BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Commercials… You just never know what kind of havoc they will cause. For instance, you have that whole Filet-O-Fish thing going on. There’s even a ring tone for your cell, just like in the commercial itself.

As a matter of fact, E K was at a bank just the other day, stomping a printer into submission – what with her being Queen of the Printer Technicians and all – when a cell phone nearby began ringing. It was, of course, the Filet-O-Fish ring tone.

That’s when the havoc ensued.

As I understand it, E K went over and stabbed the guy in the head with a screwdriver, then stomped his cell phone until it was quiet. Oddly enough, she wasn’t charged with assault or even destruction of property. Apparently she received a standing ovation from everyone else in the bank. You may have read about it in the papers.

Now, me, I actually like the Filet-O-Fish jingle. But, don’t tell E K. She carries a screwdriver in her purse and I’m not big on being stabbed.

Of course, as usual, I am chasing a chicken of different plumage – by that I mean, I’m actually here to talk about a different commercial. Not the Filet-O-Fish song.

So… Anyway… Yeah… Guess I’d better get on with it then…

You see, the other day the O-spring and I were heading out to run some errands. While I generally listen to the local NPR station whenever I’m in the Merp Mobile, on this particular occasion I was in the mood for some tunes, so we were dialed in to the local classic rock station. Fortunately, the O-spring has very diverse musical tastes. She does get into some J-Pop and other stuff that really drives me insane, but she can also be equally entertained by ZZ Top, Black Sabbath, or Billy Joel (ad infinitum). Way cool, eh?

Yeah, I know, I’m getting off track again…

Back to the story… Since we were listening to a commercial station, obviously there were commercial breaks. Since this was shortly before Valentine’s Day, one of them happened to be for a Boudoir / Lingerie Chain that was advertising “Designer Underwear.”

Again, havoc ensues. The following is a best recollection accounting of the conversation that came in the wake of said commercial…

After a thoughtful pause, the O-spring, with an overabundance of confusion in her voice said, “Designer Underwear?! Who would want that?!”

“Well, honey,” I said. “Some people are all about the labels and things like that.”

“Oh, okay,” she replied.

I could tell by the way she said it that we weren’t finished. The traffic signal ahead of us winked so I made my left hand turn and proceeded down the road. The kid stewed silently for another minute or two. You could almost hear the cogs and gears clattering against one another as she concentrated.

Finally she announced, “I guess you just have to be old enough to want designer underwear.”

I was intrigued, so I asked,  “How old is that?”

“Old enough to have a boyfriend,” she replied with a matter-of-fact air about her.

I “schnerked” and tried to avoid spitting a mouthful of coffee all over the inside of my windshield. Gathering my composure I followed up with, “Well, how old do you think that is?”

Once again, gears and ratchets began grinding, clanking, and whirring. A moment later she replied, “I don’t know.”

Like any father with a daughter, I saw a perfect opportunity before me. “Well,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that you aren’t old enough to have a boyfriend until you’re 40.”

“Okay,” the O-spring said, not even flinching. “Sounds good.”

“So, we’re agreed then. You aren’t going to have a boyfriend until you turn 40, right?”

“Right.”

As good a memory as the kid has, I’m fairly certain that in a few years she won’t remember this conversation at all. I’ll definitely remind her, but I don’t think it will do any good.

All I can say is when “teenhood” rolls around and she decides to break the pact, I know there’s nothing I can do. However, if she asks for money to go buy designer underwear, we’re going to have a problem…

More to come…

Murv

…how to walk in high heels. Trust me, she knows… But, I suppose I should back that up with an explanation.

Now, I have to begin with the fact that we are not talking about E K here. This is not to say that she doesn’t have the aforementioned talent, because she does, in spades. However, in this particular instance I am waxing poetic (as you will see) about another young lady.

As you all well know, I travel a fair bit for book tours and the like – that much is a given. And, during my travels I see things. Sometimes they are frightening, sometimes they are strange, sometimes they are interesting, and sometimes I have no clue what the hell I am witnessing.

And then, there’s Leg Girl.

The Legend Of Leg Girl began several years ago on a weekend trip to Nashville, Tennessee to do a book signing and seminar. My dear friend and fellow author, Tish Owen, also owns a bookstore called Goddess And The Moon. I’ve done several signings there, and I always have a blast hanging out with her, her clientele, her husband Patrick who is my cigar smoking and booze drinking buddy, and all of my other friends there in “music city”.

