String Cheese- Article Eleven

'Five Stars' Can't Outshine Lone Star
by Aryn Corley

There’s no place like East Texas.

I recently attended a wedding in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The picturesque mountains there provide a stunning backdrop to the surge of “cookie cutter” housing developments going on in the area. It was nice to visit during a time when there wasn’t any danger of freezing off parts of my body.

The wedding itself was held at the historical Broadmoor Hotel. The Broadmoor Hotel is a very nice, top-of-the-line five star establishment. To the rest of the world, it’s a place of luxury and elegance. To us East Texans, it’s a whole lot bigger than Wal-Mart.

In the front of the hotel, valets were scurrying around parking people’s cars while bellhops were rushing around taking care of the luggage. I saw one lady who had so many bags I thought she was moving there! A guy in a turkey-pee yellow colored jacket and hat asked me if he could take my car. He was the either the nicest car jacker ever or he worked for ABC’s Wild World of Sports.

I handed him the keys, then my wife, kids, and I cautiously entered the enormous building.

Inside the hotel, everything was ornately decorated. The floors sparkled and the brass shined like the rails outside of the Walls Unit in Huntsville. It was also filled with thousands of things any 2-year-old would love to get their tiny “raccoon fingers” on. On the wall hung a picture of a disdainful old man who looked like he was about to shoot lasers out of his eyes. It was one of those creepy pictures where the eyes seem to follow you as you move around.

I approached a long wooden counter top where two people were smiling and looking at me. I slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter and said, “Bartender, I’ll have a Shirley Temple!” Their faces suddenly looked like that old man in the picture. “This is the registration desk, sir. Libations are served in the hotel bar on the mezzanine level.”

Mezzanine? Libations? I was starting to feel like Jed Clampett.

The hotel bar has a patio area overlooking a small lake filled with swans, geese, and several other varieties of waterfowl. I sat at a table and was approached by a man dressed like a bus driver. I asked what the special for the day was and he told me it was Duck A L’orange.

“I’ll believe I’ll have that one right there,” I said, pointing to a bloated swan.

His face started to look like those two people at the registration desk. He walked away and I never saw him again. He must’ve been a ghost.

Suddenly, I realized my wife and kids were nowhere to be seen. When my children are quiet, they’re usually up to no good. It didn’t take me long to find my two heathen cave children throwing peppermints at a poor squirrel sitting on a planter. I couldn’t decide who was more foolish, the kids for trying to bag a squirrel using hotel candy or the squirrel for taking it. As it turns out, my wife had run to the restroom, leaving them unattended. She’d gotten sick when she saw a woman carrying an actual Hermes “Birkin” handbag. The price of those hag bags is more than my Chevy pick-up truck!

After the wedding, we ate in The Penrose Room. For those who like fine dining and excellent quality food and service, this place is like heaven. For those who are more into seven-layer burritos and Route 44 Dr. Peppers with vanilla, then this is a little piece of hell.

My 5-year-old is such a picky eater that I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t want a Caesar salad. To him it “smells like feet.” My wife couldn’t get over how much the six-course meal cost. It affected her so much, she had to go back to the ladies room for another round of disbelief.

My 2-year-old declared she had to go to the toilet too. Anyone who’s ever potty trained a kid knows when they say that, you have about five seconds to respond. I scooped up my child and headed for the bathroom. I hadn’t gotten very far before a very official man wearing a bus driver’s supervisor uniform stopped me.

“Excuse, me sir. You have to have a jacket on when you come into the ballroom,” he said curtly.

I paused. Then very politely I responded.

“ I don’t have a jacket anymore because I donated it to a homeless guy who really needed it. Unless you want this 2-year-old to drop wolf-bait on your dance floor, I recommend you letting us pass.”

The nice man glared at me and stepped aside. He must’ve been related to that old grouch in the picture in the lobby.

Not long after that encounter we left. The Broadmoor Hotel is a nice place, and I recommend everyone to see it and stay there if you have the dough. Be warned! I don’t think it’s a place for the redneck crowd. Since being in East Texas, I’ve grown accustomed to the unrefined and uncomplicated way we live here in the Piney Woods.

Some people may call it uncivilized. I call it home.

