well, since you put it that way, then— Heyyyyyy Kip! Glad to see you could make it.

KG: Sorry I’m late fellas, but I passed the studio three times before I realized my GPS was in my other car.

RR: Hi there Kip, nice to finally meet you.

KG: Uh, hi. . . and you are?

RR: I’m Rick. . . Rick Rantamaki. . . I’m the screenwriter. . . the guy who wrote the book. . . the guy you represented with the voice-over. . .

KG: Ohhh. . . huh, y'know, I thought you’d be much shorter.

RR: Why’s that?

KG: I dunno. I see you guys started without me. Have I missed anything?

WF: Not really. Well, Rick here was just talking about some book he wrote.

KG: Oh, you wrote a book? That’s lovely. Does anyone mind if I take the last croissant? I haven’t had a bite to eat all morning.

WF: No, no, go right ahead.

RR: It’s not just some book, it’s the book this movie is based on.

KG: Really? What’s it called?

RR: “Mental Notes: From the Brink of—”

KG: Never heard of it.

RR: Jeez, alright already; I get it. Nobody’s read my book.

WF: There’s no need to get bent out of shape, Rick.

RR: Huh? Wait a minute. . . I’m not saying I don’t appreciate your efforts Warren, but why? Why would a premiere Hollywood director, such as yourself, with a slew of box office hits, who can pretty much choose any screenplay, opt to invest his time and resources in a screenplay he knows absolutely nothing about?

WF: Look Rick, I don’t know what preconceived notions you have about the film making process, but let me tell you, here in Hollywood, nobody reads screenplays.

RR: What? Really?

WF: Really. Screenplays are NOT what fuels movie productions, concepts are. Your book, however “wonderful” it may be, was reduced to a concept. Its premise, its texture, the narrative format; all of it was basically concentrated down to a few lines of text. Those lines, those few measly lines of text, are what swayed the studio executives to fund this production. So, although we’re required to inform the audience the movie is based upon your book, in actuality, this film only slightly resembles your book.

RR: Resembles my book?

WF: Yeah. When the studio green-lights a concept, they feed it to their own screenwriters who then adapt it to accommodate whatever interests the studio is currently trying to satisfy. We like to call the process, rehydration.

RR: Huh, I had no idea.

WF: I know it sounds a little harsh, but you’ve got to consider how many screenplays are out there. If we took the time to read them all—

KG: We wouldn’t have anytime to lavish ourselves with awards.

[both Kip and Warren share a laugh]

RR: Has it always been this way?

WF: Pretty much.

RR: So, the box office hits of the past are the result of rehydrated screenplays?

WF: Yeah, most of ‘em.

RR: Even the classics?

WF: Even the classics.

RR: Like… “Citizen Kane”?

WF: Rehydrated from a screenplay about the delusions of traveling snow globe salesman.

RR: “Gone with the Wind”?

WF: Rehydrated tale involving a frustrated stable girl and a talking horse.

RR: A talking horse?

WF: With a mustache, like I said, it's not verbatim.

RR: How 'bout “The Wizard of Oz”?

WF: Boy, has that concept gotten some mileage. It was originally rehydrated from a screenplay about a group of disenfranchised dwarves trying to establish a commune within the confines of a dairy farm. Can you believe that? A dairy farm. It was rehydrated again as, “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” and yet again for the movie, “Top Gun”… except they reduced the mob of angry dwarves down to a single midget – who was a natural at flying high-tech jet fighters in unrealistic combat scenarios.

RR: No kidding. I guess that explains why this gunfight scene is in the movie… ‘cause that’s NOT how I got through airport security.

WF: The studio needed an action film for the Holiday Season.

KG: [in his voice-over tone] “In a world where Holiday Magic and Madness collide with ultra-flashy over-the-top pyrotechnical stuff—”

RR: This is nothing like the screenplay I wrote. I mean, c'mon, shoving aside little old ladies just to get to the head of the Starbucks line is completely out of character. . .and I don’t even drink coffee.

WF: The sponsors love this kind of stuff, Rick. It’s what they’re paying for.

RR: Unbelievable. . . well, then what becomes of the original screenplays?

WF: I think they used to toss them in a landfill just west of Hollywood, but nowadays, in order to be eco-friendly, screenplays are spooled onto tiny rolls, given a spritz of lavender and hung in the bathrooms.

RR: Wha—

KP: Oh yeah, I can lose myself for hours in an MGM stall.

RR: Really?

KP: Yeah, I can’t tell you how many times my legs have fallen asleep in there.

RR: Uh, okay, so. . . uh, why am I even here?

WF: Ha, yeah well. . . the lead actor was unavailable.

RR: The Amish guy?

WF: Yeah, seems he’s busy on the set of “Good Will Flaunting”.

KG: Awww. Jacob’s not coming? Man, I wanted to find out if those stories about his wild escapades on the set were true.

WF: Kip, you’d be amazed how popular that guy was with the ladies.

KG: [again in his deep voice-over tone] “In a world… were innocence and desperate Hollywood sluts collide—”

RR: Y’know what, you guys should continue this without me.

WF: Huh? Wait–

RR: No, no. Aside from the concept, I obviously had nothing to do with this film.

WF: But, there’s still 138 minutes left. . .

RR: Can someone please validate my parking?

KG: [still using his voice-over tone] “In a world where parking is free. . .”

WF: Nobody walks out on an audio commentary, Rick.

RR: Well, this'll be a first. Maybe this’ll boost DVD sales. Best of luck guys. [door closes]

WF: Damn writers!

KG: [voice-over tone] “. . . and the Oscar for best film commentary goes to. . .”

WF: Ah, shut up Kip! Somebody get me Lawrence Fishburn on the phone.

[END OF AUDIO COMMENTARY]

More Ruminations...

2009-08-26T11:30:00.006-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Back by popular demand, even more daily ruminations! (also known as mental vomit) I'm beginning to think these should be printed. . . on toilet paper.

1. "Each time you make a choice, that creates an alternate reality in a new universe.” Snatching the menu from my hands, my wife handed it to the waitress and said, “He’ll have today’s special."

2. Normally just a metaphor, I once found myself in a backwoods bar literally proclaiming, “I don’t want to get into a pissing contest over this.”

3. A recent US market research study revealed that 40 percent of Twitter messages are “pointless babble.” The study went on to say stuff about other things, but I got sidetracked while Twittering updates of my prostate exam.

4. What kinda day are you having when a prostate exam is a humorous convenience?

5. Behold! I’ve been permitted to venture outside – unsupervised.

6. If I could only be half as proud of MY book as the college bookstore is of THEIRS.

7. From today’s Reuters newsfeed – “Cash-strapped Cuba says toilet paper running short” (I dunno, maybe they should print their money on something else.)

8. “…and who brought the water cannon when you needed talked down from that ledge, eh?”

9. From the “Senility’s Surprises Everyone” File: Today, a 60-year-old man was convicted of groping Minnie Mouse during his visit to Walt Disney World. The man claimed he was just trying to locate Minnie’s mouse pad.

10. Can the folks at Oxford Dictionary sue me for plagiarism?

11. Welcome to the South – where the mirrors quiver to the beat of thumping Bibles and the Holy Water is served iced and thickly sweetened!

12. I’ve got raisins on the bran.

13. While making a run for more beer, a brazen drunkard (whose license was revoked because of a previous DUI conviction) attempted to evade police by weaving in and out of traffic on his riding lawnmower. The police chief was later overheard saying, “He thought he was a cut above arrest.”

14. “The Guiding Light” soap opera will end its record 57-year run. Here’s a suggestion for the show’s finale: During a steamy adulterous interlude, the walls of the set fall away exposing a group of monkeys backstage, spinning a wheel labeled: amnesia, plane crash, adultery, evil twin, dream sequence, lost at sea…

15. Spellcheck: Can't live with it, can't liv witout et.

16. Nigerian Army attacks Islam . . . with email scam, which promises an all out holy war (provided the Islamist supply the Nigerian Army with an initial stockpile of weapons). “Nobody falls for that crap,” said an Islamic official, unaware of his colleagues ululating in the streets below.

17. “Accountability is not my concern, ‘cause Sunday resets absolve me,” was too wordy for their bumper sticker so they went with, “Born to Pray.”

18. Born to be riled.

19. Dementia: It's where the "YOU ARE HERE" arrow is pointing (and I thought I was in Sane).

20. Mondays: It’s what caffeine is all about.

21. It’s neurotoxin time; a little pick me up to put me down.

22. The necessity for his bicycle helmet wasn’t immediately clear until the well-dressed lad said, “Good afternoon sir, do you realize your inclination towards caffeine is destroying your relationship with Him?”

23. Learning Spanish (the hard way): Apparently, "Emergency Room" means "FREE health clinic" in Spanish. (Hey, this full immersion crap is paying off.)

24. I exist only to satisfy your idea of reality . . . and this is what you make of me?!

25. NASA officials recently admitted they accidentally taped-over Neil Armstrong’s infamous “giant leap” video. That’s right, what was quite possibly the most significant film footage captured by mankind now only contains the ‘79 season opener of Diff’rent Strokes. Just goes to show, you really DON’T want a rocket scientist working the VCR.

26. From the "All Eyes on Us" File: We piled into a booth at a local pancake house. My two sisters and I on one side, mom and dad on the other. Before the waitress could take our orders, mom’s side of the booth collasped with a thunderous snap. Our dad slowly slid down the lopsided bench and into mom. Smiling broadly behind his bushy gray mustache he said, “I like this place, it’s cozy.”

27. According to California tax officials, legalizing pot could generate an estimated $1.4 billion in revenue for the cash-strapped state. The officials went on to say that they plan to continue their analysis some time after the pizza dude arrives.

28. A story my mother liked to recount: A kid in her elementary class raised his hand during a lesson and asked to go to the bathroom. The elderly teacher, who was notoriously hard of hearing, earnestly replied, “You can sharpen it later.”

29. From the Epiphany File of my childhood: “If you have nothing nice to say,” mom once chided, “then don’t say anything at all.” Without a hitch, I responded, “So, tell me more about this sarcasm stuff.”

30. There’re times when age knocks you for a loop. Moments when you realize, life’s happened. And when you’re finally able to refocus, it becomes clear… the message was delivered by a younger generation.

31. Okay, why would anybody publically claim to be Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgeon?

32. From the Preposterous File: The lab results are in and whadda you know, I'm a child of Michael Jackson too!

33. I politely declined the invitation to attend Michael Jackson’s funeral citing, “He lost touch with me once I started middle school .”

34. An entry on our subdivision’s online forum (verbatim): “how many rules we need ,does wee need all that does we realy think wee need to hold grown ups hand and tell them everything...“ Apparently, I overlooked the Lobotomy Clinic on our amenities list.

35. How many movie trailers does it take till you forget what movie you came to see?

36. The cat continued to clean its paws as the lieutenant sifted through the crime scene. The only witness crouched in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and sobbing. She wasn’t ready to talk. She didn’t need to, because the discarded Scratching Post condom wrapper said it all.

37. Sometimes I even surprise myself, especially when my arm's asleep.

38. From the Distorted Ego File: We waited patiently while the harried clerk attended to some other customers. As the clerk tried to sort out a myriad of requests, she turned to me and mindlessly said, “You're something else.” I turned to my wife and said, “You see, that's what I've been trying to tell you all along.”

39. From the No Respect File: During a workload meeting one of the principals indicated he needed Adam S. for the afternoon, which would temporarily pull Adam S. from Adam B.’s project. So I said, quite cleverly, “Sooo, you’ll be splitting Adams today?” Not one laugh. Not one. For a moment I wondered if perhaps I didn't say it out loud, but the incredulous glares said otherwise.