Well, as the true story goes, one Saturday night after spending the day presenting a workshop on writing, and then signing a mess of books in one of the meeting rooms at the shopping mall across from where Goddess and the Moon was then located – it has since moved – we were going back to the store for a bit of a soiree. Wine, beer, booze, cheese, crackers, munchies, etc. You know the drill. Folks were going to come by, visit, have books signed, get a photo op or two, and all that jazz. Typical book store event sort of stuff. A great chance to just chill out and relax.

Unfortunately, the day had been so hectic for poor Tish and her staff that she had not yet had the opportunity to go pick up the aforementioned noshing items and beverages. Since I had nothing to do between finishing the seminar and the start of the soiree, I volunteered to ride along with Tish and help with the toting, lifting and other such stuff at the grocery store. And so, off we went…

No more had we pulled into the parking lot and begun our search for a space than out in front of us steps “Leg Girl”… All of mid twenties, great hair, hourglass figure, and most prominently on display a set of legs that a Rockette would sell her soul to have. And, I do mean prominently on display, for you see, this entire package was wrapped in nothing more than a sheer blouse, blazer, flared miniskirt – and I do mean MINIskirt – and patent leather stiletto heeled pumps. This was despite the fact that we were at the end of November and the temperature was in the mid forties or thereabouts.

And no, she was NOT a figment of my hormone driven imagination. Tish saw her too. In fact, Tish saw her so well that she was infuriated…

Allow me to explain. You see, Leg Girl literally stepped right out in front of us and began to slowly saunter up the middle of the aisle in the parking lot. Not to the left, not to the right. She was smack dab in the middle of the lane and Tish was unable to get around her. And saunter Leg Girl did. Slowly, deliberately, and swaying with a rhythm that would bring any red-blooded heterosexual male to his knees.

Well, suffice it to say, I had no room on the floorboards in order to get on my knees, not that I didn’t try. Still, even though I was unable to assume the appropriate position of Goddess Worship, I was mesmerized. Tish, however, was most assuredly not. Somehow, and I don’t know how, through my hypnotic stupor I was able to recognize this fact and managed to persuade Tish not to run over Leg Girl – trust me, that took some doing because that was exactly what Tish was intending to do.

Ever since that day, Leg Girl has been a running joke between Tish and me. Every time she books me for a gig at the store, or at PUF, she asks if there is anything special I need, and I always reply, “I need Leg Girl to be my handler for the weekend.” (“Handler” as in liaison / gopher / assistant… Let’s keep it clean here folks…)

Fortunately for me, though always promised by Tish – followed by a healthy chuckle, of course – Leg Girl has never materialized for said duties. Not that I would complain, however E K probably wouldn’t be particularly excited by it. In fact, I’m not really sure which one of us she would kill first…

But anyway, the Legend Of Leg Girl kind of… well… ummm… the legend has legs so to speak – no pun intended. Really. Seriously… But, pun or no, the events of that evening actually inspired a lyrical parody, written by yours truly.

Maybe someday, if we happen to have someone on site who knows all the chords to the original song, I’ll get drunk enough to perform this ditty at PUF…

Leg Girl

(To the tune of Two Hangmen by Mason Proffit)

As I rolled into Nashville with my friend her name is Tish

I saw what I’ll relate to you and it was quite a pretty dish

It seems there was this woman, who had this pair of gams

They went all the way up to her neck, and that’s
where it began

The woman’s name was Leg Girl, the best that I could see

She like to show her legs off, and that’s okay with me

I guess she saw me coming, and donned that mini skirt

And stockings and stiletto heels just so she could
flirt

She walked across the parking lot, right down the center aisle

She swayed and sauntered like a dream, it really made me smile

She stopped a moment in our way and then she tossed her hair

The wind picked up and her miniskirt billowed with
much flair

The driver’s name was Tish Owen, she said this bitch is slow

I’m gonna run her over now if she doesn’t start to go

I said to Tish please don’t do that, I really like this sight

She went to all this trouble so just let her make my night.

The wind continued blowing and gave Leg Girl a goose

She moved a little faster now, but still shook her caboose

Tish was laughing hard at me, as I began to drool

Leg Girl was such an awesome treat that made me
act the fool

Tish finally found a parking space and pulled in with a squeal

Leg Girl was going into the store on teetering high heels

We followed along behind her, and then she disappeared

But I saw her again as we checked out, with a case
or two of beeeeeeeeeeeeeer…

(Chorus)

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

(Repeat Whole Bunches Of Times)

One more time!

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

And she’s my Leggggg Girrrrrllll, there in Tennessee, and that don’t bother me, at all-all-allllll…

More to come…

Murv