Songs In The Key Of Bob

I am here to admit my shame. To get a few things off my chest. To reveal the sordid truth.
Yeah. Right.
So, I told the story about the leaky refrigerator. And how we called the home warranty people and they were sending out a refrigeration man. Then Carlos said he thought it was a plumbing issue. And how I cracked wise about his ass crack.
Turns out it is a plumbing issue.
Carlos will be doing his sashay-shantay down the hallway when he reads this.
He so loves to be right.
Whatever.
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Is it me, or was Whitney Houston high at the Grammys? I mean, she certainly seemed a bit off....not in the Crack-Is-Whack way of that Diane Sawyer interview, but in that I-don't-what-in-the-hell-I'm-doing-here way.
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I saw Joan Rivers on The View.
She cracks me up.
She says that because of the Botox, Bea Arthur's bowels move more often than Cher's face.
Of course, Joan should talk.
Her face is stretched tighter than a Mariah Carey mini-dress.
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Once, when I lived in California, we used to hang out at this bar. And one of the cocktail waitresses became quite friendly with our group.
Then one day I was surprised to learn that Cocktail Waitress and Husband had moved into the apartment above mine. We chatted every so often and, of course, she still brought me my round of Kamikaze's that I so enjoyed; I say enjoyed, because once you puke Kamikaze, you can't go back.
At least I can't.
Anyway. One morning I was walking to my car and I saw Cocktail Waitress in the parking lot with Husband. I hadn't met him yet, so we stopped for a minute. Husband was carrying a huge ceramic pot when Cocktail Waitress introduced us.
Me. Socially inept back then......heck, socially inept today....offered my hand for a handshake.
Husband was still carrying the huuuuuuuuge pot.
I stick out my hand.
He sticks out his finger,
I shake it.
It still mortifies me to this day.
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I used to tend bar in California and we had all sorts of regulars, and Vicki used to work with me. We had so much fun getting all the regulars laughing and telling stories; it was a fun job.
One night, during our storytelling, Vicki offered up the take of her then-husband, who worked at a local saw mill. He came home from work one night and told her about a man who was killed on the job when a band saw slipped.
Did it decapitate him? someone asked.
Nope. Vicki said firmly. Took his head right off.
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I was once stopped for speeding while driving down I-5 in California.
If you've been there, you know that I-5 is one long-assed boring stretch of road from Mexico to Canada. My friend Kim and I were on our way to an Amnesty International concert at the Coliseum in LA.
So, I'm driving along 5--it was a four-hundred-plus mile trip from my house to LA--and I'm about 250 miles from LA, cruising along at about ninety.
The speed limit was Sixty-five.
Red lights.
Red face.
Pull over.
Helicopter caught you doing nine-zero. CHP say.
Wow. I say. So intelligent.
Yeah. What's the hurry.
I need to be in LA in fifteen minutes. Mind you, it's 250 miles away.
Looks like you won't make it.
Depends on how long this takes.
I'm lucky he had a sense of humor. Those orange jumpsuits don't look good on me.
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Once I was working in a bar, and this friend of mine, Dave, worked with me. We had a friend, Maria, who was, well, what you might politely call high-maintenance.
Seriously high. She weighted in at right around one-hundred pound sand called herself fat. I have shoes that weigh more than she did.
One night she was complaining about how she had popped a zipper in her pants.
How did you do that? I asked innocently.
Because I'm FAT. She said. I'm fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat!!!!
I walk away from the tirade.
An older couple is sitting at the bar as I pass by.
What's all that shouting down there? The old woman asks.
Before I could answer, the little old man said,
I don't know, but that fat girl is having a fit.