Dear Abby Normal

BURN

2011-03-11T11:08:00.004-06:00

Detroit was once the center of the world...

Consider helping fund the completion of this film by clicking here.

BURN Trailer from Tremolo Productions on Vimeo.

Johnstown 2010

2010-05-04T10:16:00.019-05:00

In the past I've encouraged folks to contribute to relief efforts for natural disasters in New Orleans & Haiti. Now, we find our hometown another victim. Although the Nashville flood of 2010 is dwarfed in scale by New Orleans, there are thousands who have lost their homes, without flood insurance. Homes - gone with no recompense.

Portions of our neighborhood & many others have been wiped out by apparently total losses. Historic & important cultural sites are damaged. The Grand Ole Opry House, the Opryland Hotel, the gorgeous Schermerhorn Symphony Center - all damaged by flooding. And we shouldn't forget that dozens already have lost their lives & the numbers are expected to rise as waters recede. It's heartbreaking. And what's even more surreal is the fact that not only is this story being masked by other national news, but there are even parts of Nashville that are seemingly unphased.

I've always found myself bored with other flooding disaster news stories with the aerial footage of sandbagging efforts along the Mississippi in remote parts of the country's midbelly, but this time it's in our back yard - literally. I expect that in the future I will empathize a little more & sigh a little less when I read of yet another rising river in some town I've only driven through.

Please consider digging the news stories a little deeper & be aware of relief efforts & funds that may be set up in the coming weeks to help mitigate the massive individual losses that thousands have now accrued. How many of you have flood insurance? Most don't. Now imagine that your house is totally destroyed in the most damaging flood in your town's history. Then realize that there are thousands of our neighbors in that very position sleeping on cots in the high school gym up the road.

Here's a link to our personal videos of our street & downtown Nashville.

Johnstown 2010 [Movies]

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

Don't Make Me Do This Again!

2010-01-15T08:30:00.005-06:00

It worked well the first time so...

I know many of you have already provided some financial help to organizations trying to provide aid to Haitian earthquake victims. After a few days it seems logistics is still a major problem, so money to contract supplies of water, food, & medical stores is the swiftest most effective assistance at the current stage.

Again, I don't have anything moving to say; there's nothing TO say. But I will be very happy to again provide FREE Jerry Hager music to those who have given support in any amount to the Red Cross Haitian Relief Fund. All you need to do is to forward your receipt from the Red Cross as in-line text [deleting the amounts & any banking info] to me at info@jerryhager.com [be sure to include your mailing address], & I'll send you a small stack of great Jerry Hager music, including unreleased new stuff!

I know that while so many are in such dire need it's difficult to 'get down' but CDs keep well for when you're ready start boogie-ing again.

Which One?

2008-10-08T11:54:00.007-05:00

I still don't think anything about the comment but I do like how quick some people are:

Burnt, Fried, and Set Aside

2008-05-01T10:27:00.002-05:00

While walking past the McDonald's at Vanderbilt Hospital, I overheard a middle-aged lady talking to an elderly woman with a walker.

Younger lady: "How 'bout McDonald's?"
Elderly lady: "Naw. If you eat there, you have to sit down twice."

The New Phonebooks Are Here!

2008-03-17T13:26:00.006-05:00

I just looked my name up in the white pages & found that I am listed as
Gerald R & R Hager.

It wasn't someone else, it was me; had my address & everything. I gotta find out who I know at the phone company & buy them a beer.

A Nashville Legend Passes

2008-02-26T13:55:00.021-06:00

Usually, people fall asleep listening to stories about other people's pets. But, then again, not that many pet credentials include 'National Recording Artist'. BB really was a session musician. His work can be heard on Tom Mason's Where Shadows Fall & the upcoming Joe Nolan album Blue Turns Black. I dog-shit you not.

Unfortunately, his last work will be released posthumously. Yesterday, we had to have him put down. He was a great friend over the last 12 years. He loved being buried in leaves & snow, having a shop-vac run over his fur, & eating walnuts. I took to him because he didn't mind the smell of my cigar. In his declining years, he was perhaps a little less affectionate, but still, the most patient dog I've ever known.

I never got him that male-symbol ID tag, but I think he had a little more class than that.

For those of you who knew him, I thought you'd like to know. For those of you who didn't, here are a few pictures of him in the studio.

Celebrity Theory #2

2007-05-03T08:17:00.000-05:00

Ever seen these two in the same place at the same time?

Of course I can't imagine the circumstances that would result in Peter Gabriel & John Ratzenberger appearing at the same charity dinner together but I just thought I'd mention it.

Obscenes From A Mall

2006-10-29T19:48:00.000-06:00

My decision to brave the Opry Mills Mall on Saturday was rewarded while battling the oncoming shoppers.

Middle-aged, overweight man with deep rural Tennessee accent speaking to a similarly built middle-aged man walking anxiously & attentively a half step behind:

"You see, this picks up where Busty Beach Bunnies pt.1 leaves off!"

I decided to get an Orange Julius, find a bench & relax a little. Life's too fast. Every once in a while you have to stop & eavesdrop on the locals.

Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Booms In The Night

2006-10-19T19:29:00.002-05:00

I've been at it again. Working on my next big panic attack at the local Lowe's home improvement store. There I was wandering up & down the aisles throwing a tantrum because there was no one in customer service to coddle me & tell me the tiling job is going to be all right. "They're not getting any more of my business... today."

Actually while scrambling for an exit I darted down the mail box aisle. There they had the absolute most ridiculous mail boxes I've ever seen. Apparently they now have them made entirely [post & all] of hollow green & yellow plastic with exaggerated round corners like those awful plastic playground sets you see in people's FRONT yards these days. There were pictures of the mail boxes in action & had they not included a proportional adult, I would have mistaken the place for a Toys-R-Us [Where's the backwards R on this keyboard?].

It reminded me of a forgotten sport we had where I grew up in rural Michigan. Mail Box Baseball was America's 2nd favorite past time - at least for those who didn't have cable. That's where one guy is behind the wheel of his $300 OldsmoBuick & a second guy is kneeling in the passenger seat hanging out the window with a baseball bat. You drive down a farm road or a not-so-dense subdivision & just wail the crap out of all the mail boxes. Doesn't that sound like fun?

Sometimes they forego the bat & just mow down the post & all with the car. For this you need an old car with a lot of mass. Your '94 Tercel won't take the really good posts down - the ones sitting on a railroad tie. But I tend to think the real reason for ramming a mail box with your bumper rather than bashing it with a bat says... you can't find a friend to do the swinging.

One Summer a real major leaguer came to town. This guy had to be the Mulo Enojado of some Mexican league. He had a dark colored car so he was hard to see at night. Mostly we just heard him. He ran the roads every few weeks or so. His trademark was that he would plow down every other mail box. Never would he get two in a row. Kind of like "eenie meanie." Or maybe he just "loved us not."

No one could ever catch the guy. He was really good at arriving just when we forgot all about him. Sometimes it was as though we were a bunch of border town peasants, always nervous, watching the horizon, afraid Eli Wallach was gonna come riding back into the village.

After his rampage through the neighborhood we'd all come out early like Christmas morning to find coal in every other stocking. But mostly we just resigned ourselves to it. There'd be a communal shrug as if to say, "Eh, Whaddaya gonna do?"

But it quickly & quietly started to get to my father. He had replaced about four mail boxes & a couple of posts - digging them out, realigning them. After numerous hard days' work & trips to Ace Hardware & neighbors laughing at our whole family circled around him at the end of the driveway as he dug & cursed, my father became obsessed. He began to drift away, paying no attention to family affairs. He took to missing dinners & working late in the garage, looking distant & incessantly inserting the words 'wrath' & 'thee' into quiet conversations he'd have with himself.

I'd seen my father get mad many times at many people before, brandishing weapons even. He himself looked like & caused as much fear as Charles Bronson. But this became personal to him. The other neighbors didn't seem to get as riled up as he did. They just put up cheap replacement boxes & let the vandal have his way, knowing it wasn't worth the ulcer. But as this had gone on for a couple of Summers, my father became progressively more & more preoccupied. He plotted & schemed. He studied history books on strategic warfare & had pored over diagrams of various sedan-slinging trebuchets & other medieval devices.

But one day after another dark visit from the bully vandal & my father had installed the new mailbox & post, he seemed a little less stressed. A little more satisfied. Still a little maniacal, but satisfied. I didn't think anything of it.

Then... a few weeks later. Midnight. It was a quiet Summer night with all the windows open - we didn't have air conditioning. Other than crickets & such, the neighborhood was almost as quiet as the house. Except you could hear the faint sound of the bug light at the farm next door zapping flies every few seconds. I was in my bed, having a hard time sleeping as usual. Just drifting in & out.