40. "Why do I keep asking myself questions? I dunno. Do I enjoy interviewing myself? Yes, because it keeps you from asking questions I'm trying to avoid. Can I go on like this? Absolutely. I'm prepared to do this for as many seasons as they'll pay me." - Kate Gosselin

41. Shhhhh... I'm secretly controlling the plane with my cell phone. Flaps up, flaps down, flaps up, flaps down, flaps up...

42. Do you think the airlines train their pilots to mumble morosely over the intercom?

43. Tough Crowd: I've tried several times, but no one at this airport is amused by my Herve Villechaize impersonation.

44. Alright, I kept runnin' into this same guy in the airport restroom (he was singin' and pissin' and carrying on) and I thought he lived there or something, but during my last sortie I figured out it was just a full-length mirror.

45. Alone with my thoughts (which violates a restraining order somewhere).

Varied Ruminations...

2009-06-17T12:17:00.009-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Occasionally, I’ll jot down a thought or an idea while stuck in traffic, or while I’m sitting at my desk, or when I’m waiting on something or someone. Sometimes I’ll expand upon these thoughts with a full-blown story, and sometimes I just let them stew. Enough of them have accumulated that I thought I’d share them with you. Maybe, someday, I’ll make these into a "Daily Rumination" desk calendar thingy for all the world to enjoy…

• The TMI File: A Vietnamese coworker was half-asleep when I entered his office. I asked if he was alright (he’s in his late 60’s and, well, sometimes you just wanna make sure he’s okay). He straightened himself in his chair and wearily said, “Ugh, sex so much last night.”

• Atlanta only ranks number 3 in the category of angriest and most aggressive drivers. Hah! We’re cuttin’ you off next New York and Dallas (and that’s not a turn signal we’re waving either).

• Yeah, I’ve got a problem, but someday the Health Department will declare it a disorder and I can start collecting disability... and royalty checks for the use of my name. Yeah, someday...

• “Thanks to the digital converter box coupon program,” Tatiana promulgated into the local news camera, “I did not miss one indiscretion on the Springer Show last night.”

• Advice for a new hire: You have to launch into a vulgar session of Tourette's early, or it'll just seem *forced* later.

• When the dashboard is flashing “TILT”, that might be a good time to adjust your diet.

• When will "now" be a good time?

• Sometimes you can go crazy trying to find something you've lost, but you can save yourself a lot of grief if you just look where you left it.

• There are not enough drugs in the day to appreciate government employees.

• Laugh and the whole world laughs with you; cry and you won’t be invited to another poker game.

• I once wiped-out an entire kingdom of Sea Monkeys during a pillow fight. Sure, that was decades ago, but I can still hear their screams.

• Everybody has a secret they don't want you to find – everybody. Some may be dark, some may be shameful, some may be an unpopular addiction to Swedish pop music, but everyone’s prone to reveal their secret given the right company.

• They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so I imagine the path to heaven must be lined with GM executives.

• She said she was touched by the hand of God. So, I asked her to show us on the doll where He touched her. (The lab results were incongruent with her testimony.)

• When someone gets a bright idea, people like to say they see the light bulb go on, but what did they say to Thomas Edison? I bet they just told him he was flaming.

• I don’t play by the rules. The house rules. Boxcar Willie rules.

• IT Translation 101: When a coworker says, "My email is not working," what he's really saying is, "It's working, but I'm not."

• Funny how life is constantly refining your perspective.

• Just discovered I'm not NEARLY as special as the bus I rode in on.

• "How do you know it's a virus until you open it?" - The logic of yet another coworker who opened a strange email.

• The Smart Car is little more than a glorified golf cart and, until SUV’s become obsolete, they’re just another splatter for the wiper to smear.

• BIG interview tomorrow [frantically reading "How to Host Your Own Talk Show for Dummies" and avoiding Arsenio's voicemail]

• I'm leery of people with radiant-white teeth.

• The clouds landed overnight, but none of them were numbered “9”.

• [a knowing chuckle emanates from an unknown source]

• A couple of guys in the office are having an aroma war. The Vietnamese guy is attempting to fend off the Hispanic fellow's cologne with a plug-in air freshener and a fan. The rest of us fall under the category of *collateral damage*.

• According to a shoddy tri-fold display down at the Department of Health Services, it's "Mental Health Awareness Month." LET'S GO MENTAL! [clap, clap, clap-clap-clap] LET'S GO MENTAL!

• Wanna instantly elevate the average IQ in a room? Walk into any government office.

• You have my divided attention.

• To help celebrate Cinco de Mayo, most of the storefront signs and billboards around here have been changed to Spanish…no, wait, never mind, they’re always like that.

• I am required by State law to advise you of the emergency exits located at both the front and the rear of the car.

• Transmission of the swine flu is a touchy subject.

• I’m stuck behind an 80's conversion van that, according to the window vinyl, is transporting a member of the Macho Club.

• "I didn't know you were soo funny," my neighbor said today. (She finally read my book...she's had it since Christmas...y'know, I can't duck every back-handed compliment.)

• You need a Paula Abdul translator? There's an app for that.

• Happy belated Procrastination Day! (I'll send you a card next week.)

• Coworker: "I just tried again and again, but it just won't print out for me. What am I doing wrong?" ME: "Which printer are you sending it to?" Another Coworker [down the hall]: "Why does my printer keep spitting out coupons for Viagra?!"

• Hark! According to my calendar, I'm in for a "Good Friday". [Hmm, what else does it know?]

• I wonder if Somalian Pirates wear eyeliner...ARRRR!!

• Master of the Obvious. [cue thunderclap]

• I am none the wiser.

• I've entered the phase in my life where my age is recorded in Roman numerals...but I can't remember if it's 'I' before 'X' except after 'C'...

• [Office Speak 101] "When you get a chance." - REALLY means - "Drop everything and work on MY stuff."

• thick fog + radar gun = blind cop desperately trying to meet end-of-the-month quota

• Why do India’s telemarketers insist on giving themselves names like "Betty" or "Mike"?

• I wonder if coin-op "pay-per-towel" dispensers will be the next cost-cutting measure at the office...

• I’ve been left to my own devices.

• I finally won the office pool. A victory for blind squirrels everywhere!

• I've got the mind of a child. Do you think he'll take it back?

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

Updating Memory - Please Stand By

2009-05-27T11:59:00.025-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

The secret to immortality, my friends, is to avoid me. You see, when I lose contact with someone, in my mind's eye they never age, they never change, they’re never subjected to new hardships. I know this isn’t the case, I know life goes on, but my mind doesn’t bother to fill in the blanks. It simply stows away the last known reference I have of someone and, whenever I think of that person, my mind retrieves that archived memory – no matter how long it’s been in storage (I’m sorry guys, but many of you will always have a mullet…and Gerald Dean, you will always have a finger up your nose). This is the only way I can explain why certain things surprise me, certain inevitable things – like the retirement of a former high school teacher.

When I heard about the retirement of Mr. Hughes, the news blindsided me. This isn't supposed to happen, or should I say, time wasn't supposed to advance this far. You see, in the everlasting memory of my former teachers, they still teach in the same classroom, with the same textbooks (which is probably true), in the same attire – forever. Mr. Hughes was no exception. He was supposed to teach well beyond my ability to remember which assisted living apartment I left my dentures in. Obviously, though, the notice of his retirement meant I would have to update my antiquated memory of him; the fiery little man with the bushy hair, over-sized glasses, and caterpillar mustache is moving on.

Mr. Hughes meant a lot to me, more so than most teachers. So, I felt compelled to contribute to his retirement ceremony (besides, he’s had to deal with us Rantamaki’s for well over half of his thirty-year teaching career…it’s the least I could do). So, I took a moment to remember him, in my own special way (I'll get to you later)…

Former Classmates, Teachers, and Friends:

Unlike many of you here, I was never a student of Mr. Hughes (yes, I still call him Mr. Hughes, because using “George” just seems disrespectful). I never signed-on for any of his drama classes and I was never in his choir (though both of my sisters were, as were both of my nieces…and yes, it’s been THAT long). I did, however, find myself under the direction of Mr. Hughes during a number of school plays, and it wasn’t until then that I was able to fully appreciate the emotional complexity of the man beneath the hair.

Initially, I volunteered for backstage work - at the urging of my older sister who figured I could use the social interaction (she obviously felt I’d mastered “geek” and needed to move onto “interactive geek”). I simply saw it as something to do.

As the seasons passed, my participation grew to include not only set construction, lighting, and props, but also becoming a member of the cast – a monumental leap for a kid who tended to avoid attention.

In the transition from behind-the-scenes to becoming an on-stage performer in a Mr. Hughes production, I was treated to the full brunt of his wrath – a fury I once thought was fabricated by my sister to make it “appear” as though choir was hell. But, experiencing the yelling, screaming, fist pounding and foot stomping during the long tenuous hours of rehearsal only reaffirmed her depiction of a crazed man bordering on PMS.

His tirades were, at times, difficult to withstand, but when it all came together, when the curtain fell upon a performance equal to his vision, he never hesitated to heap tearful praise upon his performers. I can still see him standing in the wing, with a rare smile of satisfaction, open arms, and virtually bursting with approval — those moments, those infrequent moments, made it all worthwhile.

He was my teacher without a classroom, my mentor without an equal, an adopted parent without knowing. He built my character through his characters. His confidence became my confidence.

Without Mr. Hughes, my time at Chaney High School might have been forgettable. Without him, Chaney might have just left a bad taste and without him, my everyday encounters might lack confidence. It was symbiotic, our relationship, and though I lacked the ability to understand it then, I’m certainly thankful for it now. So, although my time with Mr. Hughes never counted towards my grade-point average, it's counted ever since.

Thank you Mr. Hughes and best wishes in your retirement,

Rick Rantamaki - Student in Life

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

The LAST NIGHT Show

2009-05-21T11:55:00.001-04:00

with Special Guest Lucy Adams

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

WIN A FREE HAT! See below for more details.

NOTE: The following excerpt appears courtesy of Mental Notes Broadcasting Industries (MNBI). Any unauthorized use or reproduction of the pictures, descriptions, or accounts of this script without the express written consent of MNBI, or Lucy Adams is strictly prohibited. Unless, of course, you wanna make someone laugh. Then, by all means, pass it on.

[Returning from commercial break, the house band (KISS) is covering “Safety Dance”]

RICK: “Thank you very much. Thank you. Mr. Paul Stanley and the musical stylings of KISS, everyone.”

[Audience applauds]

RICK: [laughing] “Paul, I think you were spelling 'SISSY' dance there.”

PAUL: “I tend to stutter when spelling with my body.”

[Audience laughs]

RICK: [still laughing] “I guess that’s what forced the cheerleading squad to drop you, eh?”

[PAUL smiles and nods, the audience laughs.]

RICK: “Hah, ha, ah. Our next guest is–“ [shakes his head] “No, no really, I don’t know how you guys haven’t busted an ankle stomping around in those things.”

GENE: [holding up a platform boot for the camera] “We’re classically trained.”

RICK: “Right. Hah, hah, ah…"

[GENE sticks out his tongue]

RICK: [shaking his head] “Okay. Our next guest--” [straightens his tie] “Whew" [clears his throat and taps the desk with the edge of his index cards] "Uh, our next guest is a humor columnist from Georgia and is often called the funniest woman this side of the dinner table. She’s written a new book titled If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny, which is available now at Amazon.com. Please say hello to the lovely and talented Ms. Lucy Adams ladies and gentlemen.”

[Audience applauds as the house band jumps into a Bluegrass rendition of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” LUCY emerges from backstage and crosses the set. PAUL is plucking a banjo and GENE is on the fiddle. The audience’s cheers escalate. RICK and LUCY shake hands. RICK shows LUCY to her seat next to the host’s desk.]

RICK: “Welcome to the show.”

LUCY: “Well thank you. Thank you so much.”

RICK: “Well thank you very much for being here. Now I’ve tried to explain a little bit about who you are and where you’re from and what you do. Now why don’t you help us out here. Where are you from?”