UPDATE: It seems that bears read String Cheese too. I bet they let him slide on the jacket...
http://www.denverpost.com/rapids/ci_10070899

The "Lonliest Man in the World"

As I was fleeing from Houston today during rush hour traffic, I was listening to Dave Moody (of Sirius NASCAR radio channel 128) talk about Jessie White (http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=3747).
For those of you who don't know, Jessie White was the ORIGINAL Maytag repairman. Sadly Mr. White died in JAN of 1997. He was 79 years old.
On FEB 26, 1996, I was on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno and appeared on camera with Mr. White for a bit called "Midnight Confessions". My punishment for heckling Bill and Hillary Clinton (along with British Prime Minister John Major and his wife; sorry.) was to play solitaire with the Maytag Repairman.
He was a nice guy and told me that the key to winning at solitaire was "... to cheat." He chomped on a cigar and feebly laid the cards on the table backstage. When the show returned from commercial break, we were there playing cards.
As far as I know, this was the last time Mr. White was seen alive on television.
So what does this get me? Nothing.
However, it's not often that you get to meet a pop-culture icon in person. It's even more rare to have shared his last comedic endeavor with the rest of the world.
Rest in Peace, Mr. White.

Extra Cheese

I think I'll also use this space for articles which might not make regular print. Here, I don't have to worry too much about advertisers getting angry. I'll try to keep the profianity to a minimum as well. Have fun!

New Research Gives New Meaning to ‘Watermelon Thump’
by Aryn Corley

There has been much ballyhoo lately about a study, which came out of College Station recently. In it, Dr. Bhimu Patil, director of Texas A&M’s Fruit and Vegetable Improvement Center, claims that certain ingredients found naturally in watermelons may have a “Viagra” like effect.
Hold on. Let me get this straight. There’s a Fruit and Vegetable Improvement Center at Texas A&M?
According to Dr. Patil, watermelons may be more beneficial that just something sweet to eat on a hot summer day. The ingredient –citrulline- helps blood vessels to relax. Much like Viagra does.
Viagra is a drug which enhances male erectile dysfunction. It was developed during WW2 as a way to keep G.I.’s from rolling out of their bunk beds. Back then it was called “Operation Kickstand”.
Just when nature had dealt grandpa his last card, Viagra put him back in the game with a full.. er… deck.
Sadly, Dr. Patil didn’t elaborate on just how many watermelons you had to eat to make Mr. Johnson and the Juice Crew motivated.
Luckily, a friend of mine grows watermelons. So, I decided to do a week long study of my own just to find out what would happen. For this experiment, I ate Charlston Grey watermelons from Polk County, Texas. Here’s how it went:
Monday – ate about five pounds worth of melon. No viagra effect. More like Coors effect. I’ve peed more than Seabiscuit!
Tuesday – ate another five pounds. No effect. My stool looked like Darth Vaders lightsaber. It was glowing and red.
Wednesday – I upped the dosage to seven pounds of watermelon. Still no effect. Although, I did call my wife several times to see what she was doing.
Thursday- Ate another seven pounds. Dreamed about Dolly Parton carrying two huge Black Diamond melons in a bag. No effect.
Friday- Upped dosage. Ate ten pounds of watermelon. Had to change into pants. Too drafty outside for shorts. No effect.
Saturday- Ten pounds consumed. Started hearing voices. Seeing green. Must go lie down.
Sunday- Awoke in the morning to a house in shambles. There are large holes in the walls and things were knocked off the table. I must have sleepwalked. Plus, I’m sore.

Well, there you have it. I dunno what it was, but I can tell you it’s nice to have a break from watermelon for a little while.
If watermelons act like Viagra, I wonder what kumquats are good for?