Gradually the sound of the crickets & frogs gave way to a muffled roar of tires on gravel & dirt. It came fast over the hill where my bus stop was. Then loudly down the hill. It seemed closer than even the road was, mostly because my ears were so accustomed to the quiet of the night. And then right in front of our house quickly the sound ended in a transient single bang of metal crunching & a quick dirt skid.

The crickets had shut up immediately. Everything went silent. Even the idiot flies managed to avoid the zapper for a moment. A few seconds or so & then his tires spun, throwing gravel. Then a slow squeak-squeak sound of the car limping down the road slowly out of ear-shot.

I laid silently in my bed for a few seconds. Wondering if I should wake my folks & tell them some dink had just hit one of our trees. But as quickly as the thought came to me, I heard my father at the other end of the silent house.

"Got you, you sucker."

It seems that when my father installed the new mail box, he had welded a plain black box atop a 6-inch pipe, 12 feet long which he had sunk 9 feet into the ground & filled to the brim with cement. He poured cement into the ground 10 inches around the pipe. Then he collected his tools & cords & cement mixer & purposefully walked them all back up the long drive to the garage. Each trip he would spin to look back at his work - both inspecting from a distance to see if it looked innocent enough, but also celebrating & gloating a bit. He'd smile walking backwards, arms full of dangling extension cords & trowels.

He had built a barricade designed to kill. And then waited up for weeks - listening & hoping. For one night - this night. I'm told after he said those words from his bed, he rolled over & slept like a baby till morning.

From my father we learned to keep our eyes on our goals. Don't stray. Keep focused. Do what you're good at. He didn't really say it in those words but we picked up on his example. He always had a way of illustrating how important it was to work through life's challenges. This was one of them. He conquered & then gloated. Just like the time he stopped the neighbor's dogs from coming into the garage & chewing up his workboots by wiring the laces up to a live toaster cord.

It worked.

P.S.
We went back to the old house this weekend & the damned thing is still in tact, like a bunker over the Omaha Beachhead.

Is He Ever Going To Write Again?

2006-08-07T15:25:00.000-05:00

Question - Did you ever see David Gilmour & Christopher Plummer in the same place at the same time?

Actually my friend Gordie pointed that out to me today. That doesn't really count as a journal entry but I thought it was worth mentioning, at least quietly.

More to come soon. [Mostly about nothing]

Coming at you live from a WiFi Starbucks somewhere in America

2006-06-06T12:18:00.000-05:00

How 'bout this one that's been flying around everyone's email...

I love America. We need to preserve our rare & precious culture.

...How soon is that fence going to be built?

Short & Sweet &... Salty... & Crunchy... & Good With Beer

2006-04-13T14:04:00.000-05:00

Got this link from my asbestos-house-buying sister...

Faces Of Meth

Shocking. I guess it's supposed to be.

The internet is a great tool for dissuading certain vices.

...sorry about that.

The Big Fugitive

2006-03-09T12:00:00.000-06:00

Ever get sleepy driving? On my way home last night I felt pretty drowsy. Could hardly keep my eyes focused on the road. I did that little Homer Simpson thing where I started dreaming I was driving my king bed. Then [blink] I was flying my bed like a plane through the clouds. [blink] Leaned back, closed my eyes & nestled myself into the pillow - the bed soaring like a magic carpet with little angels at each post carrying me safely to some far away quiet land with an ocean breeze where it's always 72 degrees, mostly sunny & a 10% chance of showers.

No I hadn't been drinking. I was just exhausted.

I had already fallen asleep twice at the Belle & Sebastian show earlier in the evening. So my thinking was, if you're getting sleepy, speed up so you can get in bed sooner. After all, don't want to be out here on the road where I could run somebody over, eh?

Then I started to dream again. This time I was fishing - back home in Michigan. Standing in the painfully cold water of an Upper Peninsula stream. Wearing belly-high waders & a floppy Col. Henry Blake hat. Chilly night. So quiet in the woods that the water over the rocks seemed deafening. [In my dreams, I know how to fly-fish. I'm terrible at it in real life. I take out branches & small birds.] Holding the fly-rod still for a moment, I looked up & saw the Northern Lights & how dazzling they were. It was a nice peaceful dream. I just stood there pausing in wonderment of nature & how beautiful God had made this world.

Then I started to come out of it. Waking up, uncomfortably. "Those aren't the Northern Lights. Those are blue flashing lights... in the rear-view mirror. Aww damnit!"

I pulled off the road into a church parking lot AT THE END OF MY STREET. A block from my house. Brilliant. When the cop asked me where I lived, I pointed across the parking lot toward my house.

- "Right over there."

Officer Nightshift McGee - "You live in the Church?"

- "No, McGruff. Behind it in the dumpster. I have to leave for a few hours every Saturday when they have the Kountry Kraft Flea Market in the parking lot."

Actually, he was pretty cool. I know that Nashville police are under a tighter watch with the new chief. They're not really allowed to let so many people off anymore. Too bad for me, I guess.

But I did fall asleep while he wrote the speeding ticket. He had to wake me up to get me to sign his book. I signed it, "Jim Ignatowski"

Maybe I should put more effort into being a big celebrity so I can say, "Do you know who I am?!"

To which any good officer would reply, "Moe Greene?"

I Used To Do This, But With Pictures Of Karl Malden

2006-02-06T14:27:00.000-06:00

Got this from ANONYMOUS. Thought I'd post the pics as I received them.

Apparantly ANONYMOUS got mixed up with the wrong crowd at the February 4th Jerry Hager show & succumbed to peer pressure. Everyone was doing it - Rip Jerry's face out of a postcard & voila! COLORFORMS - The Jerry Hager Edition.

Hail Jerry, full of grace...

Wait, that's not Guinness.

A fan recreating the episode that featured Jerry on COPS.

Here we see another friend of The Jerry Hager Show considering dying her hair to match Jerry's.

Hips are great but I hear tell that Jerry's more of an ass man.

I caught you a delicious bass.

Is it me or does the picture of Jerry look like he's smiling a little more in this one?

*This one just in! 2/07/2006 23:15:41
Sasquatch heart's Jerry.

*Update 2/08/2006 20:58:44
What are you hiding, Jerry?

I'm glad you folks liked the words.

Cooter Kept Me Up All Night

2006-02-02T09:32:00.000-06:00

This is fun. A friend showed me this envelope today. It was sent from an embroidery company to a courier company - an envelope containing a letter soliciting business. He asked me, "Would you do business with this company?"

I know I'm no Madison Ave type but I'm pretty sure I could get this marketing question right.

After I picked myself up off the floor it occurred to me that the handwriting may belong to an elderly person & therefore I'm not allowed to make fun of it, right? But even so, it's funny because someone decided to mail it out like it was. It passed someone's inspection - good to go.

And barring the likelihood that it was written by a 73 year old Parkinson's victim, it's funny picturing the other possibilities. First thing to come to my mind is some 9 year old with her cheek on the kitchen table, eyes practically closed at 11:30 at night filling out the 212th envelope sitting across from her father who's saying, "You're helping Daddy with his new business. Isn't this fun? Wake up honey. You've got stamps in your hair."

So I opened it.

I kid you not, this is exactly how it was printed - as crooked as you see. Like the guy made copies at a nickel copier next to the time-clock & rental steam-cleaners at Piggly Wiggly.

And then... I saw the e-mail address. And please, please don't e-mail this guy. I don't want to embarrass him. I just want to make fun of him behind his back.

"Corporateservice" huh? Let's see what was that e-mail domain again? I got the "Corporateservice" part but what was the rest of it? I know I know it. It's on the tip of my tongue.

I guess this makes me an immature 12 year old. Well, writing about it makes me an ambitious 12 year old. The incessant giggling is what makes me immature. As evidenced by the fact that when my sister got her new job at a prison healthcare company, I jumped up & down saying, "Wow! Now when someone asks what you do you can use the word Penal!"

WARNING: Serious Blog Ahead

2006-01-20T10:32:00.000-06:00

This being the epitome of cliche notwithstanding, the need to write this is powerful.

Dear diary,

I just got spam with the subject "Haunted by your past?"

Actually no. I'm not. If anything, I'm taunted by my present.

As is typical for me these days, I've been second guessing myself a bit. To the point I sometimes have little imaginary power-meetings in my head with anyone I think I should be listening to. But only people that I think I can guess at what they would say. Let's see, this morning sitting around the table, there was me, God, Robert Forster... the list goes on.