LUCY: “Okay well, I was born in the small town of Waynesboro, Georgia, in a hospital that was nothing more than a one room shack and the waiting room was in the shade of a pecan tree out on the side lawn.”

RICK: “Huh, that sounds charming.”

LUCY: “Nowadays, I reside in a small town in Georgia called Thomson.”

RICK: “Whereabouts in Georgia is Thomson?”

LUCY: “It's in eastern Georgia, near Augusta.”

RICK: “Oh, that's where they play The Masters, right?”

LUCY: “Yes.”

RICK: “That, uh, big golfing shindig down there.”

[Audience laughs]

LUCY: “Yes.”

RICK: “Now, have you played at Augusta National before?”

LUCY: [laughing] “I’ve never played The National.”

RICK: “You’re laughing. What? The course isn’t challenging enough for you? It’s not suited to your style of play? Not enough beer carts? What? What is it? Why won’t you play there?”

LUCY: “Because it would take me too many days to play 18 holes of golf.”

RICK: “Soooo, perhaps if they’d let you use an RV in lieu of a golf cart, then maybe you’d play?”

LUCY: “Well…”

RICK: “Y’know, park it next to your ball, roll out the awning, set up some chairs and some tiki lamps, take a few hacks at the ball, go inside, make yourself lunch, maybe watch a movie...”

[Audience laughs]

LUCY: “My grandfather played the course once.”

RICK: “Oh, really?”

LUCY: “Yes, with borrowed clubs and knickers. He had never, ever played golf before, and I don't think he ever played again. And based on his track record, no one else in my family has since been invited to play.”

RICK: “See what happens when you don’t follow the rules. Let that be lesson to you folks out there, always return your knickers!" [straightens his tie] "Now, when I’m watching The Masters on TV -- which is a beautiful, lovely course, by the way -- and when I’m watching, I’m assuming everyone who lives in that area must have a yard that is as equally impressive. Is that true? Would you say your yard compares to Augusta National?”

LUCY: “Yes. My yard definitely compares to The Augusta National. It compares to it in the way the phrase 'Git-er-done' compares to 'Let's finish this project in a timely manner.' It compares to The Augusta National in the same way Elvis's birthplace compares to Scarlet's Tara. It compares to it the way a greased pig race compares to a debutante ball.”

RICK: “Or Paul Stanley compares to Paul Shaffer.”

STUDIO AUDIENCE: “Ooooo.”

[the drummer plays a rim shot and PAUL waves to the audience]

LUCY: “We did, sort-of, kind-of, get Yard of the Month once. When the Garden Club rep came by late at night to put out the sign, she mistakenly put it in our yard instead of the neighbor's. And before anyone from the Garden Club could fix the error, the newspaper had already taken a picture of our house with the sign in front.”

RICK: “You must've been so proud."

LUCY: "Oh yes, I warmly accpeted the award."

RICK: "Now, does everybody in town know you’re a writer?”

LUCY: “All nine people. Ha, ha. Actually, I write a weekly column in the local newspaper, so most people, at least the ones who can read, know I'm a writer. But, seriously, my community is overwhelmingly supportive and proud of me. I truly wouldn't have experienced the success I have without all of my very loyal readers.”

RICK: “Now, from what I understand, newspaper columnists, unlike television and film personalities, normally have the benefit of public anonymity -- they can go about their daily lives in relative obscurity. But, since you live in such a small town, and everyone’s aware of your propensity to put your experiences in writing, do you think the local folks go out of their way to either be in, or out, of your stories?”

LUCY: “People do one of two things: 1) They either watch what they say around me, or 2) they regret what they say around me; not because I immediately go write about them, but because they have to worry that I will. My biggest trouble with someone trying to set me up to write about him has come from my youngest son.”

RICK: “Oh no.”

LUCY: “Oh yes. We recently had a very serious heart to heart about not doing things just to see if I would write about him in the paper; like setting off the neighbor's burglar alarm. Unfortunately, I ended up writing about the incident, so I'm not sure I made my point.”

RICK : [to the audience] “Well, the police blotter doesn’t write itself." [turns back to LUCY] "Well, I guess if you run out of story ideas, it’s nice to know the kids are there to help."

LUCY: "It certainly is."

RICK: "So your family is sort of caught up in a written reality show?"

LUCY: “You could say that. Much to my husband's horror, folks frequently ask him, 'Is what your wife wrote this week true?' To which he replies, 'Not if it's about me."

[Audience laughs]

LUCY: "Actually, all the stories in If Mama Don't Laugh, It Ain't Funny are true except one. And there's a clue to which one isn't true.”

RICK: “Ooooo, a little teaser there. I like that. Now, has anyone, friends, relatives, local coots, knowing that you’re a writer, approached you with a story, or a personal experience, they wanted you to write?”

LUCY: “No one ever comes right out and tries to sell me on an idea. Most of the time they say things like, 'You ought to write about that,' or 'I bet we'll see that in the paper next week.' Usually, they don't though. The worst thing to write is what people expect to see. The predictable is disappointing.”

RICK: “Funny, that’s what the critics say about my show."

[Audience laughs]

RICK: "So, ah…what does make you laugh?”

LUCY: “What makes me laugh? Well, let’s see: morbid pet stories, getting caught walking out of the bathroom with my skirt tucked in my panties, my daughter telling me she's looking to hire a bubble gum assistant, sarcasm, plays on words . . . shall I go on?”

RICK: “Please do. The writers on this show need all the help they can get.”

LUCY: “Humor is everywhere, when I'm open to it. It keeps me from taking myself and my daily frustrations too seriously.”

RICK: “Speaking of daily frustrations, maybe we’ve got something that’ll make you laugh too, or perhaps cry -- we’ll see. We’ve arranged a special surprise for you tonight, Lucy. Our stage manager Frank Rizzani and our production assistant Sal Goldberg will reenact one of your stories live. Right here. Right on this stage!”

[Audience applauds]

RICK: “That’s right. They’ve been working on this all morning and I think you’ll soon discover why the Actors Guild has been ignoring them.”

LUCY: “This should be good.”

RICK: “Oh, I wouldn’t bet on that.”

[Audience laughs]

RICK: “Now, Frank and Sal will be interpreting a story from your book titled…uh, Dr. Seuss Duet. Now, ah, your boys were pretty young when this event took place, right?”

LUCY: [laughs] “Yes, yes they were.”

RICK: [directed towards the curtain] “Are we ready back there guys?!” [voices can be heard from backstage] “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a one-time production of Lucy Adam’s Dr. Seuss Duet.”

[Audience applauds. Curtain rises to reveal FRANK and SAL sitting together in an oversized cushy chair. They’re both dressed in footy-pajamas and they’re sharing a book.]

FRANK: [in his thick Brooklyn accent] “Would ya like them here or dare?”

SAL: [in his frail, 50-something, New York Jewish accent] “Oh, dear gawd no. I would not like them anywhere.”

[They smile warmly at one another, then turn the page together.]

FRANK: “Would ya eat dem inna box? Would ya eat dem widda fox?”

SAL: “Not in a box. Not with a fox! Not in a house! And certainly not with a mouse! What kind of shabby setup are you running here, trying to make me eat with those awful, disgusting animals?!”

[Audience laughs as FRANK glares at SAL. They slap at each other’s hands while trying to turn the page.]

FRANK: “Eat dem! Eat dem! Here day ARE!” [FRANK punctuates the last word with a whopping punch to SAL’s arm]

SAL: [while rubbing his arm] “Oh gawd, you’re killin’ me here!” [sucks in a deep breath through his clenched teeth] “Not on a train! Not in a tree! Not in a car!” [SAL turns and shouts the next line into FRANK’s ear] “SAM! LET ME BE! OR…” [SAL looks back at the page] “I’M GONNA TELL MA!”

[They turn the page]

FRANK: [trying to hold back a laugh, grasps SAL by the collar] “Would ya! COULD YA!”

SAL: [pulling at FRANK’s ear] “Well…listen to me. I would not! Could not! WILL NOT eat that non-kosher filth!”

FRANK: [tearing at SAL’s hair] “Try dem! Try dem and you may, I say! Don’t be such a SISSY all da time!” [pajama-footies thrash about]

PAUL: [heard above the audience’s laughter] Ahhh, hah, hah, haaaa!

SAL: [contorting to read the page] “Fine, Sam! If you will let me be, I will try them. You will see what a jerk you are! NOW GET OFFA ME!”

[With disheveled hair, red-faced and breathing hard, they both turn the page]

SAL: [suddenly calmer] “Saaaay. I like green eggs and ham.” [trying to catch his breath] “I do. I like them Sam-I-am! And I would eat them…” [SAL rechecks the page] “…in a boat. And I would eat them with...a goat…”

[FRANK, with his eyes closed tight and struggling to swallow his laughter, puts an arm around SAL]

SAL: “…in a car. On a train. At the aw-face. They would ALL be fantastic.” [a laugh burps out of SAL, which causes FRANK to start laughing again] “Thank you. Thank you Sam-I-am.”

FRANK: [wiping a tear] “Hey…” [with his voice escalating] “…wanna read it again?”

SAL: [eagerly] “Sure!”

[Curtain falls as SAL and FRANK continue laughing at one another, the audience is in hysterics]

RICK: [laughing] “Frank and Sal everyone!”

[Uproarious applause]

RICK: “Hah, ha. That is some funny stuff. You know, that’s not too far off from how our production meetings go ‘round here. What did you think of our little number there, Lucy? Do you think we did your story justice?”

LUCY: “Well, my kids aren't quite that hairy - I hope they never are, honestly - and their accents have more twang, and they display greater agility and flexibility in their wrestling matches, but other than that, yeah. That's about how it happened."

RICK: “Wonderful, the guys will be glad to hear that. Oh, ah, I see our time has run out and we need to go to a commercial break. Well, it’s been very exciting to meet you.” [holds up book] “The book, If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny, can be found at Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble, Borders, and Books A Million. You must be very excited about that, huh? And I certainly hope you come back and be on the show again.”

[Audience applauds]

LUCY: “Yeah anytime.”

RICK: “Have you enjoyed the experience so far?”

LUCY: “So far, yeah. It’s been wonderful.”

RICK: “Yeah, good. So you’ll stop by during your next Blogapalooza Tour?”

LUCY: “Certainly.”

RICK: “Great. It’s been a great pleasure to meet you.”

LUCY: “Thank you.”

RICK: “Lucy Adams ladies and gentlemen. We’ll be right back with the musical group The Shins.”

[Audience applauds and the house band plays “Mama Don’t Dance”. Go to commercial break.]

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

WIN A FREE "If Mama Don't Laugh" HAT simply by leaving a comment on this post. That will be your entry into the contest. Contest ends June 4th. Winner will be drawn at random and announced on June 5th. This contest is only open to residents of the U.S. with a vaild mailing address.

Entertainment on a Budget

2009-05-12T11:51:00.013-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

You know, it’s kind of weird watching a play that was written by a coworker. I mean, you’re sitting there watching it thinking, all of THIS came out of him.

I work with the guy on a daily basis and he never mentioned he was writing a play. In fact, it wasn’t until his play premiered in Texas that he told me about it. I read the script and the quality of his work was amazing. The characters, the plot, the humor, the conflicts were all carefully orchestrated into a believable story. THIS coming from a guy who works at a mechanical engineering firm. Hard to fathom, huh?

Well, it just so happens that a local community theater picked up his play and it’s currently running through the month of May. Of course, I had to see it. How would it be interpreted? How would an audience react to it? Would the casting be as I imagined? I was looking forward to it almost as much as my coworker was.

