The 60's Are Over
I'm sitting at work. I hear a man's voice outside of my third story window.

"No more blood for oil. Praise the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Hallelujah."

I stand and look out the window towards the off-key singing. The long brown haired man in his mid to late 20's is sitting on a cement block with his guitar and backpack.

"A gentle college war protester" I thought to myself.

I sit back down at my computer only to be enticed to the window again by the man's angry voice.
"You have a devil laugh. I was wondering where that devil laugh was coming from."

I look again and see that he has moved to the ground level window underneath me and is speaking to the women inside the building through their open window. He turns and heads back to his pulpit, as I hear a cackling laugh taunt his back. He spins around quickly and gestures with his hands together in a prayer fashion, and bows his head to the voices. Then, since his sarcastic motion was not seen by his trapped audience he re-approaches the window.

"Do you know what I have to say to your devil laugh?"

Then he goes through the buddhist-like movements again, followed by a commentary.

"Praise the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And the Four Corners."

He then faces North with his hands up, pauses, then faces the three other cardinal points of East, South, and West.

"Do you want to see me dance?" he says as he finishes his Native American graces, and begins an arrangements of marching steps in all four directions. He continues on for about a minute with a few different gyrations with his knees and flailing arms before he stops and informs the devil laugher what she just witnessed.

"That's a warrior dance. A warrior dance" he repeats as he finally swaggers back to his guitar, only to stop again and give his bowing head with praised clasped hands to the window one more time.

"I only mean positive words and positive feelings." he clarifies.

I think to myself, "Could of surprised the hell out of me. I thought you were a crack-head tap-dancing for hits of junk."

As with most public nuisances, everyone carries on with their work in their workplace ignoring the free spirit outside. That is until he begins to yell out to passerbys.

"Practice celibacy."
"Hey, if you try celibacy for five minutes, I know you will be rewarded."

Eventually, the cops came and squashed the beatnik's glory. The "man" kicked the soap box out from underneath him. I didn't hear the applause, but I know my fellow employees and I rejoiced the cop muzzle placed on the fruitcake.

I'm all for peace and love, and voicing of opinions. I dislike the blabbering declarations of drunk -like pain in the asses though, especially when it is beautiful outside and I have to work.

Down the Tubes
So I was sitting there in an airport commode stall. I just checked the time on my cell phone and placed it back into my pants' pocket that was shuffled around my ankles when a digital sounding ring echoed off of the metal dividers and tiled floor. I checked, but it was not my phone.

"Russell Connor," the man in the stall next to me answered his phone.
"I always have time for my partner." was his response to the voice on the small device.

"Ker-FLUSH!" one of the mechanical toilets activated.

I chuckled to myself that NO business is too important for his business partner. Then it sounded as if the small area did not like the reception possibilities and disconnected the man from his associate's urgent call.

Moments later, the electronic ring shattered the somberness of the airport restroom a second time, this time from the sinks just outside my stall door. The faceless voice answers, "Russell Connor" again.

"Ker-FLUSH!" chimes in another porcelain device.

"One minute as I ... "
"Ker-FLUSH!"
"... move to a better area to talk ...
"Ker FLUSH!"
"... to you."

It was like a voice activated symphony at a toilet opera, instigated by this man's cell phone. Kind of like Disney World where your conductor movements control the various musical instruments.

Wonder what his partner was feeling like with the echoing sound effects.

Wonder why he even answered the dang contraption at all. I am glad that he washed his hands though.

I Feel Like Chicken Tonight!
The family is in the girl's bedroom. It is bedtime. I am laying down Ellie in the crib. Emma is getting her pajamas on as Abbie picks up the toys off of the floor.

"It smells like a dirty little boy's room in here tonight." Abbie exclaims, even though it probably is her sixth grade classroom scent clinging to her sweater.

Without a beat Emma turns around to me and asks, "Did you fart?"

I wish I could keep all of these little instances locked in my brain. I know I only retain about five percent of the constant humor that is swimming with me. For instance, I got "informed" that Emma had been saying, "chicken butt" all day at preschool earlier this week.

Apparently, "chicken butt" is now offensive, or at least at a preschool.

"Why would she be saying that?" you might wonder.

Well, it all goes back to when that movie star brat was popular with the Home Alone films and he hosted Saturday Night Live. (I am not going to give him the credit of typing his name, plus I don't want to have to check how to spell it.) Anyways, he was in Al Franken's, "Stuart Smalley" skit where Al is "not a licensed therapist. . . but has attended many twelve-step programs" and would give advice to successful people. This one skit the kid would constantly ask Stuart, "You know what?" and Stuart would say, "What?". Then the boy would say, "Chicken butt!"

There you go. Well, it stuck with me, and now it is living, breathing, growing through my offspring.

And do you know why?

Chicken Thigh.