See, in the last day I've really been thinking hard & even worrying about some things that I shouldn't be. Things that I have no control of. Well that isn't saying much - other than choices [& occasionally our bowels], we don't really have control of anything do we? Just the way we react, I guess. Anyway, it was all over relationship stuff & I was worrying to the point of asking for some simple recognizable indication from God or whoever was listening as to what to do, how to react, how to perceive it - or even just a sign telling me which direction to face.

From what I hear, we all do this at some point in our lives. From time to time we all get all spiritual & ask God for a sign or some such nonsense when we're so confused or worried about that one thing that inevitably happens - Life.

So I had this meeting of the minds, in my mind, while on my way to an appointment at the medical center. As I walked into the lobby I noticed a man sitting in a chair, motionless. He was in his sixties I think. He was completely bald. No hair anywhere on his face or arms. That & the fact that he was sitting outside the cancer center led me to conclude that he was going through chemotherapy. I'm quick like that you know.

Anyway, he didn't look long for this world. Almost everything about him gave you that impression. His still posture in the chair, the absence of muscle on his arms, his feet lightly pointed all caddywompus. Everything but his eyes.

His face looked bereft of spirit but his eyes looked at me - almost through me- with so much life that I felt joy & shame at the same time. Despite using this phrase many times in the past, it bears repeating: it was like standing in the presence a of woman so beautiful that you feel ashamed of your own ugliness.

I walked on.

A few steps past him I pushed the up button for the elevator. As I mulled the old man over & waited, a middle-aged woman rolled a young girl in a wheel-chair up next to me. The girl was frail. She was clearly very sick. The doors opened just as they arrived. I paused so they could get on. Going by me the young girl looked up with the grandest smile.

"Wow, that was lucky. We didn't even have to wait."

I agreed because usually those elevators are pretty slow. And I'm usually pretty late.

We were all in & the doors closed. As her mother was looking at a map of the clinic & cancer center, the young girl - the prettiest thing in her wavy dark hair - kept looking at me & smiling. It seemed as though to make sure I had thought about what she had said. I started to feel sick. Something about her made me feel like she knew me.

I got off at the 3rd floor.

Still puzzled a little I turned to look back at her, rounded a corner & almost ran into a slowly walking man & woman. The woman was supporting the guy by his left elbow. He had a serious limp; was barely making any ground at all. He must've been in pain because every step was gingerly taken.

Even though I dodged the man, I still brushed up against his beige wind-breaker going around his right. With my feet still moving I spun around toward them & caught his smiling eyes & said, truthfully, that I was sorry & I wasn't watching where I was going.

In an unsarcastic tone, very genuine, the man said so that I could hear, "Let's get out of the way. He's got somewhere to be." I know it sounds sarcastic & hateful but his tone was clearly honest. It was kind of like when you were a child & your grandfather gets excited for you about the smallest things & it seems fake but you know he means it. The man sounded like he was trying to apologize for being out of place & in my way by affirming that I was important enough to be given passage.

I turned & walked on.

But then... in no time at all... a few steps & my feet went numb. I felt like I could collapse right there in the hall, in front of the limping couple.

My head was swimming. In just a mere moment my own life started to play out in my head. I wasn't ready for it.

The time I was impaled in the abdomen, the car accident that took many of my memories & personality, the emergency appendectomy in the middle of the night, the minor heart attack at the age of 35. All the times that life was handed back to me to spend how I chose. To think about what I would buy with it. The gifts I had not yet said thank you for. How much shame I felt in a single moment. More than I may have felt in an entire life.

But with it immediately came relief. Relief from my current worry. Like water over a handful of sand. And there again... underneath... was joy.

Just then, slowly, the images of each of the wonderful eyes I had just walked so quickly past began to appear. One after another. It hit me so blindingly & painfully. My heart hurt.

Did I just walk past & brush off three different strangers? Or maybe it was one very familiar pair of eyes. Did they belong to the one I had been praying & pleading to? Was that one trying to tell me something? Flying from one set of eyes to the next, staring at me? Watching me closely to see that I'm listening? To see that I'm hearing the message? A message that didn't come out of the sky or from a flaming bush? A message that could only be delivered in terms I could understand?

It feels to me that I almost missed it. There in that hallway, the cold chill, the weakness that took me over, the burning in my gut. It feels to me now that, as hokey & predictable as it sounds, we must miss countless signs & messages everyday. How many times have we been looking in the face of God & just walked on? How many times has the voice of God been hovering just beneath the noise floor we've gotten so used to & yet we don't even notice? It feels to me that in the end, life really is easy. We're the ones who make it hard.

I'm thankful & glad I noticed.

And embarrassed at my pettiness. How long will it be before I need to be reminded again. Probably already do.

Word Of The Day, 1/18/06

2006-01-18T07:54:00.000-06:00

ther·a·pist ( P ) Pronunciation Key (thr' ê-píst) n.

Person who knows how many pounds of grapes I eat in a week... The real number.

Christmas In July... The 4th Of July.

2005-12-27T09:27:00.001-06:00

Without going into the reasons, usually I don't give Christmas gifts. But this year my folks got a gift from me at their house in Florida. I made a surprise visit on Christmas Eve after telling them for months that I was not going to be able to make it. When I showed up, my mother cried. So did my aunt. And I'm pretty sure I saw my brother cry as he appeared to be dividing in his head one more person into eight slices of pizza.

But it was a nice treat [& retreat] for me too.

For instance, we took the boat out on the Ocklawaha & St. Johns Rivers. My dad & I sawed & sanded & made some nice shelves out of wood from two cedar trees cut down out front. And I ate oranges. Yes sir, I ate oranges right off the trees in the back yard... on Christmas Day. Nice way to spend Christmas if you ask me.

But really the icing on the cake was when I couldn't wait to get back & document all the strange things that were stuck in my head the whole way home.

Among the odd things I encountered on the road-trip:

Jackson, GA: This ad was posted over a urinal at the Flying J truck stop along I-75.

Now why... why are the Canadians not getting the beer batter? That doesn't even make sense. I could understand if it was the Kountry Kitchen's location in Abu Dhabi but Canada's not exactly a tee-totaling nation.

*By the way, this is not the actual photo. The one I took didn't come out very well. I was rushed due to the intimidating & scornful looks from the other men in the restroom as they saw me getting a camera out at the urinal asking for help setting it to 'Macro'.

Keystone Heights, FL: For the first time I took B.B. to McDonald's for coffee & a McGriddle.
Here he is getting his head around the concept.

"Let me get this straight. You drive up close to the building & they just.. HAND.. YOU.. FOOD.. THROUGH.. THE.. WINDOW?!"

Nickajack Lake, TN: Thirty-six empty cans of Busch under a bush.

Must have been quite a Christmas.

Finally, Valdosta, GA: They were celebrating the 4th a little early.

Cracking wise about this is clearly unnecessary. But I do find it odd that I was the only one at the scene who thought it was funny.

And these are the stupid things that are gonna stick with me the longest. This is why I never see the larger picture. I keep taking the smaller ones. I keep staring at my shoes... that someone's thrown into the power lines.

So, hope everyone's year & holidays were capital. For the coming year, take a trip. Surprise someone. Take stupid pictures. Smart off every chance you get. Oh, & don't feed your dog hash browns. You'll regret it.

Where's my security appendage?

2005-12-06T11:23:00.001-06:00

Anybody seen this? I'm not trying to ruin anyone's Christmas surprise but the fact is some of you might be getting this.

Ladies & Gentlemen,
The Boyfriend Arm Pillow
[Right now the thing is on backorder so don't get too excited.]

What in the world? I've seen some odd things on the internet but holy outcast!

And it's half a torso! So your imaginary boyfriend is the victim of a horrible shark attack? Notice it's the Boyfriend Pillow. They know good & well that if they had named it the Husband Pillow it'd have to have a pot belly, an untucked "Kiss My Bass" T-shirt & you wouldn't be able to snuggle up to it cus it smells like motor oil & a fart.

I wonder if the Girlfriend Pillow is just two legs. Maybe we should market that.

How 'bout this for ad copy?

GIRLFRIEND PILLOW

[insert picture of two-legged pillow with Jerry's head nestled at home plate with eyes closed & pleasant smile]

Even though you'd rather be curled up on the couch alone, this is the next best thing with comforting legs that wrap around you as if to say, "Wanna go to Hooters for dinner?" or "No, I think that poster from Death Wish II looks a lot better on the mantle than the picture of my mother," all the stuff you'd never hear from a real girlfriend.

Polyester, filled with snuggly foam [rather than deceit, like the real thing]. Complete with G-String & small feet. Imported. 37" waist x 22" inseam, you know, a size 4. Sorry, discreet packaging not available, you freak.