I told him I would write a review (as though I had no previous knowledge of the play) and, if he chose, he was free to post it on some local theater review sites. So I ran the following by him and he agreed to have it posted “as is”…

Entertainment on a Tight Budget

With kids and a tight budget, it’s not often the wife and I get a date night; so we cherish those rare moments. Friday night was no exception. I got us tickets to the “Theatre” (spoken with one hand held high and a rich Shakespearian accent). Granted, it wasn’t an off-Broadway production down at the Fox Theatre (so my monocle and top hat would have to wait another day). Instead, we opted for something a little more homespun…at a local playhouse… by a local playwright. The production, called “TLC”, is touted as, “A family-friendly comedy that refreshes like a pitcher of sweet ice tea.” But, little did we know, our low budget, low expectations would belie the evening’s outcome.

This was our first trip to the College Street Playhouse, which is little more than a converted turn-of-the-century church. The tight quarters and pew seating provided an almost confessional type atmosphere. The lack of a curtain left the set constantly exposed, which gave us ample opportunity to study the layout before the actors took the stage. The garish paint, the garage-sale furniture, and hodgepodge props resembled a poor, college student’s apartment – who’s deep-into an experimental phase with acid. Gotta ease up, it’s a community theater.

The play opened awkwardly with a husband and wife (John and Tyler) scene apparently meant to establish their youthful exuberance over the Tyler’s newly acquired dream job. However, the intent of the scene was a hard sell due to the obvious age difference between the actors portraying the husband and wife (it’s a stretch to consider a silver-haired husband youthful). I felt like we were witnessing some bizarre pedophile fantasy. (Why yes, little girl, I painted this studio apartment myself. Care for some candy or whiskey?) Fortunately, before I could distract myself with thoughts of “lotion in a basket”, both the plot and my impression quickly took an unexpected twist.

John has an accident while running off to the liquor store, which leaves him in a coma. As Tyler reorganizes her priorities to care for her unconscious husband (I know ladies, she’s not alone), we’re treated to a whirlwind of dysfunctional relatives attempting to make a difficult situation bearable. The inherit humor within the varied opinions and intentions of her family members fashioned a storyline far more complex and stirring than the ramshackle set implied.

With the exception of an uncomfortably creepy dream sequence between John and Tyler near the end of the show (which seemed more like a frantic high school make-out session than a tender moment shared by a husband and wife), this low-budget production was surprisingly entertaining. Sure, it’s not as refined as a Broadway production, but the supporting cast and depth of story helps “TLC” overcome the bargain venue (and score as a successful date night).

Though the playbill may dish this production as a pitcher of sweet ice tea; it’s the generous dose of Southern comfort that livens the brew.

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

Programming Alert

2009-04-20T10:17:00.027-04:00

THURSDAY, MAY 21, 2009 12:00 ET/PT (TVPG)

Coming May 21st on LAST NIGHT with Rick Rantamaki --

Special Guest: Lucy Adams – Syndicated Newspaper Columnist and Author of “If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny” (http://www.ifmama.com)

Yes, published author Lucy Adams has agreed to stop by MY blog next month. So, obviously, we're busy getting the house band back together and ironing out the back rent issues with the studio.

In the meantime, as customary, everyone must have their permission slips signed and returned to me by no later than Wednesday. Otherwise, you’ll have to sit in the cafeteria with the other special needs patients, while the rest of us enjoy the hilarious antics of Ms. Adams – and believe me, you don’t want to miss this funny lady.

Here is an excerpt from her book (just so you’ve got an idea of what to expect):

Too Old for Summer

by Lucy Adams

Growing up, I always thought my parents were too old for summer, because they would constantly nag us kids not to sit on the sofa in our wet bathing suits.

Freshly finished with conducting my own drenched children away from absorbent upholstery, I heard someone call for adult skiers. My husband smiled devilishly and said, “That’s you Babe.” Briefly, I empathized with the surprised fish on a hook dangling in the sunshine.

I hadn’t water skied in years. “I just had a baby,” I protested.

“Honey,” snapped my spouse, “she’s five. You’ve had a sufficient post-partum recovery period.”

Friends cajoled me, saying, “I’ll go if you go.”

It’s like riding a bike, they all encouraged. And I meekly agreed, although I had never swallowed a lung of water toodling down the sidewalk on my two-wheeler.

My diabolical alter ego teased, If you don’t do it, you’re too old for summer.

Currently, in a cosmic battle against middle age advance, I simply refused to be too old for anything…reasonably safe.

“One ski or two,” the Captain asked. I paused to asses my options. Yes, I could probably get out of the water easier on two, but I might deteriorate into that awkward, out of shape stance, bent at the waist, reaching forward to hold the rope, with one ski in and one ski out of the wake.

“One,” I blurted, as I stripped myself of visor, hair clip, sunglasses, and self-esteem, exchanging them for a life-preserver. They don’t call it that for nothing, I reminded myself. My rapidly beating heart made my hands tremor.

Adrift in the lake, just me and a ski, I thrashed about in an effort to insert my left foot into the boot. All the while the rope circled like a predatory shark, alerted by the scent of struggle. Finally, I grabbed the handle, someone yelled, “Get ready,” and I hollered, “Okay;” meaning, Okay, I’m getting ready.

The rope tightened, jerked, and spun me on my axis. My arms loosened from their sockets and the handle sprang from my grip, taking with it a fingernail and my one scrap of dignity.

When the boat came back around, my husband fussed, “I said get ready.”

A retort got lost in a gurgle.

The second go, I got situated, gave the thumbs up, and immediately submerged under a rush of 30 mph water. Resurfacing, my head felt like someone shoved hot knives into my sinuses and sadistically turned them.

My beloved, unknowingly motivational, taunted, “You don’t have it in you anymore, do ya?”

Third attempt. I popped up…but my bathing suit didn’t. It needed a not-so-mild adjustment; which meant I had to let go of the rope with one hand. While I considered the ramifications, a peep show proceeded behind my back. Needless to say, I soon got everything straightened out in the end.

Eventually, I relaxed, leaned back, and tried a few cuts, until I swung like a pendulum, kicking up spray and breathing as if I’d smoked several packs of Marlboro Reds. Winded, I pointed toward home.

On the approach, I raised a triumphant hand to my audience. Just as I completed the elbow-elbow portion of the beauty queen wave – SWOOSH – I got my pipes cleaned. My bathing suit required another not-so-mild adjustment.

I floated limply, chagrined.

None of the gawkers on the dock took a turn, as promised. They clung to their pride like a leaky life raft.

My solace: I might have my bathing suit twisted around my axis, but at least I’m not too old for summer.

Copywrite Lucy Adams – “If Mama Don’t Laugh, It Ain’t Funny”

Another Taxing Birthday

2009-03-10T11:52:00.018-04:00

BY Rick Rantamaki http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

My birthday’s coming up….I can feel it (and not just when I crawl out of bed either). You see, among the many benefits I discovered after moving to Georgia is the State won’t let you forget your birthday. Your spouse might forget, your kids might forget, or you may even try to deny you have a birthday, but the State never forgets. In fact, they’re always the first to recognize your birthday, usually weeks in advance, in the form of a notice delivered in a plain white envelope marked with a return address that says, “State Department of Revenue”.

How thoughtful; an entire State Department office dedicated solely to sending out birthday notices. Almost seems like Southern hospitality at its finest, eh? As if the State has usurped your grandparents role in relishing your special day. It’s truly heartwarming…until you open the envelope.

You see, stuffed inside that State envelope is not a birthday card with a bunny rabbit bobbing on a spring and little star-shaped confetti flakes and giant glittery letters saying, “HOPPING DOWN YOUR BIRTHDAY TRAIL!” No, no, no. Instead, it’s stuffed with a spring-loaded boxing glove…in the shape of a bill…that strikes you just below the waist.

“Happy Birthday,” says the State as you’re doubled-over on the floor, “Now pay up!”

Presently, the State calls this bill an “Ad Valorem Tax”, (which is fancy political speak for “bend over”) rather than calling it what it really is: a “Birthday Tax”, (‘cause them savvy voters would see right through that) and I, for one, agree with the State; I don’t like to call it a “Birthday Tax” either. Instead, I like to refer to it as an “Honesty Tax”. Let me explain…

This particular tax is associated with the annual renewal of our motor vehicle registration, which the State decided it needed to collect on our birthdays. So, for a small ad valorem *fee* (equivalent to an all-expense weekend at Disney World) and a mandatory emissions testing fee, you’ll receive a sticker for your license plate that says, “I’ve been State raped, how ‘bout you?” (well, not in so many words, but you get the point). The State, so far as we know, uses this money for breeding construction barrels.

This violation of your personal income is avoidable, however, if you’re the conniving type.

[For those honest-types in the crowd who prefer to remain innocent, you may want to cover your ears and continuously chant, “la la la la la la la…,” until I’ve finished. I’ll wave my arms when it’s all clear.]

You may have noticed, while traveling through our fair city, we have numerous out of state license plates from such faraway exotic places as: Tennessee, South Carolina, Florida, and Canada. No big deal, eh? People travel all the time and Atlanta is just among the many cities people travel through, right? Well, to the casual observer, this seems normal…except many of those out-of-towners RESIDE HERE.

Yes, many of those out of state plates (who routinely jam our streets, who cut us off on the highway and steal a place in the turn lanes like a grizzled veteran of our roadways) rarely cross the state line, because they live here. THIS is their primary residence, that is, until it’s time to renew their car tags. Then they claim residence in another state and pay the equivalent of an extra-value meal for their tag renewal, while the rest of us honest citizens are getting rolled in the back alley of the State House to compensate for the shortfall of revenue.

Even more underhanded are the motorists who fake, or alter, dealer tags.

In Georgia, you can drive around your newly aquired vehicle without a license plate, provided you have a dealer tag (which is nothing more than a cardboard tag with the car dealer’s name and a hand-written expiration date…that's easily altered with a black marker). Or, in the event your tag is lost or stolen, you can create your own tag out of anything (usually a tortilla box top) and scrawl, “TAG APPLIED FOR” on it (in your best English). This gives the State 90-days to carefully handcraft you a replacement tag…but 90-days from WHEN?!

Oftentimes, the motorists who abuse the “temporary tag” system are hardly even trying to fool the authorities. They careen through traffic with their weather-faded, obviously-altered tags like they own their vehicles. Is THIS not covered at the Police Academy?

I once suggested the State credit each motorist with $50 off their next renewal for each illegal tag they identified, but the strands of confetti streaming out of the bottom of the suggestion box indicated they weren’t too concerned with my suggestions anyway.

[~Waving Arms~] ...for the return of the innocent.

…and THAT, my friends, is how you can save hundreds on your annual car expenses.

Now if you'll excuse me, this honest old man is determined to figure out why the guy at the emissions center doesn’t greet everyone with a cupcake and a “Happy Birthday!”

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

A Close Encounter of the Weird Kind

2009-02-19T17:30:00.023-05:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com/

The frigid north winds of February stirred the tall pines along the ridge behind our house. The chill forced me to shove my hands deeper into my pockets and regret not grabbing a coat before heading into the night, but Teddy sounded urgent.

Teddy is our adopted Golden Retriever, and our yard has become his adopted domain – which he loyally defends…from those menacing squirrels, rabbits, birds, ferocious lizards, and anything new we place in the yard (like gnomes or towels on the back of the bench). He’s usually not much of a barker, unless there’s activity on the nearby tennis courts (for which, he’s figured, barking is the only way he can properly inform the players on the other side of the privacy fence that he’s ready for any tennis ball they’re willing to hit his way).

Tonight’s barking, though, doesn’t sound like Teddy’s typical pining-for-tennis-balls kind of bark. Tonight’s barking sounds more distant, like he’s somehow found his way into the neighbor’s yard and wants to be sure we know about it (“Hah, haa. I’ve discovered how to let myself out the gate AND disabled the invisible fence AND now I’m prancing around in the neighbor’s yard. Ha ha-ha ha haaa.”) Obviously, his distant bark and my overactive imagination led me out the backdoor to investigate.

