The other day, I was flipping through radio stations and UB40’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love” was playing, and immediately I thought, “What the hell were we all thinking making these guys popular? They are terrible. TERRRRRRRRIBLE. White guys with a Rasta style; yuck “¦” And 10 seconds later, the thought went out of my head as I started singing along with my best Jamaican accent, then I downloaded their greatest hits on iTunes and searched out the classic album 12 Inches of Snow.
I miss the drugs of the ’90s.
As my newest Facebook album will attest, my latest obsession is Draw Something. It really brings out the most primitive need in man to communicate by picture. It also reveals just how far we haven’t come. Sure, Picasso was great, but for the most part, the average person is still just drawing stick figures on a cave wall and getting furious that someone couldn’t see it was clearly Elvis from the one thicker line of black swooping up from the head.
Everyone wants to know how I draw so well. I am pretty DRAWSOME, and I have two secrets. I have an iPad; it’s an essential for drawing. I also have a stylus for drawing, because even on the iPad, my fat, sausage-esque fingers betray me.
“¦for the most part, the average person is still just drawing stick figures on a cave wall and getting furious that someone couldn’t see it was clearly Elvis from the one thicker line of black swooping up from the head.
Even though it’s not a secret, I also am good at drawing. You don’t fail algebra, geometry, and typing “” twice “” unless you are drawing lots of comic book characters.
When someone dies while doing a hobby, his friends always say: “Well, he died doing what he loved.” I find it hard to believe that when someone dies while scuba diving, drowning was what he loved.
I held this belief until I almost died doing what I loved. I was out one night with some friends, enjoying a dinner. It was a great time “¦ until I took a bite of my steak right as one of the people at the table made a comment that left him wide open for a funny retort.
In my haste to get out the zinger, I tried to swallow the steak too quickly. Realizing what was happening, I downed my glass of whiskey. This was also a mistake. I jumped up and looked for the bathroom, to no avail.
By this time, there was a lovely hue of blue taking over the deep red in my face. One of the ladies at the table began slapping her man and saying, “HELP HIM!” to which he replied, “Hang on, let’s give him a second, I think he can work through it, I don’t want to embarrass him”¦,” which made me laugh enough to get it down.
A few deep breaths later, we were laughing, eating, and drinking again. At least he and I were; the ladies had lost their appetites.
In retrospect, I realize I may have missed my only chance to die doing what I love: eating a steak, with a glass of great whiskey, while telling a joke. It would have been the stuff of legend.
Unless I can get a Tony Montana pile of coke and a dozen Asian women in schoolgirl and/or nurse uniforms.