I Like To Call It My Thinking Cap

2005-11-16T09:51:00.001-06:00

In frustration with a few people I know, earlier yesterday I began to think, "I know I've quipped something philosophical & poignant about this at some point in my life."

Problem was, I couldn't remember it. You know, I feel as young as I ever did. And even though I'm becoming a bigger baby with each passing day, perhaps memory is starting to go. This is the first sign of it anyway. Or maybe it's happened before, I don't remember.

This is why I think we should start giving out PDAs to all the old people before they start dropping like extras in Glory, taking with them the meaning of life or a recipe for fried apples or something invaluable like that.

All I could come up with are odd things I've said at one time or another that don't really add up to a philosophy but did get me quoted & sometimes smacked. In listing them I now find it a little hard to believe I never made it into the good schools.

Things like:

- "Never consider your options after dropping an apple in the toilet."

- "I may be alone but I ain't wrong."

- Woman, to me at a party: "You can judge a man by the way he dances."
- Me, to woman's friend: "You can judge a woman by the way she judges a man."

- "If your girlfriend's stack of self-help books is taller than your stack of nudie books, it's not going to work out."

- "It's hard to impress someone after they've watched you have a heart attack."

If that's all I've learned in this life, I'll have to take it. When I was younger I was told that I was mature & learned for my age. But now I've noticed that with some things it's taken me a little longer to pick up on than everyone else. Even people that don't know which way the moon is seem to learn a few things along the way. Either it's just an impression I get of others or I really am as dense as a Yonkers diamond.

Although I don't think we're here to just learn lessons, things do go a little smoother when we pick up on the occasional omen. Some people can just cut things off cold at a looming foreshadow. My mother quit smoking in a day. My friend broke up with a girl at an airport right before the flight. Another friend quit his job out of the blue the other day. None of these people have looked back with doubt.

Me, I tend to keep faith alive. And when I do make a grand leap, it's usually a mistake in the sense that it isn't based on lessons learned in life but rather on lessons learned watching Hardcastle & McCormick.

Maybe it's time to admit that in a few years I'll be shopping at Kroger with my hockey helmet on cus I keep banging my head on the meat case. I'm not going down without a fight though. I promise, I'm taking good notes from here on out. Quiz me, I'll be ready.

The Lone Onion Theory

2005-10-19T15:43:00.000-05:00

For the first time in a while I perused my stats on my website today. But looking at those reports I think they're almost too much info. I don't want to know what version of Mozilla some of you are using. And I don't need to know that .8% of you are translating my rants into Dutch. By the way, if any of you .8% are in Amsterdam & are interested in putting a discreet American [with a leftover oat or two] up for a month, I'd like to hear from you. I can be reached at booyaa@jerryhager.com.

Anyway, in said report is an interesting list of search strings entered into Google.com to get to my site.

Search strings to locate JerryHager.com

scandalous
lap dance
fluffer nutter
someday i'll understand
chaffed thighs
assassination of mayor mccheese
abbey hoffman
old guy on santa's lap
jerry hall leopard skin photo
skoal lid collection

Believe it or not I can see why a couple of them are listed. But the one I'm having the most trouble with is "assassination of mayor mccheese". Who's searching for this? Is there some conspiracy theory out there that I missed involving Grimace & those Fry Guys? Anyway, when I find where in my site I've written those words, I will issue a public retraction.

By the way, I do NOT apologize for "old guy on santa's lap". That, I will never take back.

Their Logo Is Blue For A Reason

2005-09-21T14:29:00.000-05:00

I must be the only person I know that admits to going into a Wal-Mart. There are plenty of good reasons to boycott, but I only have one spurious reason not to - they carry the kind of toothpaste I like. If you can tell me where else to find Pearl Drops without having to get my tires muddy on my way to Judge Beans BBQ on Saturdays for more of my own personal on-going gall bladder experiments, I'm all ears.

This last Saturday found me with the regular itinerary [got my Symptoms Of Gastric Anomalies journal right here]. I'd never been to this particular Wally World location though. It just opened, I think. I'm not sure how you could tell anyway. They all look the same. Plus, those places are huge. Maybe astronomers can date them by their gravity signature, I don't know.

Went through my ritual of slowly creeping into a parking spot so as not to run over the poorly enunciating youth that appear suddenly out of nowhere. Parked my H3 [joke] & as I walked the gauntlet toward the doors, I tried to psych myself out to prevent my imminent panic attack. Curtly passed THE GREETER [if that's not the new touchstone of 'demeaning' you tell me what is] & barreled straight to the Dental Health aisle. As usual I grabbed all 5 boxes of Triple Action Pearl Drops that they had & pointed back toward the insanity they got going on up front at the registers.

Decided to go through that 'U-Scan' thing so I wouldn't have to talk to anyone in a blue vest. But on the way, something caught my eye. It was a rack of discounted DVDs. I know, I know. That's how they get you, isn't it? But they had a movie I really like for really cheap. It was 'Glengarry Glen Ross'. $7.50! And as I just can't pass up a bargain [if you can believe it, I once purchased 8 pounds of over-ripe bananas at the fruit market because they were 15 cents a pound], I nabbed it & proceeded to the closest open do-it-your-own-damned-self register.

Now, I am, without a doubt, one fast mother on ATMs & U-Scans. I can be done & in the car playing with the radio when most people are still trying to find their Kroger Plus cards. That said, I had just scanned all my loot & immediately noticed that the lady behind me in line is all up & crowding me. She's so close I can hear the person she's talking to on her flip-phone - yes, over all the noise IN A BUSY WAL-MART! Man was she in a hurry. She must have had to get back home to her Ritalin Rats before they ate all the Snackwells.

So in an attempt to avoid getting all flame-thrower on her ass, I just chanted to myself, "Be nice. She's probably buying stuff for Katrina victims." And I tried to accelerate through the Select Payment Type section. And so help me, the machine says & displays the following: "Halt! Restricted Item. You are surrounded. Please wait for Gestapo-Mart Management. Do not attempt to flee." The red light that towers over the register starts blinking as though to pin-point where to drop the bomb.

I look to the kiosk where the girl who oversees the self-checkouts is stationed, I guess she's there to make sure we don't cheat by scanning once but bagging twice on the plastic jewelry organizers. And she's staring blankly at her screen, looking puzzled like she's having trouble with the colored shapes monkey test she appears to be busy with.

What in the world did I scan that is restricted? What in the world does Wal-Mart sell that's restricted? Restricted to what? I honestly was baffled. I continued to wait because I figured she was working someone else's problem... right. Finally a non-blue-vest-wearing official looking man comes walking up. He informs me that the DVD has set off the alert. Seems they don't want children buying such movies.

I said, "Such movies? What does that mean?"

"Movies with foul language."

At this point, the lady behind me is explaining into her phone why she's going to be late for Sangria Night because some jaggoff in front of her at the store can't figure out the U-Scan. So after brandishing a birth certificate, passport, & Members Only Discount Card to Larry Flynt's Hustler Club I was cleared to purchase said filth.

I wanted to discuss this policy with the young manager. I wanted to ask him how they arrived at the logic of selling rifles & shotguns in the same store that has a contingency to deal with those who appear to be headed toward the register with an R rated film. Why? We have to protect our children? What kid would want to sit still long enough to watch 'Glengarry Glen Ross' anyway? It might as well be 90 minutes of a security cam shot of a credit union lobby. Any 8 year old you prop up in front of that thing will end up upside down on the couch making dinosaur sounds & kicking the wall.

"Yes, Virginia. You can watch all the violence you want on TV & in video games & even practice in the back yard with your new pump action shotgun but we can't let you see this awful movie because Jack Lemmon said 'Fuck'. We're afraid you might start using such words."

Well, I let it go & after being frisked on my way out the door by a 72 year old blind man, finally being OK'd by letting him gum my receipt a while, I made it home & a long way from such stores. With all the things in this world we as a society get wrong, this one's an easy one. This one's not even important, which is why you can count on me to broach it. I think this is the kind of logic that leads to manufacturers having to print warnings - such as a can of foot spray that reads, "Don't spray in eyes." Honest to our disappointed God, I saw that once. Or why they have PSLs for NFL stadiums. That's where you buy a license at an obscene price to then buy the season ticket. I just hope it doesn't rub off on me.

Maybe I should take the thing back to the customer service counter, wailing about how they sold it to my 7 year old daughter & now she's running around school with a spot-on impression of Pacino yelling about how the place stinks of the principal's farts for a week. Maybe to shut me up they might give me some free toothpaste.

Eh, fuck it.