When I stepped out onto the patio, I could tell Teddy’s barks were emanating from the other side of my garage (well-away from the tennis courts) and though he was hunching in the dark shadow of the garage, the light from the tennis courts illuminated his wagging tail. During a brief pause between his insistent barks I heard some sort of indiscernible reply. However, since Teddy quickly launched into another fit of barks, I couldn't figure out what, or who, he was reprimanding.

Did he have some unsuspecting tennis player trapped in our yard? Perhaps I’ll find a middle-aged man cowering against our fence…in his high-dollar tennis outfit and Olivia Newton-John signature headband and he’ll be saying something like, “I…I just wanted to…to retrieve my tennis ball, man, until those teeth showed up.”

Maybe someone’s provoking him from the other side of the fence? That’s possible, but I can’t tell with all the barking.

I wanted to get Teddy’s attention without alerting anyone, or anything, to my presence. So, as I approached him I whispered, “Hey…Teddy…shhhhhh.”

Teddy glanced over at me, then immediately returned his attention toward the fence. He offered one or two more barks, then dashed behind me, as if to say, “I’m troubled by something over there. Yeah, over there, there’s something over there. Hey, where have you been?”

Teddy panted heavily at my heels as my eyes slowly adjusted to the shadows on the dark side of my garage. He was trying to remain quiet, but I could tell he was getting impatient as I strained to hear, or see, any signs of what might be bothering him. I didn't see a cowering tennis player and, as far as I could tell, there wasn’t anyone in the neighbor’s backyard either.

My gazed followed along the base of our privacy fence and up the hill. Then I tried to focus on the pine trees along the ridge, which spans the length of several backyards, thinking he might’ve discovered a sleep-walking squirrel, or something.

Nothing.

An owl called out in the distance, but it was too far away to be of any concern to Teddy. So, I waited to see if something might stir in the trees.

“NEEEAAAACKKKK,” cried out an unknown creature hidden somewhere among the neighbor’s pine trees.

What the...?

Teddy bolted halfway up the hill and began rooting around at the base of one of our cypress trees, but the noise was certainly not coming from there.

“AaaawwwwNEEEEEAAACKKKKaaaahhhhhhh,” it cried out again.

Teddy pulled his over-sized rawhide bone out from beneath the tree and sprinted back down into the yard with it. Obviously, whatever's out there, Teddy seems to think it knows the secret location of his new Valentine’s Day bone and he's taking this opportunity to relocate it. Yeah, good boy.

In need of a flashlight, I returned to the house. Teri, my wife, asked what was going on. I told her, “I think E.T.’s getting raped in the neighbor’s yard.”

“Where’s Teddy?” she asked.

“Guarding his bone.”

Chase, our son, followed me back outside. He was rambling on about something (I don’t know where he gets it from) and I said, “sshhh…listen.” While the cold wind pushed the trees back and forth, we stood and waited.

Teddy remained near the patio; one paw covering his bone and a why-are-you-looking-at-me expression.

When the wind kicked up again, there was another cry from the ridge, “eeeehhhheeeeeNEEEEEAAAAACKKKKK.”

My son looked at me like I just gave him a graphic “Birds and Bees” speech. (Yeah, that’s coming soon.)

I turned on the flashlight and scanned the trees in the vicinity of the noise, but I couldn’t find anything. No reflecting eyes. No shaking branches. Nothing.

I checked the night sky for a mother ship, but the low cloud cover may have obscured my view.

Since neither of us were wearing jackets (once again disqualifying me for “Father of the Year”), we headed back inside.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “we’ll return with some Reese’s Pieces.”

“Ha ha,” said Chase, “Why?”

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to find a basket that'll fit Chase's bike.

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

Sign of the Times

2009-02-05T12:30:00.013-05:00

By Rick Rantamaki http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

There are many signs posted along life’s twisted road, some warn of danger (such as: “Drunken Dad – Next 15 Years”, or “Lunatic Girlfriend Ahead”, or “Workplace Advancement Prohibited”), while others simply serve as milestones; marking the years as they blur by (like: “First Roller Coaster”, “Graduation Day”, “Got Married”, “Had Kids”, “Discovered TiVo”). Oftentimes, I’ve been too distracted to notice the significance of many of these signs (or inclined to deny their existence). Fortunately, though, reality loves to make sure there are some signs I just don't miss. Take last week, for instance…

An “old” friend of mine just became a proud new grandparent. Initially, I shared in the joy of the moment, after all, the miracle of life is certainly a joyous occasion. My enthusiasm, however, quickly subsided when I realized my friend, my younger friend, was now a grandparent. So, I surmised (after some frantic calculations), if my friend is a grandparent…then I’m old enough to be a grandparent.

How could this be?

I wasn’t even supposed to get anywhere near grandparent age. I was supposed to die young. How? I had no idea, but I sure spent my youth like I wouldn’t survive past 30, let alone 40. In fact, I once made a pact (long ago, during a late-night poker game), that if my friends ever found me mowing the lawn in front of a house with a white picket fence, a wife on the porch and kids running around the yard, they were authorized to put me out of my misery, on the spot, no questions asked. Does this sound like a request someone would make if they had plans on becoming a grandparent?

Besides, I’m not grandparent material. I’m not ready to parade around in over-sized plaid shorts, wing-tipped shoes, dark knee-high socks, and floral-print shirts. I don’t drive an Oldsmobile. I have no need for reading glasses. I don’t belong to one of those funny-hat-wearing lodges. I pay no attention to those overactive bladder commercials. My television doesn’t need a converter box. I don’t even use Ben Gay…heck, I still have the ability to smell Ben Gay.

Even while I was compiling my denial-defense, reality was already summoning a series of signs from my past. Little signs I noticed along the way, but really hadn’t bothered to piece together, like: my first gray hair…at the age of 20. The first time someone called me “sir”…and meant it. Having to explain to my son what a Big Wheel was. Having to explain to him what a cassette was, what floppy disks were, and the bionic man and woman (and yes, my explanation included the renowned “na-na-na-na-na-na-nah” sound effect).

Reality’s seemingly endless stream of signs continued: Seeing Sally Field in an osteoporosis commercial. When I first saw that Zaxby’s commercial and said, “Those grandmothers look remarkably familiar—aaaAAAHHH!!...it can’t be…EGAD!! What happened to Laverne and Shirley?” When I recognized Kathleen Turner as the senior, militant-type, dog trainer in the movie “Marley & Me”, then tried to convince myself it must’ve been a different Kathleen Turner who romanced the stone.

As the signs continued to pile up, reality brought in even more damaging evidence by replaying numerous sportscasts when the commentary inevitably turned to the subject of the veteran players in their waning years…players who are years younger than me and now considered “past their prime”. Enough already!

The evidence was irrefutable. I could deny it no more.

I slumped in my chair and thought about my long-since dearly departed grandparents...

Grandma in her woolen coat, silver-rimmed glasses, and a scarf pulled tight over her gray permed hair. She’s rooting through her change purse and rambling on about going to the grocery store. Grandpa stands silently beside her, wiping the grime from his hands after finishing the lawn.

A large black DeSoto coasts to a stop near the mailbox. Two elderly men struggle to hoist their shotguns through the car windows. The blasts from their barrels and the subsequent shattering of white pickets sends the birds scattering, but Grandpa doesn’t flinch.

Grandma turns and shouts, “Go on! Get out of here!” and shoos them off with her hands.

The DeSoto slowly accelerates away and, as the gravel crunching beneath its tires fades, Grandma says, “Why don’t you tell your Shriner buddies to stop that, Alfred? It’s the same thing, everyday for 42-years. They’re liable to hurt somebody.”

Grandpa looks at me blankly and says, “Ricky...choose your friends wisely.”

Reality illuminates the road sign ahead which reads, “Entering Eldersville – Home of the Hoveround – Population Dwindling”

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think this is my exit.

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

Come Aboard, We're Expecting You...

2009-01-26T12:25:00.006-05:00

By Rick Rantamaki http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Senility isn’t patiently waiting for my ship to enter Port Retirement, oh no my friends; it climbed aboard sometime during my first visit to Mortgage Bay and has been quietly tossing barrels of memory overboard ever since. It's just taken me a while to notice the diminishing stock. Occasionally, though, I'm able to catch a glimpse of a jettisoned memory bobbing in the wake. Take this afternoon, for instance…

I’m in the break room folding some aluminum foil into the shape of a small cookie sheet when a coworker enters and asks if I’m practicing my origami…and my brain freezes. I don’t mean “freezes” like an overzealous intake of frozen margarita; I mean “freezes” as in mental lockup (like when you ask Windows to run more than one program).

Here’s the kicker, I was already anticipating this very question. Yep, I knew this question was coming and I was already working on my comeback, but somewhere between thinking and speaking, I got stuck. These mental lapses are getting in the way of some good punch lines. So, I figure, perhaps if I revisit this debacle I might be able to figure out what happened. Let’s rewind it and play it back a little slower...

It’s lunchtime and I’m alone in the break room.

(sounds of folding aluminum foil)

I’m preparing to re-heat some pizza in the toaster-oven and reinforcing a sheet of aluminum foil with a few strategic folds (to avoid a messy retrieval). Since I know this action will solicit a snide comment from anyone passing by, (I’d expect nothing less at our office) and origami was the most probable jab, I began formulating a snappy comeback.

I envisioned myself at a community college. There’s an origami instructor pacing the room. She’s helping us with our folding (of course). I’m making a pirate hat. (See, the “funny” is building itself up quite nicely; a vision of me, in an oxford shirt and khakis, wearing a crudely formed, shiny aluminum foil hat and spouting phrases like, “Arrr, ye mateys, ‘tis the bounty of the snack machine ye seek!”, or “Avast ye scurvy dogs, unhand that Lean Cuisine!”)

Now, any good smartass worth their weight in sarcasm will tell you; in order for a comeback to be effective, it must be short, snappy AND delivered without a hitch. Otherwise, you’ll come across like a weatherman attempting standup comedy.

(sounds of footsteps approaching)

Alright then, all I need to do is tighten up my “vision” and I'll have a snappy comeback at the ready. Let’s see, I'm taking a course at a community college…I’ll need something a little more concise…community college…

(co-worker enters break room)

Here it comes…

“Practicing your origami, I see,” utters my co-worker, as if on cue...in an unusually deep voice (oh yeah, we’re in slow-motion).

Hah, I’m ready for this one. I turn to respond; confident my mind will fill the voids as I speak. “Yeah, I'm…uh...”

What's going on? I can’t think of a phrase for taking a community course. Is it community college? Nah, that doesn’t sound right. Community school? No, that’s not it.

My co-worker raises his eyebrows and slowly tilts his head. He’s waiting for it.

I could just say I’m making a hat, but I’m not willing to take the easy way out…not yet. Come on, is it adult classes? No. Damn it!

“What?” he asks while in mid-blink.

“I…I’m taking a class at the community…uh…”

Argh...the joke’s lost. It’s gone. The moment’s past. I should have just said I was making a hat, that would’ve sufficed, but no, I thought I could make the community course thing work.

“I…I got nothing,” I was lying. I had something. I just couldn’t pull it together.

Resigned to failure, I ask my coworker, “What’s the uh…what do you call a class you take at a community college?”

My coworker looks at me like I just asked him to explain the meaning of life.

I reiterate, “You know…like when you take a course down at the community center. What do you call that?”

“I’m taking a class at the community annex?” he responds.

“Well, yeah…but, there’s a name for that right?”

Puzzled, he restates his response, “I’m taking a class at the community annex.”

He’s not helping, but I’m not letting this go…just yet. Maybe if I try a different approach.

“Do you remember that sitcom starring that guy from Taxi...uh, Judd Hirsch? He was attending some help group session at a community school…because he was divorced…he got a Dear John letter – that’s what the show was called, “Dear John”. Do you remember that show?”

“Yeah, I think I remember it…”

“Okay, and occasionally someone would wander into their classroom by mistake because they were searching for some other community class?”

