Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Dear Blog, Today Im going off the rails on a crazy train

ALL ABOOOOOAAAARRD! HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Welcome, blog visitors. Please be advised. Chattering Teeth is a thrilling, high speed, turbulent blog that includes sharp turns, sudden drops and stops. Please secure all hats, glasses, pocket protectors and loose change before embarking. For your safety, please keep your arms and legs within the blog at all times until it comes to a complete stop. In the unlikely event it becomes necessary for this blog to make a water landing, your seat cushion may function as a floatation device.

If you are a democrat, please refer to the picture below for a graphic demonstration on how to engage a seat belt. We know this advanced technology can be frightening at first, especially if you're no Thomas Einstein. Please seek the help of a Republican if you entangle yourself. Enjoy the ride!!!




Speaking of rides, my new favorite TV commercial is that Honda Pilot "Road Trip" spot. It starts out with a family quietly driving down a desolate desert road, Mom and dad in the front seat, 3 girls in the middle and 3 boys in the back seat. The first time I saw this, I expected one of the boys to pull his sister's hair, or the little girl to ask that ageless query, "Are we there yet?" Instead, a male toe head mouths the opening bass notes to Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train".

Bumbum. Bumbum... bumbum... bumbum.

On que comes sister with the "Aiyee aiyee aiyee aiyee..." followed by the random African-American lad on ice-in-the-cup percussion. (NOTE: I wonder how mom explained this birth to "dad")

Then dad kicks in with what I assume to be the lead guitar. I say "assume" because dad's hands never leave the wheel. Even as the entire family rocks out, all we get from dad is a sporadic fingertap. Sure, mom and dad get bonus points for the well choreographed rubber chicken necks, but I hold the bar a little higher than this for a random road trip rock out.

I first realized I had a very unique and special gift somewhere in my middle teens. I would lock the door of my room, put on some vinyl Nugent and practice solo for hours, honing my gift until it reached super hero status. Just a boy, his hands and his instrument. I, of course, am talking about my air guitar.

Wiktionary defines the "air guitar" as "An imaginary guitar that a listener to (usually rock) music pretends to play," but it is oh so much more than that! Anybody can pretend to play an imaginary guitar, but only an air guitar ninja can reach through the dimensional fabric of the space-time continuum to grasp and play an instrument not meant for human hands. My name is DaBlade, and I am a master musi-physician of guitar string theory.

I never entered into any contests, nor did I choose to display and share my rare talent with friends and/or family in my early years as the gift blossomed. I didn't want to cheapen my art by Tebowing it for show and profit. Not only that, but my extraordinary ability made me feel different, and so I hid it away for many years. I remember watching my youthful moves in the mirror one day and thinking, "I AM NOT A CIRCUS MONKEY! I AM A HUMAN BEING!"

And so the gift lay dormant for many years.

Then my 3 boys were born, and at this point I knew I owed it to them to train them in this family legacy coded in their DNA, that they might be able to harnass and shackle this power that is their birthright and inheritance. And so, dear friends, as my boys will attest - nary a road trip has occurred where the driver's window hasn't been lowered to allow dad to perform super-human hand-contourting air guitar fretwork on a seemingly invisible guitar with multiple twisting necks of various lengths and otherwordly wood, razor sharp fingerboards and whammy bars inaccessible to all but the most elite. More than once, cars sharing the road would peel to the side when I hit my zone to Skynyrd's Free Bird - mistaking my flashing arm, hand and finger movements for either gang signs or a health emergency. The devil better stay in Georgia.

OZZY OSBOURNE - CRAZY TRAIN
This song strangely compels within me a desire to purchase a redesigned 8-passenger Honda Pilot mini van for the fam... OK, not really. But it does demand a little air guitar action, DaBlade style!!


Step off to the right. Step off to the right please. When the blog stops, step off to the right.

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