Get free Jerry Hager music! Seriously.

2005-09-03T13:45:00.000-05:00

I don't have anything wise or insightful to say about the awful tragedy that is the Katrina disaster other than I'm moved & sickened & worried. But I can urge everyone to contribute by donating directly to The Red Cross Hurricane Relief Fund. And my way of doing that is to offer to anyone who makes a donation on-line, of any amount, the Jerry Hager catalog free of charge. That includes the 2 CDs Gentle Man & Miles From Brushy, plus an extra CD The Songwriter Sessions which includes bonus rare material.

Just make a donation on-line, print the receipt. [Feel free to black out the amount if you like.] Mail a copy to:

Blue Bourbon Music
PO Box 293057
Nashville, TN 37229

Include your shipping address & the CDs will be on the way.

So please help out. Donate, pray, count your blessings & enjoy the music.

Here's to those who are suffering & to those who come to their aid. God bless all of you.

My Demands

2005-08-25T07:36:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it's hard to write what's really on your mind in a blog. Especially when you know so many people & their business that there's very little you can relay as an anecdote without a couple of your acquaintances getting together to decode it. The only thing you're left with are the thoughts you have that are not connected to anyone. And the reverse Rorschach representation of my thoughts would simply be of a sleeping mule. Not much going on in there.

Of course I have the usual thoughts that just about everyone else has from day to day. Every morning in the shower I think really, really hard on ways I could work it out so I could just towel off & go back to bed without someone showing up at my door saying, "No. No. No. No. No. No. Forget it. I figured you'd try this today. You're coming with me."

Or sometimes in my head I subtract from my current age the age that my father was at certain milestones in his life; such as getting married, having children, joining MENSA, TKO'ing Emile Griffith in the 7th round. Do that a few times a week & you go straight to the top of the waiting list for a donor ego. You'll be checking the radio on the fives of the hour to see if Rush Limbaugh or James Woods has been in a car crash.

And I used to think way too much about why french fries don't taste like they did as a kid. And don't give me that bilge about them using different cooking oil either. They stopped tasting right a long time ago - before everyone got on these short-attention-span health kicks. I think that if fries tasted like they used to, I'd be as big as... well... a little bigger than I am now.

It has to be that things taste different as we age. For instance, I don't like sweets very much. But I remember loving sugar as a youngster. Actually my change in taste probably happened right about the time my mother warned me to stop putting so much syrup on my pancakes. She said that if I didn't stop I'd have to sit at the table until I finished every left-over drop, sans pancakes. Well obviously Special-Ed here doesn't listen, just like the fat kid with his butt sticking out of the chocolate river in Willy Wonka.

When I had finished the pancakes, on my plate there was a lake of syrup deep enough to float a bath tub on. And my mother never went back on her word. Even if she wanted to, she never let us see her sweat. Here I am trying to spoon up globs of Log Cabin & somehow get my mouth open for yet another dizzying rush of sugar & nausea. I begged & pleaded but nothing doing. I must have sat there for a half hour. I'd have rather chugged a pint of brine than get that sticky mess anywhere near me after that.

My mother hates when I tell that story. It makes her cry. But at least it keeps me away from the cinnamon rolls today. However, that approach didn't have the same effect on my brother when he experimented with smoking. He now smokes like Mel Gibson.

Wait a tic, here I am trying to stay away from the tell-tale, breach of trust stories I have on all of you & I start down this dark road of revealing how I was abused as a child. How I was made to work for 15 hours a day in the tobacco fields near Greensboro. How at 8 years old I was forced to drag my father around to pubs & cult meetings in a rickshaw. None of that happened. I had the cushiest childhoood & am always surprised to be reminded of it when I hear other peoples' stories about their families. Some of you people are weeiirrd.

So be nice to me. You see how easy it is for me to start rambling? One day I might get to something on you. I could tell that one about the wedding in Mexico City, Laura. Or the story about the encounter with the great looking "woman" in the men's room at The Chute, Barry. So, as for my demands; I will require a slice of pizza...

Off-Color

2005-07-20T22:02:00.001-05:00

Saw this in my SPAM today.

It didn't hit me as offensive or anything. At first I didn't think anything of it. I mean it didn't occur to me to be surprised at the idea of having a dating service that's that specific.

I guess it's good to know what you want out of life. But taking the notion too far I guess, my mind began to wander around...

Suppose I started a website called crackermatch.com. I'd be celebrated as a national pig.

I guess it's just the way we are as a society. It'll always be easy to get certain people to start jumping up & down on your desk.

And then I found this: "Sweethearts. Not bleeding hearts". I decided to stop thinking about it & go back to stomping on ants.

Pardon me. Do you have any grey khakis?

2005-07-12T17:08:00.000-05:00

I had to go home & change my pants today. For some reason, I'm like a bug-light for mustard. It's a universal truth - If I'm in the same room with any quantity of Plochman's, it WILL find my lap.

Now you know something personal.

My First Sensation Of Claustrophobia, Ever.

2005-06-17T15:36:00.000-05:00

Encounter in an elevator today:

Guy with corn rows - "Did you have your eyebrows colored today?"
Me - [smiling, staring, rapidly tapping the "1" button behind my back]

Anyone for Yum-Yum Pickles & Redpop?

2005-06-15T07:15:00.003-05:00

By chance today I came across a website that
1) made me angry
B) made me ill
IV) made me write in my journal again.

And that last one is the kicker. I was a swirl of confusion when I read the website & came very close to sending a snotty e-mail to the author [got up to the ‘click on SEND’ part] but I thought better of it. I mean, picture Mike Farrell calling Rush Limbaugh’s show to cuss him out. We all know how that would go. Or, for that matter, Rush Limbaugh appearing on David Letterman. Oh wait, he did that. It was grisly.

So I then thought I would write about it here & put up a link. But now it seems I shouldn’t be too specific because it would only benefit the website author & probably increase her tiara size. Now I've settled on just describing the damned thing.

This is a website that graphically isn’t very interesting [not a big deal in my book]. This is a website that has almost entirely as its purpose the showcasing of innumerable essays to all of us on subjects such as

-Who qualifies as authentically gay or not
-Why feminism is evil
-The author’s progressive belief in BOTH a healthy male-female relationship AND a strong protective foreign policy
-PLUS how we can all benefit from reading about the author’s recent discovery of how to create a database in Microsoft Excel

But most memorably, this is a website whose author, a 24 year old recent graduate, very much in love with her boyfriend [proclaimed in various corners of the site], has a page dedicated to her considerable list of recipes. Yes friends. Amidst all this twaddle about how anti-American the liberals really are & otherwise inane dissertations on pointless topics, was the page of meals she could make if she was forced to. You know, if The Good Lord comes through for us & we get to go to all-out war with everyone except the British & Israelis & she has to rough it without her nanny.

But to her credit, I do believe she really could find the kitchen if she had to. It’s the room where as a child she would have had to go to get Brach’s Chews for the little black boys who would occasionally trick-or-treat in the neighborhood. Although she knew all they ever wanted in this world was to be white like her, still they wouldn’t really appreciate the extravagancy of a Symphony bar.

“Ah, what a neato idea? I’ll put up a culinary page on my website called Recipes of a Staunch Republican. After all, how will the yuppies be nourished if not for me?”

This page currently has a total of four, yes four recipes. But they’re recipes for dishes that I wouldn’t eat just based on name alone.

‘Cheesy Hash Browns’
‘Cracker-Crusted Ketchup Pie’
‘Sargento’s Ranch Nachos’

Not interested. Thank you. All the recipes consist of ingredients that are pre-packaged – I think in all cases powdered Ranch seasoning. And therefore instead of the expected instructions such as ‘julienne’ or ‘sauté’, she is forced to use terms like ‘shake’, ‘place’ & ‘break seal’. I mean it looks like a list of recipes you can find on the spine of a Velveeta box.

VEGGIE PIZZA
Now, for this one, there is little doubt in my mind that if anyone tries making it on their own just by following the recipe, it would flop. I know because that's what happened to me. However, I went to the person who made these once, and got all the secrets - just for you! Aren't I generous?
INGREDIENTS
2 cans of Crescent Rolls
2 8 oz packages softened cream cheese
1 cup Miracle Whip
1 Package of Ranch Dressing Mix (Dry)
2 cups fresh broccoli, cauliflower and carrots
4 oz. Sharp Cheddar Cheese

Is she serious? These recipes remind me of when I first left my parents’ house & had to fend for myself. I was once so poor I ‘dumped’ Shoneys season salt all over a five-pound bag of potatoes & baked them. My roommate & I sat on the floor, watching his nine-inch TV that was sitting on top of a milk crate. It was the best Thanksgiving I ever had. But I’m not going to dedicate a page on my website to it. If I did I could call it Recipes For A Nine Year Old When Mom & Dad Are Out Gambling Your College Money Away.