String Cheese - Article Ten

Tomatoes Ripe for Revolution!
by Aryn Corley

The end is near.
It’s time to pack up our earthly belongings and get ready for that sweet chariot to “swing low.” When the tomatoes have had their way with us, there will be nothing left but roaches, our ghosts, and two plumbers trying to videotape us.
The recent salmonella outbreak among our nation’s tomato crop is nothing short of a well-coordinated terrorist attack. The tomatoes are tired of us and they aren’t taking it anymore.
Could their hatred of humanity be justified?
Millions and millions of tomatoes are slaughtered every year to satisfy humanity’s insatiable appetite. It seems the tomato is destined for one thing: food. Scores of tomatoes have worked hard to reach their full potential only to end up as a garnish. Or worse yet, a little rose on a food display in some country club.
Tomatoes have to brave extreme temperatures, disease and ravenous insects to even get a chance to compete in this world. Life is pretty bad when PETA activists have no ethical dilemma about eating you.
Before the attack, we had a wonderful relationship with our vegetable cousin, the tomato. Our two species have much in common. Both have many of which are rotten. We both have mushy insides. We were both kicked out of a garden.
Our popular culture is littered with tributes to the tomato. Country singer Guy Clark sung praises about “Homegrown Tomatoes.” Author Fannie Flagg (yep, from the “Match Game”) wrote a book called “Fried Green Tomatoes,” which was later made into a movie that seemed to seep with estrogen. And who could forget the eerily prophetic, John De Bello classic, “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?”
Just up the road, a small town called Jacksonville has its whole identity wrapped up in the tomato. The local high school, whose mascot is the “Fightin’ Indian,” plays its home games at the Tomato Bowl. They even have an annual Tomato Fest on the second Saturday in June. Someone needs to warn the citizens of Jacksonville to this new threat!
In Eastern Spain, in a small town named Bunol, on the last Wednesday in August, La Tomatina breaks out and the town is fully engulfed in a tomato war for about two hours. When the tomato carnage is over, the streets look like the aftermath of the Battle of Del Monte.
It should come as no surprise that these insidious insurgent tomatoes tried to get one of their own nested in the highest office of our government. Senator John Kerry’s wife, Theresa Heinz Kerry, currently holds the patent to ketchup. Thankfully, Bush “stole” the election and kept the White House from getting stained.
It’s hard to see just where things went wrong.
This animosity toward us may be the result of our inability to properly categorize tomatoes as fruits. Since the tomato grows from the ovary of the plant and contains the seeds within it’s a fruit. Vegetables are generally the extraneous edible parts of a plant (e.g. cabbage leaves). If you really want to blow your mind, try figuring out if a banana is a fruit or an herb. Thankfully, bananas are dumb or else they’d develop nukes and let us really have it.
Right now the tomatoes are winning. If we are to combat this menace we can’t let these foul fruits dictate how we live our lives. If we start taking tomatoes off the menu, what’s next? We can’t give in to the hysteria. The government is invariably going to add another color to the already recondite terror alert. In the War Room at the Pentagon, some general will be yelling, “Take us to Def Con Prego!”
If there is to be an epic battle in Texas, between man and tomato, I’m going to the Alamo to make my last stand. When the historical (or hysterical) commission erects a monument, it will read: “‘Lettuce’ remember the bravery of those who endeavored to ‘squash’ such evil tomatoes, and whose ‘thyme’ was cut so short. May they rest in ‘peas.’”

Family Trip

We finally made it to Colorado!
It was an arduous task driving straight through for the better part of sixteen hours. While making this trip, several things became clear to me. If the kids in the Donner Party were fighting in the back seat, I totally understand why they were eaten.
We're accustomed to making this trek in the winter time. It was a novelty to make the trip without freezing off the protruding parts of our bodies. It was also a delight to see the parched beauty of the American west in all of its splendor. As we rolled through the mountain pass at Raton, New Mexico, I could just imagine the settlers screaming, " If I have to tell you one more time to stop picking at each other, I'm pulling this wagon over and you're going to walk the rest of the way!"
Today, as in pioneer days, cell coverage sucks.
Also, until now, I never understood why dad farted in the car.
Revenge.

String Cheese - Article Nine

Proper Gratuity just 'TIP' of the Iceberg
by Aryn Corley

Chances are, you know someone who’s done it at least once.
You can definitely get better at it with a little practice.
After it’s done, I sometimes feel good.
Sometimes, I think I did it too much.
Of course, I’m talking about tipping.
As long as there are people on the planet. the custom of kicking back a little extra coin for service will remain. It’s unclear where the custom originated.
I’ve heard that the word “tips” is an acronym for “to insure proper service.” I’ve also heard that it refers to tipping the scales in one’s favor. Despite the shady etymology of the word, the practice leaves me wondering just what the heck am I supposed to do?
I’ve gotten better at it, but it’s cost me a lot of money and trouble.
I was in a situation not too long ago where I was unsure if I should tip the nice lady driving the airport shuttle. After she dropped me off she stood there looking at me as if I’d forgotten something. Luckily, I played stupid. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pack of gum.
“Want some?” She got back on the shuttle and drove off without a word. I guess she didn’t like spearmint.
The most likely place you’re going to tip is at a restaurant. Hotels, airports, barbershops and valet parking are other places where tipping is generally accepted. Crack dealers are not entitled to tips mainly because they fail to report their earnings to the IRS.
I’m going to lay down three very simple suggestions to act as a guide. Please keep in mind these are only suggestions.
First suggestion: Reward good work with your tip. If you get great service, let that person know with a couple of Washingtons and an “Honest Abe.” Be sure it’s the paper kind and not quarters and nickels. Conversely, if the service stinks, don’t reward it. I used to leave cruddy tips for cruddy service in the base of an inverted water glass. It’s an old magician’s trick where a glass is left upside down on a table full of water. I would only do this if I got terrible service and I knew I wasn’t coming back.
Second suggestion: Tip what you feel is appropriate. The general consensus is that 15 percent is generally acceptable for restaurant service. I figure about $.75 per $5 dollars of the bill. I will usually round the bill up or down to the nearest five. Skycaps, valets, bellhops and pizza delivery personnel can get by with a couple of bucks tip. If you’re staying in Armenia and the valet parks your car, it’s totally acceptable to tip him a goat.
Third suggestion: Don’t feel obligated to tip. Don’t get suckered by “guilt cans” left at the front of the cash register at some fine establishments. I thought about walking into some of these places and putting my own can out that reads “FREE STUFF.” Nobody likes to get “stiffed” or be a “stiff.” A “stiff” is someone who doesn’t pay a tip and not getting paid a tip is called getting “stiffed.” When I worked as a waiter, I got stiffed a couple of times. It happens.
Because of instant gratuity on groups larger than eight or more, I’ll only go out with a group of seven or less. The smaller group of us that dines together usually ends up giving a bigger tip than we would have if our other friends had not been forced to wait outside!
Tipping should be on your terms with what you feel is acceptable, how much is acceptable, and if it’s appropriate. It’s nice to give a little extra to those who have gone above and beyond to help you. I hope that these simple suggestions take some of the pain out of kissing your cash goodbye.
Remember what the leper said to his urologist, “You can keep the tip.”