“Yeah.”

“...and they would say something like, I’m sorry, I’m looking for the something, something class…”

(The microwave dings.)

“Community annex class is all I know,” he’s bailing on me now (and I can’t blame him). He turns and leaves, Hot Pocket in hand.

Alone with my thoughts (which violates a restraining order somewhere), I continue to search for the proper phrase. Man that was going to be a funny comeback. If it wasn’t for my failing memory…

Then I saw it, adrift among the waves, a barrel bobbing slowly towards the horizon. Painted on the side, in large whitewash letters, it read, “NIGHT CLASS”.

“Night class! That’s it! I’m taking a night class for space pirates! Arr!!”

By this point, another coworker entered the break room and said, “Space pirates, huh? Well Captain Morgan, your pizza’s burning.”

"Arrrr!!! Me pepperoni delights...arrrgh!!!"

(A woman in a uniform appears. She’s greeting me with open arms.)

“Welcome aboard. My name’s Julie. I’ll be your cruise director…”

“Arr, just point the way to the poop deck....arr.”

Copywrite 2009 Rick Rantamaki

Unveiling My Latest Book

2008-11-12T06:42:00.007-05:00

Thank you. Thanks. Please, please be seated. Thanks everyone. That’s very kind. Thank you everyone. I’m glad you could make it here on such short notice. I know your schedules are hectic and what little spare time you have is precious, so I’ll be as brief as possible.

[the squeal of a folding chair being dragged into place briefly fills the room]

As some of you may already know (thanks to a mix-up with a certain web page), I have released a new book.

[the room stirs and a few flashbulbs pop]

Uh-huh, I know, I know, many of you are as stunned as I am that a person such as myself, devoid of any journalistic background, could string together enough words to fill in a voter registration card, let alone a whole book, but trust me; this book contains actual content, with real words forming actual sentences – contrary to the unfounded rumors claiming that it’s really a byproduct of a feeble attempt to clean sesame seeds out of my keyboard.

[a knowing chuckle emanates from an unknown source]

But why here? Why have I gathered ya’ll at the Central State Hospital to officially announce the release of my new book rather than at a cozy bookstore or a warm coffee house?

Well, you see, it is here within the walls of this asylum where lunacy breathes life into my words. It is here where sanity gives way to reality and the shattering of perceptions is commonplace. I find this demented atmosphere most fitting for my work and, as the image of this imposing sanatorium shrinks in your rear-view mirror during the return to your perceived realities, you may find the connections outlined within the pages of this book are more familiar than you’re willing to accept.

[orderlies enter the room, chatter swells and several flashbulbs pop]

Once again, thank you for your support, it certainly means more to me than to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my afternoon treatment.

“Mental Notes – From the Brink of Reality” is available online at Lulu.com and amazon.com (soon) and is also available as a Kindle book.

The posting of any reviews (good, bad, or indifferent) would be greatly appreciated. Signed copies are available upon request (during regular visiting hours). We ask that while you’re leaving the facility that you please avoid making direct eye contact with any of the patients and, by all means, please DO NOT bare your teeth at them. It will be interpreted as a sign of aggression. Thank you, please continue moving along.

Halloween's Demise

2008-10-01T00:00:00.029-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI http://rantamaki.blogspot.com

Someday, in the it's-coming-at-me-faster-than-I'm-willing-to-accept-it future, I’ll gather the grandkids 'round and tell them a story about how, when I was their age…

“…a half-pint of chocolate milk was cheaper than this here bottle of vodka. You see; when I was a kid, way back when you had to wait till Saturday mornin' to watch cartoons, my classmates and I would dress up in little outfits we called costumes, and we'd celebrate a holiday once known as Halloween.

"That’s right; we wore costumes. Little outfits that made us look like friendly ghosts, or sleuthing canines, or quaffed-hair superheroes, or even interstellar space-trekking officers with an uncanny knack of finding promiscuous women in virtually any galaxy we visited (though, at that age, we had no idea why anyone would waste their time with women when they could've been running 'round shootin' up aliens with their laser guns).

"Anyway, these costumes usually came with plastic masks that were held uncomfortably tight against your face with thin, angry rubber bands that would snarl themselves in your hair and snap back at you if you tried to stretch them. It had little eyeholes too, with razor-sharp edges that would gouge into your flesh every time you blinked – like them old-fashion cheese graters.…and we liked it.

"The school would usually have us parade around outside in the frigid, howling October winds...marching uphill for miles past every drug store and filling station in town, while our snot fused to the inside of our masks. And we liked it, and I’ll tell ya’ why…

“Cause later that evening, just as it was gettin’ dark, we’d scamper ‘round the neighborhood in our little costumes just a beggin’ for candy. To us, each porch light was a beacon to sweet delights. And wouldn’t you know it, folks would answer their doors. That’s right, they’d come right to the front door, like they were waiting on you…and they’d give ya candy too, right out of a giant bowl. Uh-huh, folks would give ya stuff like sweet-tarts, or sugary pixie sticks, or candy apples you weren’t allowed to eat, and the best houses gave out candy bars; them folks were tops.

“And we weren’t just runnin’ around like blind mice, neither. We’d spend weeks plotting a course that would maximize our bounty; drawing and redrawing a route in the playground dirt until we settled on a path that would produce the greatest yield. And when our calculations were correct, by the end of the evening we were practically dragging our candy-laden pillowcases back into the house.

"Then we’d feast for days on nothin’ but candy. Fueled by an ocean of sweets, we would whirl through the house in such a frenzy the walls became floors. We'd wake up days later with candy wrappers stuck to our faces and caramel-encrusted paper sticks tangled in our hair. Everything was a sugary blur, and we liked it.

“But look at you kids now. Your schools have phased out Halloween and replaced it with ‘Spirit Day’. What kind of crap is that? [in a girly voice] ‘Here, you can wear the logos of our standardized-educational system in lieu of self-expression. Now open your distorted history books to the chapter on Diluted Traditions.’

“You know, I fought for you kids back in the day. I fought against the minority interest groups that said, ‘we’re worried about the magical part of Halloween.’

“That was pure hogwash! Everyone knew kids weren’t dressin’ up like spongy short-order cooks to delve into ‘black magic’. They just wanted to have fun and collect a bunch of candy.

“But the TV news reports and automotive catalogues (back then they were called newspapers) quoted the parents as saying, ‘Our kids are aware of your subversive attempts at luring them into your satanic worship and they reject your costume diversions and sweet candy temptations.’

“Now, can any of you kids repeat that back to me?

"Yeah, that's the same puzzled look WE had.

"Despite the absurdity of such claims, public officials caved to the minority interests groups, which ultimately led to the demise of Halloween. So, the Spirit Day you know today is really just the remnants of what was Halloween. And though some adults still throw Halloween parties, it's really just an excuse for lonely singles to experiment with cross-dressing.

“And that's the story about what happened to Halloween. So, now will you kids help me push my sedan back out of the living room? I think there's still enough time to patch up this wall before your parents get home…”

Copywrite 2008 Rick Rantamaki

The Eagles Have Landed (In Town)

2008-05-17T00:01:00.050-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI

http://rantamaki.blogspot.com/

Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution on 5-20-2008

[Note: I don’t write movie reviews, or book reviews, and especially music reviews. So, unlike the typical Rolling Stone write up, this one doesn’t contain phrases like “aspiring transcendence”, or “chords of dissent”. However, if you’re an Eagles fan AND you like a bit of humor, then you might find this entertaining…]

“I don’t care what it cost; the next time the Eagles are in town, we are going to their concert.”

– My wife (every time we watch an Eagles concert DVD)

Granted, I’m not big on concerts…anymore. In fact, the only concerts I’ve attended in the past dozen years, or so, have been elementary school productions (turns out, they frown upon stage diving).

Today, there aren’t many recording artists I would invest the time, money, or hassle to witness live. But, the Eagles are among the few elite bands (still alive) that I consider worth the investment.

We missed the Eagles “Farewell” tour a few years ago (not for lack of trying) and they haven’t been back in town since. So, about five months ago, when the Eagles announced their schedule for their “Long Road Out of Eden” tour, we were surprised to learn Atlanta was their first, and only, U.S. date listed – one night, at a brand new venue (still under construction), in a northern suburb of Atlanta (avoiding downtown is ALWAYS a plus).

Now, knowing when they’ll be here doesn’t necessarily equate to obtaining tickets – especially since the new amphitheater only seats 12,000 (for a little perspective – the population of metro Atlanta is over 5 million – they'd have to play 416 shows in order for all of us to see them). However, the night before tickets officially went on sale, my wife stumbled upon an “All Access” website that guarantees tickets within twenty rows of the stage (for a price that would make even an oil tycoon cringe). Given our previous failures at obtaining tickets via conventional routes, this option certainly had its appeal, so I bought them. (The catch: we had no idea where our seats were and we wouldn’t know until the day of the show. What’s an expensive ticket without a little adventure, eh?)

A few days before the concert, my wife called ahead to see if tailgating is permitted. She was told, “Heavens no! This is Alpharetta.” So we kept the grill and cooler at home. But when we pulled into the parking lot of the new "Verizon Wireless Amphitheater at Encore Park" (now there’s a mouthful), which is nestled in an office park (uncongested by residential cross-streets), we discovered dozens of folks tailgating – right in front of the cops!

When I inquired with one of the enthusiastic parking attendants about tailgating he said, “Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Duly noted.

Entering the gates of the amphitheater, it became immediately obvious just how long the Eagles have been around. I felt as though I had stumbled upon a secret convention of chaperones. (Where has the time gone?)

We mingled in the commons area among the numerous concession stands, beer carts, and restrooms (soaking it all in – so we could let it out later). Surprisingly, the lines were short for everything, with the exception of the ladies room – though, according to my wife, it moved quickly. We got some drinks and a t-shirt then headed to our seats – which turned out to be twelve rows back, dead center (sweet).

While the stage crew was preparing the set (testing spotlights and conducting microphone checks), a number of stagehands strapped four crewmembers (each with a headset and a spotlight) into bucket seats and hoisted them high into the lighting rafters. (We never saw them again, or their spotlights – which led us to speculate it was punishment for dropping equipment, or trying to talk to the band.)

About fifteen minutes after the advertised start time – and while it was still daylight – the band members began to take the stage (the horn section first, then the keyboard players and drummers). With the exception of a few members, it looked like the same crew from the "Farewell Tour" DVD.

The crowd hardly broke from their chatter.

Then, like a group of nonchalant businessmen in black suits and black ties, Joe Walsh, Don Henley, Glenn Frey, and Timothy B. Schmit walked single-file onto center stage. They casually waved to the rousing crowd, picked up their guitars, briefly conferred with each other, and then started right in with a song from their new album called, “How Long”. [For the complete song list, see end of column.]

The audience stood and cheered. Well, with the exception of the guy next to me (in his khakis and pressed dress shirt). Either his wife just told him she wrecked their yacht, or he’s never heard of the Eagles before, because he just stood there with his arms crossed – completely motionless.

Between new songs, Glenn Frey took a moment to speak to the audience. “Welcome to the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater at Encore Park and a bunch of other corporate sponsors. It’s great to be back here in Atlanta." (I swear he sounds like he could be the cousin of Kermit the Frog.)

“We’re going to do a couple of more songs from the “Long Road Out of Eden” album ...while we’ve got your attention." The crowd chuckled politely and he continued, "The next song features Timothy B. Schmitt here on vocals and it’s called, ‘I Don’t Want to Hear Anymore’.”

Everyone sat down.

The audience remained seated during the next song too. It was Joe Walsh’s new song, “Guilty of the Crime” (seems this crowd is pacing themselves – like the stiff next to me).

Then the trumpet player kicked-off the next song with a southwestern-style solo. But it wasn’t until the hauntingly familiar guitar intro (played masterfully by Steuart Smith on his twin-neck guitar) did the audience realize it was “Hotel California” (though, it’s the same intro they used on their last tour).