Now, to be fair, I remember when I was just out of school. I thought the world was out there just waiting for me & my good damned ideas too. I thought that whatever I heard eight minutes ago was a revolutionary notion that I must share with the world - because there certainly isn't anyone out there as innovative & keen-witted as me. And I realize that most will think that I’m being mean-spirited. And you'd be right. Even though I’m not the first to be so & certainly not the first to get a few ‘Harrumphs’ for it.

You see, I don’t begrudge this person their beliefs [although I think her political & social sermons are the regurgitated yield of years of brainwashing, em… eh… I digress]. And I don’t begrudge her expressing them, as ignorant as they may be [digressing again]. But for God’s sake, can’t we keep the kids off of this site? I worry about the little ones. There should be some sort of parental control, eh? You know, like whatever Nazi censorship tool AOL has been touting recently? Something like that. Young kids that read this bilge are gonna end up as adults scooping gobs of Goober Fudge & Peanut-Butter on their fingers from a jar clenched between their chaffed thighs as they drive to Harris Teeters for more dried Hollandaise mix to sprinkle over some new dish they saw in Spirit Magazine called ‘Authentic Michigan Nachos’.

Heaven doesn't take cheaters who recycle their own essays.

2005-04-11T00:02:00.000-05:00

This little bit was a response to a challenge I received to expound on what my Heaven & Hell would be like.

Heaven
I'd awaken in a white cloud to find that I am employed at the dingiest, yet coolest, used record store in all of Puerta Vallarta - and I could never be fired, no matter what. I'd be in charge of Big Band, Crooners & half of Soul L-Z. I would have my own little desk in the corner, you know, the beige metal deal with the edge that everyone else keeps gashing their thighs on. A little hula-lamp. An old rotary phone with a 3-pound receiver so I could call back people to tell them that their special order from 6 years ago just came in - they have 5 days to pick it up. My perfect temperature cup of French Vanilla Decaf Coffee in my favorite Car Talk mug on my right. My old adding machine just in front of it, but I never spill a drop. There would always be Leon Redbone playing. Sometimes duet-ing with other artists, like Yo Yo Ma & Joe Satriani. Oh, what the hell, I might as well add that my shoulders are periodically being massaged by Heather Graham, who "just loves my musical prowess." And while I'm going overboard, I want ceiling fans, lots of 'em. Just like in KEY LARGO. I want to be able to work an 8-hour shift entirely in my red flannel boxer shorts. And since this is Heaven, whenever I am too 'zoned out' to figure change correctly, I can just say to the customer, "Just reach in take out how much you think you should get back." Here I would be king. It's my Heaven, after all. I get to order up anything I see on the menu. Speaking of, I'd always have sesame chicken for lunch. Everyday. From the same greasy dump that's up there on Broadmoor in Bordeaux, north of Nashville. That's if it's still there. Oh, wait. They're probably up in heaven already, making a way for me. I'M COMIN' GUYS! YOU HEAR ME?! THIS IS THE BIG ONE! I'M COMIN' TO SEE YA!

P.S. In case you want my idea of Hell, just substitute the words "Heather Graham" with "Billy Graham."

Hell
There I'll be... in line - "on cue" for those of you who are pretending to be continental this year. In line... perpetually... at the bank. One of those banks with a giant organ on a raised platform in the middle of the lobby. Have you seen those? I have.

An organ, with giant walnut colored foot-keys so the guy can play 'bass' at the same time. And in he'll walk, with his hunter green pants & candy-cane red sport coat... wearing... the ultimate in "genuine for him, fake for me" smiles. One he got free for re-sodding his sixteenth of an acre front lawn this Spring. He'll saunter up to the bench, noticeably without sheet music of any kind. Almost sonically & visually imperceptivity scooting the bench away from the wooden behemoth. This guy's old, man. I mean OLD. He taught Methuselah how to steal "Slow Children Playing" signs. And I get smacked in the face with a flash vision of moments to come - the sheer resistance of the plastic-coated keys breaking what's left of his calcium-depleted fingers being coaxed downward by what must be the mere memory of muscle tissue resembling the consistency of overcooked squash.

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes. And then it comes. That indistinct, indecipherable rumbling of very slow, behind-the-beat bass. I swear if he had one more foot-key to the left, the pitch & volume would, without exaggeration, relieve me of command of my own sphincter. Next comes the bouncy pattern of the piercing, yet wholly round 'melody.'

I know this tune. What it is? Somehow it sounds wrong in here. As if a Good Humor truck has slipped out of gear at the top of a hill & came to rest in this lobby, with it's own special alarm that no one seems to know how to stifle. It's TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME. Oh my dearest God. At least I think it is. I wouldn't have a doubt about it if it weren't for the 8th note in the 3rd line he keeps missing by a half-step.

"Buy me some peanuts & crack-ER jack"

"IT'S THE SAME NOTE AS 'AND' two NOTES BACK!!!! PLAY IT RIGHT, NOAH!!!"

I'm going to interject a quote I've already used on someone but I think this is the only time I'm going to be able to revisit my own quote: "...I don't care if I ever get back. Let me root, root, root for the home team." (In 1908, you'd think they'd have catalogued a diverse enough vocabulary to fill in those extra two syllables.)

But with the greatest patience, he keeps playing. ...playing & smiling. ...smiling & rocking back & forth. On an endless loop like a hip-hop dance edit. Like the kids do it nowadays. And I can't get out of line. I just stand there, wrenching the purple velvety rope. The rope you can't hang on because the stands are not bolted down. They just come crashing down on you when you try. But I keep forgetting that. It only takes me about four minutes to forget & I do it again, like a fool. And this goes on & on for six or seven hundred years. At that point, I start laughing hysterically & egging on Noah to swing it up a bit. And then, it all becomes... Heaven. (Life is a choice.)

Screw Danielle Steele, I've got Jerry Hager & a big bag of Bugles

2004-12-07T22:34:00.000-06:00

Not having time to keep up with my waxing [philosophical] lately. I have been encouraged to reveal an excerpt from a piece of fiction I've been lax in continuing. I could set it up but I think it may be more interesting without knowing what in the hell I ate the night I had THIS dream.

So here it is for all to enjoy - excerpts from Jerry Hager's romantic novella, The Legend of Demeanto Saylike.

All in the compound of The Abbey emerged from their dormitories & helped decorate & light candles & place eucalyptus pot pouri. They sang joyous, lively songs as they arranged laurels over the leopard skin mantle & scattered iris petals at the main gates. When they had finished they stepped back & looked at what they had accomplished & they saw that it was good.

They gathered in circle, holding hands around the Tower Of The Lonely Hearts Search Light on the Western Lawn of the compound. Then in song & jubilee they continued to celebrate their achievement with dancing in the main courtyard. Glorious. From the elevated reclaimed stone patio on which was kept a jasper-ornamented wet-bar of Burmese Teak, this crash of rhinoceri resembled the commotion & disarray of the pushing & shoving & leaping of a celebratory mosh comprised entirely of The Muppets. Or perhaps a more distinct image would manifest itself by picturing the silhouette of The Fat Albert Gang falling down some stairs. Each dance was different from the next but the sum of the parts, the movement, direction & timing of each constituted the larger, junky machine - like a human, ill-maintained, rattle-trappy still.

There was one dressed in a tie-died Mexican pullover wearing a goatee & glasses under a curly brown & grey mop similar to Al Jaffee's. His jig featured a bouncy, clanky, quarter-note, vertical jump with his chin at a 45 degree angle - his arms stretched heavenly with hands & palms revealed vulnerably toward the star-filled Northern sky.

Oh & then there was the skeleton of a man that supported his tie-died shirt not unlike a wire coat hanger crowned at the hook by a three dimensional Styrofoam bust of John the Baptist. This hoofer had more of a strut; a march in place that included alternating swings of elbows upward in a satisfied-with-one's-self manner.

Completely introverted, the next hoedowner - truly with the body of a Dr. Seuss character, clad in hemmed denim shorts under a skin-tight tie-died T-shirt (to use a French term) adorned at the top by the most bold yet rigid-less turkey-neck the commoners had ever seen & a mullet that, honestly, was disorienting to see - was clearly the most talented figurante present. With her sway left to right, boogie on one foot & then the next, each time while outwardly with a swishing motion, presented her tooth-white Reeboks she kept at the end of her extensive shanks...