String Cheese - Article Eight

Ghost Shows are Lacking Real Spirit
by Aryn Corley

The other night I was flipping through the channels trying to find something that would rot my brain. Since I have satellite television, it wasn’t going to be very difficult.

I wasn’t in the mood for pre-pubescent karaoke contests, nor did I really want to see nitwits living in a house together. I wanted to watch something that was going to make me yell at the screen.

Luckily, my digital surfboard landed me on a program called “Ghost Hunters.”

Just from seeing the title, I figured it was going to be about two dudes sitting in a blind waiting to shoot some hapless ghost that wanders into a baited area.

Boy, was I wrong!

“Ghost Hunters” is a reality-type program featuring two plumbers and their buddies conducting paranormal investigations with hi-tech gadgets. While these guys are out chasing spooks, some poor parapsychologist is busy with a drain snake trying to “fish out” a child’s rubber ducky from a clogged toilet.

I’m a firm believer that facts must never encroach upon entertainment value under any circumstances. To me, watching these guys bumbling around in the dark is entertaining. However, I just wish these guys could be a little more skeptical in their approach to investigating these “hauntings.”

The evidence collected so far from these types of investigations paints a grim picture of the afterlife. If these programs are to be believed, we can assume that we become complete idiots after we die.

After watching this show, I’ve drawn some conclusions about our friends who didn’t listen to Carol Anne and stayed away from the light in “Poltergeist.”

Ghosts are completely inept when it comes to communicating with the living. Their lack of vocal ability has made them so angry they throw things about and play with the thermostat. On many occasions, one of the “investigators” reports feeling a cold spot in the room. Had the guy felt warm, he probably would have chalked it up to menopause.

Ghosts also have a tendency to haunt really depressing places. In one show, the ghost hunters went to a building supposedly haunted by people who’d gone insane.

As it turns out, the building was once a Department of Motor Vehicles office. Rest assured, ghosts won’t be caught dead at Disneyland or Fiesta Texas. If they are there, they’re probably with some group on a theme day.

Regardless, of their disembodied natures, ghosts apparently still have some sense of decorum and have the decency to wear clothes when they go about their daily activities. Nothing could be more disturbing than seeing the ghostly figure of Ulysses S. Grant walking around without his pants on. Every single person reporting a ghost sighting can usually tell gender and mode of dress.

It’s comforting to know that there’s a celestial second hand store waiting to outfit the recently departed as they make their way through limbo. I just hope when it’s my time I’ll have shoes that’ll match my handbag.

Ghosts tend to be very introverted. They don’t like to be photographed, videotaped or sketched. Every time someone comes in with a camera, the ghost fails to appear. What are they afraid of? It’s not like the camera’s going to add 10 pounds of ectoplasm. Yet, they shy away from the camera like hillbillies at a soap convention.

Sadly, as I watch this show, I quickly realize that these guys aren’t doing any better than anyone else nor are they gathering any compelling new evidence to support the existence of ghosts. They barely had me believing they were actually plumbers!

Too bad.

If ghosts do exist I’d like for them to tell me about what happens on the “other side.” If I’m going to need to bring a towel, I’d like to know beforehand. Besides, who wouldn’t want to see Elvis in concert just one more time? (On a side note: I’d possess Demi Moore over Whoopi Goldberg any day of the week!)

Having all I could stand, I turned off the television and decided it would be better instead to go slam my fingers in a door. While I don’t believe in the existence of ghosts and haunted houses, I did remember a strange occurrence I had at a local restaurant a while back.

A very pale man dressed as a waiter came to my table, took my order, then disappeared. I never saw him again.

Had he brought me the chicken I ordered it may have been a “poultry-geist.”