The screen behind the band, which to this point was simply awash in background lighting, became illuminated with the image from the “Hotel California” album cover. The audience went nuts. Not only were they playing one of their classics, but they’re jumping right into their all-time greatest hit.

When the lyrics began, Mr. Henley became just another voice in the crowd, as the entire audience (except for the guy next to me, of course) sang in unison, “On a dark desert highway...”

The moment was surreal. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this song since its initial release, but seeing it performed live with a chorus of 12,000 seemed to add another dimension to it.

They went on to play several more classic songs before they took a break. At which point, we strolled back out to the commons area. My wife got in line for the restroom and I went to order some food.

The menu offered a dizzying array of options. I was standing behind these two “older” ladies who were also trying to decide what to order. I leaned forward to ask them what they recommended (I was being facetious, since this place just opened). One lady said, “The hot dogs are pretty good.” Her friend, however, assured me that they’ve never eaten here before. Then she did a double-take and said, “You must be pretty important since you're wearing a badge.” (Actually, it was an opening-night souvenir badge distributed at the gate. I guess they ran out before these ladies arrived.)

At this point, they both turned to face me…and they had that “look” – like I was the last scarf at an Elvis concert.

You see, this is why my wife shouldn’t leave me alone in public. Where is she?

“Uh, this badge means nothing,” I said, while trying to deflect their attention. “The chicken teriyaki looks good.”

In fact, I discovered the chicken teriyaki came on a foot-long skewer (not as a sandwich, like I imagined it would), and it was dripping in teriyaki sauce. I swear they stuck the whole chicken on the stick. I got myself a chicken tender basket, however, when my wife saw the monstrous chicken teriyaki, she handed it back to me and took my tenders. It took me four songs (with a flimsy plastic fork and knife) before I was finished wrestling with it.

The last dozen songs of the show were all powerhouse, no seat necessary, big hits.

The images on the screen during many of the songs made you almost forget to watch the band. During “Life’s Been Good” it featured candid seventies snapshots and film footage of the band members doing various things other-than performing. (Speaking of Joe Walsh, did you ever notice he’s easier to understand when you’re drunk?)

Tabloid covers and Fox News clips filled the screen during “Dirty Laundry”. And psychedelic, Beatles-like imagery playfully drifted about during “Funk Number 49” – a fitting tribute to one of the band’s major influences. During “Heartache Tonight”, the lighting changed to valentine-red and vintage, slap-stick movie clips of “heartbreak” scenes were synchronized with the music.

The band left the stage after “Rocky Mountain Way”, but they were summoned back for a three-song encore by uproarious applause and a waving sea of cell phone lights (a scene that would have made the amphitheater's corporate sponsor proud).

The band may have been a little rusty during the first two songs, but they were near recording-studio perfect the rest of the evening. We were thrilled with their performance. Though, I can’t say that for Mr. Happy next to me.

As we exited the gates, my wife pulled me close and said, “The next time they’re in town, we have got to see them again.”

I felt my wallet cringe.

The Eagles

Verizon Wireless Amphitheater at Encore Park

Alpharetta, Georgia (North Atlanta)

Wednesday May 14, 2008

Song Lineup (3-hour show with no opening act)

How Long
Busy Being Fabulous
I Don’t Want Hear Anymore
Guilty of the Crime
Hotel California
Peaceful Easy Feeling
I Can’t Tell You Why
Witchy Woman
Lyin’ Eyes
Boys of Summer
In the City
The Long Run

**INTERMISSION**

No More Walks in the Woods
Waiting in the Weeds
No More Cloudy Days
Love Will Keep Us Alive
Take It to the Limit
Long Road Out of Eden
Somebody
Walk Away
One of These Nights
Life’s Been Good
Dirty Laundry
Funk #49
Heartache Tonight
Life in the Fast Lane
Rocky Mountain Way
All She Wants to Do is Dance
Take It Easy
Desperado

Senior Moment

2008-04-22T14:26:00.038-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI
http://rantamaki.blogspot.com/
Published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution on 5-4-2008

It’s early morning, its dark, and I’m on my way to the office. My thoughts are on the day ahead (project deadlines, appointments, networking tasks) when I realize the radio is on. It’s playing; “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” by The Police. The song’s ominous beginning is in rhythm with the dancing shadows my headlights form along the tree-lined corridor between my house and the highway (where the deer gather each morning to see me off to work).

Usually, the soundtrack for my commute is a CD (or a lively Hispanic station – as if there’s any other kind), but since my wife drove my truck over the weekend, and she abhors my “weird” CD collection, she set the radio on some local station.

What kept me from changing it, though, were the memories that came rushing back with the music. Memories of my high school “Senior Day” – an occasion marked with soaped messages on car windows, fake legs sticking out of trunks (or, at least that’s what we told the cops), and honking the horn like it was a newfound language.

Senior Day was also when we officially turned the school over to the juniors (ha-ha suckers) and the school’s faculty imparted their final words of wisdom. (Funny, I can’t remember a word they said.)

I, too, was a part of the ceremony. I stood at the podium before the darkened auditorium packed with giddy juniors and seniors and performed my impression of Mr. Davis, our chemistry teacher (a giant leap for a once-introverted young man labeled “the new kid” at nine different public schools). I held up one finger and slowly wagged it back and forth and then, in the deepest voice my scrawny body could muster, I said, “Don’t make me get out my soapbox.” The room erupted in laughter and applause as Mr. Davis, shook his head and ascended the stairs into the spotlight.

Then the radio transitioned to, “Against All Odds” by Phil Collins– which, coincidentally, happens to be our class song. Our classmate, Judy, sang it during the Senior Day ceremony.

Granted, it’s a sappy song from a crappy movie. A movie I successfully avoided for 22-years – until I was saddled with the flu and couldn’t find the remote. (To date, this has been the only non-sports related moment were I’ve seriously considered throwing something through the TV.)

I thought about Judy standing there, alone in the spotlight, accompanied by a piano. She sang the first verse as if the words were radiating through her, but the gravity of the moment stole her composure between verses and her voice became choked with tears. She covered her face and the piano slowed, waiting for her to recover.

Now that I think about it, I really didn’t invest much in Judy as a friend. In fact, I didn’t invest much in most of my classmates I considered “friends” (funny how life is constantly refining your perspective). Today, this song eerily reflects the “empty space” where the flimsy friendships established in high school have collapsed.

“COME ON JUDY, YOU CAN DO IT,” yelled a voice from the audience.

Judy wiped her tears, took a deep breath and continued, half-singing, half-crying. And, as much as teenagers rejoice in exploiting the weaknesses of others, no one heckled. No one could.

Collectively, with a crescendo of whistles and applause, our class carried her through the finish. It might be a crappy movie and the song may rival Aunt Jamima’s syrup inventory, but that moment cemented that song into our class history.

Then the morning radio crew interrupted my train of thought with the time and temperature and told me to, "stick around for more great oldies”.

Huh?

Oldies?!

I’m listening to an “oldies” station? My parents listened to “oldies” stations, not me! This stuff isn’t old! I’m not old! I can’t stop using exclamation points!!

Then it dawned on me. It won’t be long before “Senior Day” takes on a whole new meaning...yay.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take my radio in for repairs.

The Millennium Ache

2008-04-17T09:51:00.016-04:00

By RICK RANTAMAKI
http://blogspot.rantamaki.com/

ATLANTA, GA – In case you weren’t aware of this, I do not write humor columns for a living (and if you’re familiar with my work, you’d agree). Though my day job frequently involves writing, it’s not the type of writing “normal” people reminisce about (unless technical specifications make you giggle). Hence, what I send you and what I write at the office are worlds apart. So, imagine my surprise when a client asked me to contribute something other than a specification for one of our projects – it was as if I suddenly found chocolate in my peanut butter.

Our office has been involved with a monumental project in downtown Atlanta – by “monumental” I mean it’s a monument. The monument is sort-of a replica of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris – only ours is about half its size. So, unlike the Arc de Triomphe, which stands tall and proud over the Champs-Elysees, our monument is dwarfed by the surrounding condominiums and office buildings, as if it were disproportionally constructed from a sketch on a napkin (ref. Spinal Tap vs. Stonehenge stage prop artist).

Our quaint little monument has gone by many names during its longer-than-normal project timeline. Officially, it’s known as the Millennium Gate, but it’s also been labeled the Millennium Arch, the Atlantic Station Arch, and the Arch de Dixie. But given the arduous four-year journey the design team has endured, we’ve dubbed it the Millennium Ache.

Of course, this monument will have a time capsule (a suppository for buildings). And, in a strange twist of recognition, the client asked the design team to submit a few lines pertaining to, “who they are, or what has transpired in their lives while the monument was being designed and built”.

“Are you sure you want to include something written by me?” I cautioned them. “Do you know what you’re subjecting your children’s children to?”

Still, they wanted a submittal and, of course, I was more than happy to oblige. After all, it’s not everyday you’re asked to contribute to a time capsule.

When writing my entry for the time capsule, I tried to imagine myself as the person opening the time capsule and wondered what might be considered humorous in the future. So, I immediately nixed the opener, “If you are reading this you must be among the few survivors of the ape’s overthrow,” as they might not understand a ‘60’s movie reference. I also tossed the, “If you’re reading this then the bridge to Alpha Centauri must be complete”, because, as in Arthur C. Clark’s “2001: A Space Odyessy”, we often overestimate our rate of technological advancement. Thus, I toned it back a bit in hopes of striking a more realistic chord.

Here, in its entirety, is my time capsule submittal (sure hope sarcasm survives evolution):

The Millennium Gate
Completed circa 2008 (or MMVIII for the numerically-challenged)

If you are reading this you are, no doubt, among the few remaining survivors of global warming (or a curious vagrant, in which case, may the contents of this time capsule burn well through the night). This grand monument stands before you as a testament to the perseverance and dedication of a seasoned design and construction team. Among the many notable events that occurred since the initial plans for this arch were first drawn up were:

Invention of the telephone

Invention of telephone junk fees

Invention of the incandescent light bulb

Baseball finally instituted the “Infield Fly Rule” (though no one can explain it)

Invention of the radio (a springboard for the rap industry)

Invention of the airplane (worlds largest honey-roasted peanut dispenser)

Invention of the automobile (followed closely by traffic reports)

Invention of the television (TV)

Invention of the TV Dinner (reviving the apple cobbler industry)

Invention of Etch A Sketch (the predecessor to Computer Aided Drafting (CAD))

Birth of Bill Gates

Construction of the Berlin Wall

Man walked from a studio backlot onto the Moon

Cable TV (which led to the decline of the “fine tuning” knob industry)

Ronco introduced the Pocket Fisherman (finally you can fish anywhere, anytime)

Dawn of the Personal Computer (PC) (anger management classes soon followed)

Publisher’s Clearing House re-invents the phrase “may be a winner”.

Launch of Music Television (MTV) (helping teenagers ignore parents)

The scent of burnt microwave popcorn was invented

MTV executives forgo music for “reality” TV, but inexplicably retain the “music” moniker

Demolition of the Berlin Wall

Microsoft founder Bill Gates ascends to “supreme being” status (AMEX awards him a gold card)

National Football League (NFL) adopts instant replay (to prove their officials can blow a call at any speed)

High Definition Television (HDTV) (spawns a “TV conversion” coupon program for the elderly)

Invention of the Marriage-Saver, commonly known as the Digital Video Recorder (DVR) (providing sports fans the ability to complete their “honey do” list AND watch their favorite sporting events in their entirety)

Construction of the Millennium Arch complete (assuming this happens)

Rick Rantamaki
Fire Protection System Designer
The Millennium Gate

Since submitting my time capsule piece, my calls and emails to the client have gone unreturned. Perhaps they’re busy amending the list.

