Thursday, November 03, 2005

My Nephew Nakai: Ladies Man

This is the most adorable photo in the history of mankind.

I know. I'm bragging.

According to my sister, little girls are always coming up to him and trying to kiss him.

Lucky little bastard.

I say that with the utmost affection of course.

He's nearly three feet tall and has really large feet already.

That's right, my nephew is going to be some sort of Super Human Giant.

I can't frickin' wait.

That way, when evildoers try to tear down all that I hold dear, I can use my handy dandy Nakai Cell Phone Dealey 3000 to call him and he can just hop on over and smoosh them good.

Here's a quick quote from my last sister's e-mail where I found the preceding photo:

"This is Nakai's friend Sabrina who we are convinced is in love with him. She always gives him hugs and kisses and he usually cries, but I think he's getting used to it now!"

My young nephew, the Brad Pitt of the toddler set.

Trust me young nephew, hugs and kisses from beautiful young women are not a time to give in to crying.

Sometimes hugs are so good you want to freeze time and make them last forever.

Other times, a hug can be the last physical interaction you have with someone you've spent years loving and trying your best to understand.

all things being equal though, hugs simply remind us that we're still alive.

Keep kissing young nephew Nakai. As the cliche goes, practice makes perfect.

And its usually frickin' fantastic fun.

The only downer about this whole experience is it reminds me of how little lip service I've been getting lately.

Like I said before, lucky little bastard.

With great anticipation of your next photographic masterpiece,

Uncle Stacy


Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Time to Check the Stacy Request Line

Some days I loathe answering the request line. Truth be told, unless you're calling for a really cool prize like canned ham or ammunition, you're most likely a dimwit whose IQ is inversely proportional to the amount of times you call.

I am now going to do what few radio personalities ever deem appropriate.

I'm going to give you a peek inside a 50,000 watt radio studio, broadcasting to most of Northern California.

You know, when it's raining or there's a riot off Sebastopol Avenue.

Otherwise our signal pretty much only covers Santa Rosa.

And if you've ever heard my show, that's probably for the best.

Caller 1: The Unsupervised Latch Key Kid

C: "I need you to, um, like, ugh, play some, uh, song thingey."

S: "Doesn't anyone ever say hello anymore?"

I've been doing this for quite some time and all I ask is that you say hello, which used to be considered polite in American society.

C: "Huh? Whuh?"

S: "All I'm asking is that you say hello, ok?"

C: "You better like, um, play my fucking song or I'm gonna, er, um, tell my Mom."

I'm being threatened by a six year old.

S: "Ok, that's fine. Let me speak to Mom."

C: "Um, well, ugh, I can't. She's in da bederroom with Randy."

S: "Is Randy your daddy?"

C: "Um, er, um, no. He gets a turn after Pete's done."

Oh gawd. Poor child.

Click.

Caller 2: Hideously Drunk Redneck

C: "Playou sum Hank!"

S: "Excuse me? We usually only broadcast in English."

C: "Mudderfooker. I'm callin' you out boy."

S: "Dude, I'm 35, I don't think I'm your 'boy'."

C: "I buhknow (burp) wear foo wurkey dimfoh."

S: "I had dimfoh last night. It's great with teriyaki sauce."

The sound of a blitzkreig drunk attempting to hang up a regular land line phone bursts through the cue speaker as I imagine my latest caller has passed out stone cold drunk.

Caller 3: The Accuser

C: "Oh my gawd, you answered! I'm caller 5! Woo-hoo! I get free gas for a year!"

S: "I'm sorry, but you've called the wrong station. We're doing the Word That Wins."

C: "I'm a winner! Screw the oil companies, I get free gas for my Hummer! Who's a winner?? It's your birthday! Who's a winner?? It's your birthday!"

S: "Hello?? Listen very carefully...you...called...the...wrong...station. I'm really sorry."

C: "But I got through! I heard the Song of the Day 'Who Let the Dogs Out'. I'm a frickin' winner! You guys are liars! You're trying to rip me off! I want the number of your boss!"

I politely give her the number to the Taqueria I frequent around the corner to the station. Apparently later that evening when she stood up, right there on her chair was a clue.

Caller 4: The Space Cadet

C: "You guys played a song about three weeks ago around 4:20 in the morning. I need to know what that song was."

S: "Hmm. Ok, do you have any lyrics?"

C: "It was a guy or a woman singing, and their heart was broken."

S: "You've pretty much described 60% of the songs in our library."

(silence)

C: "I think it had the word 'the" a few times. Oh yeah, and the preposition 'at' too."

S: "Are you an English teacher?"

(silence)

C: "Come on! I need to know that song. My friend is getting married in three hours and it would be perfect for their first dance."

(silence...this time, from me...)

Click.

Caller 5: The World Revolves Around Me

C: "I want Kenny Chesney tickets. Can you give me some?"

S: "We've been doing a contest all day for those. You have to listen to the radio."

C: "But I really, really love Kenny Chesney! And I've been a good girl all day, can't I have some tickets ppplllleeeaaassseeee!!"

S: "I'm sorry. I appreciate you trying but that wouldn't be fair to everyone else."

Her demeanor quickly changes.

C: "Who the fuck are you? Why should you get to go to the concert and not me? My boyfriend cheated on me and gave me the herpes and I don't get to go? What the fuck is that?"

This is where I'd really like to hang up, but in the deep seeded recesses of my belly, I do have a little compassion.

Or pity. This call is really hard to read.

S: "I'm sorry you're having so much trouble, but..."

C: "Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no, please don't say no!"

Tears feed themselves through the fiber optic line as my stomach curls up into knots. My Achilles Heel is when women cry.

S: "Listen. Call me around 5:30pm this Friday. If one of our winners doesn't pick up their tickets, I'll give you a call, ok?"

Long pause.

C: "Ok, thank you. I'm sorry I told you my life story but I'm really upset and trying hard to hold it together."

S: "Trust me, I understand."

Click.

Psychologist to the weary. Giver of cool prizes. Entertainer occasionally.

This is my job. This is what I do for a living.

Radio is like that fetching, alluring, drop dead gorgeous woman at a party wearing the hip hugging black spaghetti strap dress with a come hither stare that invites your attention and who you would absolutely kill for if requested to.

Once you give in to Radio's spell, she slaps your face, kicks your shin and tells you to fuck off.

But you can't stop thinking about her. You're doomed. And you take the punishment over and over and over again just to be in her presence.

That's Radio. She's a fascinatingly frustrating mistress that will cheat on you with little regard for your well-being.

And that's why I still love her so.