...As the time came for the impending visitor to arrive, the thick, industrial stone & brick walls were sweating with tension. Magdalene could be seen floating from room to room with a glow about her, warming the the darkened halls. She was a sight to see. Beautiful, yet frightened. Fierce, yet vulnerable. The residents scrambled via servants' passages in order to spy the fair Belle in each new chamber. Clumsily falling onto one another, clamoring for the best glimpse of this angel in polyester. She was just... enchanting.

Then... the fateful sound. It came quietly at first - almost instantaneously freezing all action in the compound. Everyone halted & listened with every inch of their skin, like deer sensing that they might have heard the sound of a Skoal can lid being snapped shut. Then again. Rapping from the front gates came wafting over the peach blossoms that draped the knees of the fierce looking main hall. Taken as the cue this announcement was meant to be, feet could be heard stampeding into unnoticeable crevices. The entire compound was, within seconds, as a ghost town, save for Magdalene & the two mimes, who doubled as Belle's personal... eh... 'Mimes In Waiting' - the near-riot dissuaded.

As she caught herself mid-faint, Belle, almost as if with her last breathe, barked in hysteria, impatience & despair to the mimes to "Answer the call of destiny - It's rapping at our humble door." They scampered to do so without scoffing; the urge to roll their eyes on this particular occasion didn't even enter their miniature, silent minds.

The heavy doors swung left then right. Pouring in from the humid night, the fog felt to the mimes as a cool blanket of joy. "HE is before you," they heard as clearly in their minds as they had heard the Abbott snap them into action just moments before. They watched as HE stepped onto the blue night grass. HIS eyes searched the compound for a mere moment then settled gently on the darkened, quivering, magical figure of Magdalene in the massive arch of the main hall. As The Legend Demeanto Saylike advanced toward her, the mimes silently fell back, dissolving into the white-smudged night.

[scene]

Ye Olde Mail Bag

2004-11-10T06:05:00.000-06:00

dear info@jerryhager.com,

we would like to inquire as to why jerryhager hasn't published a fresh new blog in almost three months. we have anxiously awaited and now are tired of anxiously awaiting.

signed,
tired of anxiously awaiting for things

Dear JerryHager.com valued customer,

We appreciate that you have given of your own time & energy to provide feedback on our undying efforts to serve our clients. As with all comments that we receive, yours will be forwarded on to a capable Customer Service Representative who will certainly give it the consideration it deserves. After which, you may expect an appropriate & insightful form letter.

While that's going on, our PR department will be vigorously constructing an effective reaction plan that will, when executed, explain the hiatus of the 'blog' to an extent that will not only appease, but shall entice all to anticipate the return of the legendary & inspired journal entries with such fervor that they will disconnect their cable.

(unless, of course, they have cable internet)

Thank you,

The JerryHager.com gang

Hot & Sunny On The Causeway

2004-08-23T20:33:00.003-05:00

On the shorter side of notions: I heard an ice cream truck playing the main theme from The Godfather today.

It got me thinking, really, because I saw the movie 'Open Water' this weekend. And during the moments of fear & dread, the underscore was comprised of beautiful music of Fiji. I've always loved that music. And it was really effective being used in such a manner.

I know it's not new to clash painfully beautiful music against terrible scenes in film. Most often you see it in war films. I've seen documentaries on WWII with great songs such as "We'll Meet Again" & "Till Then" playing during graphic & awful clips of battle. Effectively, it makes you feel even sicker inside. And in the case of 'Open Water' you watch & connect to the angst on the screen while your heart flips upside down to the glorious & peaceful Polynesian harmonies. It'll tear you up.

But somehow playing The Godfather theme on a recorded calliope through a distorted bullhorn atop an '83 Chevy van just doesn't hit me as artistic irony.

Needless to say, business wasn't exactly busting for the driver. But I'm wondering - Is there some sort of dairy business credo in marketing to adolescents that states "A.B.I. Always Be Intimidating?" Is there a bulletin board in some Good Humor garage that says, "Air conditioned vans are for closers?"

So beware boys & girls. I know, it's all harmless Summer fun when you go running through the neighbors' xenias digging in your pockets for change. But make sure you don't go gettin' messed up in the rackets. It'll be too late when from the shadowy van window you hear slowly, "I think you want TWO Bomb Pops, kid."

Martha Stewart's New Entombment Line

2004-07-16T00:43:00.000-05:00

Dearest Madeline,

It happens that today I was at the service entrance of Vanderbilt Hospital. It was the end of the day, around 7pm. A friend & I had to enter the immense complex of medical buildings through the freight elevator. But to get to them there is a gauntlet of smells to overcome.

One is the vat of used cooking oil that the recyclers come to empty every month whether they need to or not. That's at the bottom of the steps. Next to that there's the school bus-sized dumpster that holds solid waste. This thing is clearly always overflowing, which reminds me of the age old axiom, "You can never put too much waste in a biological dumpster." But the piece de resistance is the warm liquid waste container. It holds leftover & spoiled milk that is thoughtlessly removed from the patients' rooms & deposited there in the 97-degree drum-shaped kiln.

When I was quite young in elementary school, the janitor had presented himself in front of all of us students one day. He had informed us that before we left the lunchroom, we were to walk up to one of four of his wheeled mop buckets & pour our leftover milk into them. He said they were for his sty of pigs he had back on his farm. Now, I don't think that even the most trashy of pigs would fancy warm, spoiled & backwashed whi-colate mixed nasty milk from some elementary school, not even on their worst day.

And I never actually saw the pigs or the farm. No one else ever saw the pigs or the farm either. Some of us weren't sure they existed. But I have to believe that they did because had they not, what would that say about the janitor? I don't mean about him lying - I mean what was he doing with all that swill? That would have to be good for at least 5 points on the "Is Your Custodian A Maniac" test. And if he had turned out to be a twenty-four carat baked kook that had an impressive & catalogued slop collection, what would that say about the HR department in the Livingston County School District? I need for the farm story to be true because otherwise it would be too much for my naïve heart to process. I'm thankful it was a mystery that I was too young & distracted to investigate.

Well, the wall of stench at the medical center today had reminded me of the pigs, even though it was truly difficult to think of anything at all while walking through it. When approaching this area, it was hard to imagine anything that could make it smell worse. Normally we would make sarcastic comments about it & distort our faces in reaction to it. But today we couldn't overcome the devastating effects enough to amuse ourselves. It could really take away your breath & thoughts. And you'd be happy for it.

As we were waiting for the vertically sliding split steel doors that open into the elevator, we were silent & held our lungs still. And we didn't even glance at each other because we didn't want to acknowledge our own presence in such a filthy & hopeless place. I nodded toward the doors indicating that they were about to open. We anxiously clustered toward them though the elevator hadn't yet stopped. Even the hot iron box that would transport us to the basement seemed like a chariot flying us to the promised land with its stale & unripened air that lay beneath the massive complex. And as the doors slid noisily up & down out of sight, I could see that the elevator was carrying a passenger.

I stepped back to make room. My friend did not at first notice what was going on, but stepped out of the way too when the passenger pushed the gurney out. Upon it was a body. The man navigated this corpse around like a real pro. He went around us like he was pushing a casino cashbox cart back to the count room. Even though he had clearly used this service entrance many times for very likely this same reason, something did not seem right.

I noticed that the body hadn't been put into a zippered bag. This person had been stretched out coldly on this gurney to be taken from the hospital, presumably to the funeral home, covered in nothing but blue hand towels. There they were, placed out end on end so as to cover the entire body much like I would do at my house if I couldn't find a proper tablecloth for a dinner party. Don't they put corpses in those body bags anymore? Don't those seem more sterile? Are we not to use those now? What's wrong with them, do they pose a choking hazard to toddlers or something? Why hand towels? Were they out of sheets?

Here's this guy, just a few days ago he had been paying taxes. He had probably seen this week's episode of Matlock. Most likely he had thought about whom he was going to vote for this November. Possibly he had irritated the crap out of someone all week with his incessant Catholic priest jokes.

There laid possibly not an unhappy life. Maybe even a very successful one. Maybe he married his high school sweetheart. And he might have even learned the purpose of his own life along the way. Perhaps he had raised some wonderful children & tried to teach them what he had learned.

Some years ago he had been born somewhere in a beautifully decorated maternity ward, probably not unlike the one on the 4th floor of that very building, designed to comfort & encourage new parents & families. He had most likely been in & out of the hospital from time to time during his life for, perhaps, a broken leg, bronchitis, gallstones, or even an injury from a deli slicer. But each time, almost certainly through the front entrance or the Emergency Room.