Inside the Writers Studio

2008-02-21T13:51:00.016-05:00

As Interviewed by James Lipton
Original Air Date: Sunday, February 17, 2008
Transcript [abridged version]

LIPTON: Tonight’s guest holds the remarkable distinction of being identified as the primary reason for America’s dramatic decline in newsprint circulation. His columns are considered, by many, as rudimentary gibberish and, as one critic noted, “It’s nothing a chimpanzee couldn’t produce if you glued his hands to a keyboard.” From rental cars to insurance jargon, his rants are better suited for lining bird cages than entertainment. Yet, to the astonishment of his editor, he continues to write, even though a majority of his readers are on suicide watch. He is a model of tenacity and the punch line of many jokes. The Writers Studio is proud to welcome humor columnist Rick Rantamaki.

[Audience cheers wildly; Rick appears from backstage, shakes Lipton’s hand, and then crosses to his chair situated center stage. He remains standing as he tosses drink vouchers to the audience.]

LIPTON: Many of today’s humor columnists ascended into national prominence through big-market cities after polishing their journalistic skills at some of America’s most prestigious schools. Where did your life begin Rick?

RANTAMAKI: In the rustic northeast corner of Ohio, I’m the product of an over-exuberant Fourth-of-July celebration between two people that really should have avoided one another.

LIPTON: Who was your father?

RANTAMAKI: He was an ill-tempered drunk who was easily seduced by shiny objects.

LIPTON: And your mother?

RANTAMAKI: She wore a lot of chrome.

[LIPTON does a double-take and the audience laughs]

LIPTON: How did you become a writer?

RANTAMAKI: By accident. My family and friends are scattered around the country and writing became a convenient means of communication. I could provide them an account of my adventures and they had the option to ignore them.

LIPTON: Why do you write?

RANTAMAKI: Because it’s easier than trying to set-up a conference call.

[Audience chuckles]

RANTAMAKI: No, really, I could just phone everyone, but I find my stories tend to lose their punch after the third or fourth call. So, what may begin as an adventure story, filled with colorful observations, soon whittles down to meaningless drivel and, as a result, I come across as someone that’s amused by the dumbest things – which isn’t far from the truth.

LIPTON: Do you write to preserve memories?

RANTAMAKI: You could say that. You see, long term memory isn’t terribly reliable; and over time it tends to distort certain people or places to help rationalize your actions. This distortion can radically effect how you recall things. For instance, it can demonize an ex-girlfriend, or glorify a destitute hometown, or transform a bleak childhood into a series of wispy random moments and somehow leave you yearning for a simpler time – which never really existed.

LIPTON: What is your earliest memory?

RANTAMAKI: Hmm, speaking of wispy memories…I can recall a time, back when I was five or six, and my family is motoring along in dad’s new pea-green Ford Maverick – that was one classy ride.

[Audience laughs derisively]

RANTAMAKI: Dad’s in his white t-shirt and jeans and his hair is greased back – he liked to drive with his tattooed arm hanging out the window – and he’s deeply inhaling an unfiltered cigarette. I remember my mother in the passenger seat singing along with the radio – it’s that Candy Man song, “Who can take the sunrise?”

[Audience joins in, “Sprinkle it with dew...” there’s laughter and mixed applause]

RANTAMAKI: Anyway...hah, that was good. Anyway, my mother is sitting up front and she has our baby sister cradled in her arms – back then you didn’t have to worry about those deadly passenger-side airbags. My older sister and I are standing on the back seat watching the world roll by.

LIPTON: Standing?

RANTAMAKI: Yeah…funny, I don’t recall seeing seatbelts in that car; they must have been safely tucked away in the seat cushions. In any event, we were taking a ride to the custard stand just outside of town – this was back when “taking a ride” was a family-fun-time activity and gas was cheaper than vodka.

[Audience laughs uneasily]

RANTAMAKI: That’s it. That’s the memory. There’s no conversation. I don’t even recall what I was wearing – though, after seeing some old photos of myself, I’m certain it was something with a wide collar and awfully colorful.

LIPTON: Where does your humor come from?

RANTAMAKI: I don’t see it as humor – and a lot of people will agree with that – but more like astute observation.

LIPTON: What kind of preparation goes into your writing?

RANTAMAKI: Well, to imply my columns are carefully crafted, I’d like to say I’m constantly jotting down notes for future columns – or recording my thoughts with a digital voice recorder. But what really happens is that I’ll get an idea stuck in my head, usually for days, then to release it, I vomit on paper.

[Audience stirs]

RANTAMAKI: In other words, I just start filling the page with random thoughts pertaining to the idea. Eventually, they begin to settle in place and the column becomes somewhat more cohesive. But some scattered thoughts survive the final cut, which often keeps the reader wondering where I’ll turn next.

LIPTON: Most of your columns close with the line, “Now if you’ll excuse me...” Why?

RANTAMAKI: It’s my way of releasing the reader from my trance.

[Audience laughs]

RANTAMAKI: No, seriously, I was never good at summarizing and I’m equally poor at saying goodbye, so asking to be excused is my way of bowing out gracefully.

LIPTON: As you know, I cannot let you “bow out” without tending to the Bernard Pivot questionnaire.

[RANTAMAKI nods]

LIPTON: What is your favorite word?

RANTAMAKI: Pardon.

[LIPTON looks up and is about to repeat the question, but then realizes the response was the answer. The audience laughs.]

LIPTON: What is your least favorite word?

RANTAMAKI: Allegedly.

LIPTON: What turns you on creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?

RANTAMAKI: Alcohol.

LIPTON: What turns you off creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?

RANTAMAKI: A hangover...so, I guess there's a fine line there.

LIPTON: That would depend on your rate of consumption.

[RANTAMAKI raises his eyebrows and pistol-points at LIPTON. The audience chuckles.]

LIPTON: What sound or noise do you love?

RANTAMAKI: A babbling brook.

LIPTON: What sound or noise do you hate?

RANTAMAKI: Screeching tires.

LIPTON: What is your favorite curse word?

RANTAMAKI: For sheer versatility, “[bleep]!”.

[Audience cheers wildly]

LIPTON: What profession, other than your own, would you like to attempt?

RANTAMAKI: Professional screen saver.

[LIPTON looks up from his notes and the audience chuckles]

LIPTON: What profession would you not like to do?

RANTAMAKI: Bikini model.

[With raised brow, LIPTON leans forward and scans RANTAMAKI up and down. RANTAMAKI strikes a pose to the cheers and whistles of the audience]

RANTAMAKI: They can't take away my dignity, James.

[LIPTON shakes his head]

LIPTON: If heaven exists...

[LIPTON shakes his head again]

LIPTON: If heaven exists, what you’d like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

RANTAMAKI: There goes the neighborhood.

LIPTON: Rick, it has certainly been a pleasure having you on the show.

RANTAMAKI: Thank you for having me, James.

[Audience cheers and credits roll]

Atlanta's Biggest Driving Secrets - Finally Revealed

2007-12-06T12:30:00.000-05:00

This article was published in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution on 12-16-2007.

By Rick Rantamaki
http://rantamaki.blogspot.com/

ATLANTA, GA – There’re many secrets of the Atlanta roads the local drivers would rather visitors not know. For years, these secrets have been protected by the “commuter code”: an unwritten agreement amongst Atlanta commuters not to disclose their driving tactics.

Today, however, I shall break the silence and reveal to you (the naïve traveler) the driving secrets the locals employ to navigate through the seemingly chaotic thoroughfares of our great city. I do this at great personal risk. For my protection, these secrets have been recorded at an undisclosed location, under the cover of darkness, and I’m wearing a mask.

We’ll start off with a secret that involves “lane-shifting”.

It begins with the common myth about Atlanta vehicles; that we’re somehow afflicted by a citywide failure of turn signals. This myth has been allowed to perpetuate for years and I’ve often overheard the locals unabashedly fueling this lore.

Yeah, the story about how we all donated our turn signals to help light the Olympic flame - though a heartwarming tale - isn’t true. And I’m sure you’ve heard about the “turn signal virus”, the one that makes the little turn signal arm fall off the steering column when you open an email attachment, well, it’s pure fiction. Oh, and that rumor about how the oppressive heat during the hot Atlanta summers causes the filament in our turn signal lights to fail. Also, not true.

Truth is, turn signals reveal more information than my fellow Atlantans are willing to share. You see, we don’t want you to know our next move. I know this sounds strange, but think about it. If you knew we were going to cut in front of you, you might try to prevent us from accomplishing our objective. So we’ve developed a technique that permits us to overtake your lane without you suspecting anything.

But how is this possible, you ask? How can we execute a deliberately inhospitable maneuver such as this (a maneuver that, in other towns, might incite road rage) without your objection? How can we consistently bully our way through traffic and still make you feel as though you’ve somehow helped us? Is it sleight of hand? Smoke and mirrors?

Well, that’s what we’d like you to think. Actually, it’s quite simple, and here’s how it done:

While traveling along a busy highway (at whatever speed), we spot our “mark” (aka the clueless driver who is occupying the lane we want to be in) and begin our maneuver by rushing up to the bumper of the vehicle in front of us. Then we drift into the neighboring lane: for the sake of this demonstration, let’s call this our “target lane”.

Initially, the drift is suppose to look unintentional, like we dropped our shotgun and we’re frantically trying to fish it out from under the seats. When the driver in the target lane slows to avoid getting sideswiped by the maniac that’s apparently spilled his hot buttered grits, we finish the move by taking advantage of the momentary gap created by the wary driver and complete the shift into the target lane. Our “mark” has become another unsuspecting victim of lane theft.

Amazingly, the entire maneuver is done without the aid of mirrors and is rarely challenged. I’ve even seen it performed in front of fully loaded semis and school buses, too. It’s astonishing how many different drivers fall for this move. Some of them fall for it again and again and, remarkably, appear shocked each time it happens.

So, while our “mark” is still mired in traffic, our “masked commuter” is already home sipping on sweet tea.

Our next secret involves the emergency lane: that innocent stretch of asphalt between your lane and the parched grass along the highway.

In this scenario, traffic is at a standstill and irritation levels are on the rise. Suddenly, a rush of air rocks your car and you see the “masked commuter” whizzing by in the emergency lane. He always arrives on time, but how does he do it?

In your town the emergency lane may be reserved for “emergency” or “disabled” vehicles and, well, that’s what we want outsiders to believe our emergency lane is for too. We’ve even gone so far as to erect rather convincing signs stating such, but it’s all a sham.

Secret is, this lane is reserved for our in-town dignitaries: those people whose time is far more precious than yours. Unlike you, their schedules cannot tolerate traffic jams, especially snarls of the multiple-lane type. You see, under the protection of an unwritten code, our dignitaries are permitted to travel in the emergency lane as long as: a.) traffic is at a crawl or stopped and b.) their use of the lane is limited to two minutes (which means they must cover as much ground as they can as quickly as possible).

Now, this may seem a little silly to those visiting our fair city, but believe me, these people are the lifeblood of our economy. So, it is absolutely vital that they get to their destination on time.

And, as one might expect, a highly coveted privilege such as this requires some anonymity, so our dignitaries must travel in unmarked vehicles. Thus, to the untrained eye, it may appear as if some ding-a-ling is illegally using the emergency lane for personal gain. But, we know better and we proudly salute them as they pass.

One last secret before they close in on my location. Those solid white lines that are painted along the “on ramp” of the interstate - you know the ones that lead you toward the area where you’re supposed to merge with highway traffic, those lines you were taught not to cross in driver’s ed because they’re meant to keep traffic flowing in an orderly, predictable, manner.

Well, those aren’t really traffic control lines. Nope, not ‘round here. We use these lines to separate the tourists from the locals. That’s right, it’s our quick and easy way to herd tourists into a group while we shoot across the white lines and slip into the torrent of daily commuters.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get out of this hot mask and re-inflate my HOV doll.