And yet, here at the end, he's been taken out of this world by way of the service entrance. The loading dock where the trash is piled up. Where the unwanted liquid waste is poured carelessly into steel drums, the odor is unbearable & a hospital worker hums to himself while doing his God-forsaken job of hosing down the filthy platform like it's the hippo house at the Toledo Zoo. And in the background a blue handtowel-laden buffet cart squeaks & rocks toward a white van that's already running because the KFC All-You-Can-Eat Buffet is about to close. If you weren't paying close attention, the whole scene could be mistaken for the clean up & tear down of a well catered hotel convention event.

It all made me think of how I'd like to be taken to my final resting place. How would I want my closing parade to be routed from my place of death to where my body would spend its eternity? What swan song would be fitting while my soul found its way to Valhalla or wherever I decide I want to go? I'm quite sure I don't want to be rolled like a steam table of cold dishtowel-covered cornbread through the wash room past the rotten "to be composted" bin at Luby's.

I suppose I'd much rather be laid in the back of a pick up truck & driven after school to an imaginary farm to be buried next to a drove of pigs that love half-eaten fish sticks & warm Hi-C drink boxes.

Sounds kind of nice actually.

Sincerely,

Roderick

Crimes & McDemeanors

2004-06-26T09:31:00.002-05:00

I was just reminded of the time I knocked Dave Thomas down some stairs. And I don't mean the Strange Brew guy. It's God's honest truth, and that's saying something at my house.

I had dropped into Davis-Kidd, probably to see if they had any copies of Hustler left. It looked like everyone & his mistress was there. There was one of those long fake-wood-Formica tables with foldout legs right in the middle of the store. Lots of anxious people in a line holding books like footballs & rocking onto the balls of their feet every few seconds or so.

As I tried to weasel my way around the mob & right through a huddle of professional types, someone I presumed was an intern franticly said to another while holding up a Sharpie, "Dave likes the fat Magic Markers; not these pointy ones! What are we going to do?!" I thought to myself, "I'm glad I'm me. I'm glad I'm me."

Being the stupid naïve wretch that I was at that time (I'm told now I'm over that), it hadn't occurred to me what was going on. I had no idea I was intruding on a book signing. I had no idea what a book signing was. I had no books. I must have been there for a gift. Either that or I had mistaken the place for the day-old Nutter Butter shop.

And there, among the elite literary aficionados trying to get their copy of Dave's Way autographed, was this oblivious heathen. I most likely had been attempting to get to the 'Humor' section to pick up the newest Jim Unger book of Herman cartoons or something of that sort.

Once I realized that even if I did find what I had come in for, I wouldn't be able to get to the check out. This herd had barricaded entirely the row of counters that held the registers & was completely blocking out the sun in 'Self Help'. Since I had come in from the rear parking garage, I didn't realize that this line of Wendy's patrons stretched out into the front parking lot past the last Winnebago. I was done for. There was no way of recovering from this misstep other than just giving up.

So that's what I did. I turned, plowed right back through the congregation & past the hysterical intern & made my way back to the stairwell where this nonsense began. I can't say that I remember being angry but I'm sure I was frustrated. And given that, I would have been mumbling & cursing under my breath while unaware of everyone around me. (It's good to know yourself.)

As I flung the stairwell door open I had already started my usual stair-descending rhythm I like to do. You see, when climbing or descending stairs, I sometimes pretend I'm being filmed for a big cop movie where I'm chasing some criminal. In all those scenes where the cop is chasing the bad guy on foot, I'm frequently yelling at the screen, "Come on! Pick up your feet! You run like my grandmother!" So when I'm barreling down a flight of stairs, the game is to show off for my imaginary director who'd be saying, "Are you sure? We can get a stunt guy for this."

This day was no different. Each time I cornered to go down the next flight, I gripped the heavily painted steel rail & twisted my palms around it almost to the point of blistering. I'd turn, slinging myself around the rail so fast that my hair would go horizontal for a moment. It was like a figure skating routine. I was something to behold.

At the top of the last flight I hadn't heard the other people in the stairwell. The theme song from 'The Rookies' was bouncing around in my head. I was still at top speed when I saw the suits. There were three of them. I never really saw their faces, just ties & American flag lapel pins. Stopping was out of the question. It was too late. I slammed into the guy in the middle. He fell about 5 or 6 steps backward before the guy behind him was knocked into the wall & left bracing the two of them there halfway up the steps.

I didn't fall or anything. I just sort of wound down my little quickstep jog until I stopped for a moment on the step above them. So wrapped up in my little movie I hadn't really put my 'reality' brain back in yet. I didn't help either of them up. I don't know why. Maybe I was considering continuing my chase scene, but this time with me playing the role of the fleeing criminal. Instead I stood there for a second, looked down at the frightened white man I had just borderline battered & said, "Hey. You're Dave Thomas!"

He exhaled & decided not to look me in the face. As his two publicists helped him to his feet, he just kept his eyes to the floor as if to be looking for his front teeth & said, "Yeah."

They slowly started up the stairs again never looking back as though I was a gust of wind that had just peppered their eyes with sand while they were looking for a rest area sign. And without another beat I just snapped back into my rhythm for the remaining eight steps & out the steel door I went.

A few minutes later I was clear of the crime. And that's when I started thinking. I could picture him upstairs at his makeshift podium/desk. Every minute or so he'd be looking across the table at yet another pair of black socks rising just below a set of milk-white knees belonging to the umpteenth guy named 'Wilford.' Trying to write real big with this crappy needlepoint marker that some slack-ass intern had given him. Every autograph looking as if John Hancock had just been picked up by Penguin Publishing.

All the while he'd be thinking about me. Not knowing me, mind you, but pondering the incident. Did he for a moment think I had just robbed the place & had he not had his wits knocked to the floor he could have saved the day? Did he just survive a failed assassination attempt from the Long John Silver's people? Or was it just some rude jackass too caught up in the fast paced world that we all live in to pay what is now considered uncommon courtesy? He'd be thinking, "Hope he can work in some wholesome fast food time while he's out thrashing & flogging innocents."

Only then did I realize what I had just done. I had just mauled the man who brought the Frosty & the Triple With Cheese to my hometown. The man who burned a childhood dining image into my adult mind forever - the newspaper ad laminated tabletop. The man who, for a time, earned drug-dealer status among broke students when he imported into college towns all over the Mid-West the holiest of holies, the All-You-Can-Eat Super Bar.

I never apologized. I never tried to write him through his publisher; not even through the Wendy's website. Perhaps the trauma could have led to his heart surgery not long after & possibly even his death. And me, too small of a man to acknowledge & face my own mistakes. What kind of person does that make me? Not knowing has been a heavy load. I want to think I'm now a better man than that. Because what shock & injury might he have suffered? I can't now get my mind off of the pain he may have endured. It makes me somber sometimes.

Not to mention the miserable herniated bastard he fell on.

Sincerely,

Jared Fogle

It's OK. He doesn't know I'm talking about him.

2004-06-24T19:50:00.001-05:00

Since I'm the new guy & don't really have experience in exposing myself in this manner (important distinction), it's probably a good idea to take my sister's advice. She said that in writing in a journal that everyone can see, it's easier if you pretend you're writing to someone specifically. I've expanded that to include imaginary people. Getting started is difficult but I think it helped. So here's my attempt in that method.

Dear Ndugu,

My dog smells like oatmeal. (Pretty good start if you ask me.)

B.B. is an overweight, oversexed, needy black lab - everything I aspire to be. His size & color go about as well with Nashville heat & humidity as those Canadians I used to see at Cedar Point in mid-August. I'd watch them, full of energy & anticipation, bound into the park over a wet paved thoroughfare already steamy at 9am. Then around 2pm I'd notice them, one by one, being ferried out on a golf-cart-ambulance with heat stroke, singing 'I Feel Pretty.' Sometimes I could hear myself sarcastically whisper, "Amateur." But I'd always be happy to know that's one less person somewhere ahead of me in line for the Demon-Drop.

So to prevent the sun from cooking B.B.'s brain, I've been bathing him more often. And doing so with oatmeal shampoo. But if it's rained sometime in the last week & he's been outside, he just smells like a wet dog that's had a better breakfast than me. And that's a disturbing smell. I'd say it's immeasurably worse than just 'wet-dog.' It's distracting. It's the kind of pungency that could make you forget your own social security number. So genius here decides to bathe him more & more often thinking, "Volume, baby. Volume! Maybe some ammonia..."

No help.

Well B.B. has been walking me in the park more frequently lately. Many times he finds a way into the creeks & ditches & just lies down. Up to his neck in water, he'd be quite happy to remain there until a Milkbone truck goes by. This also sets off the smell. But when he does this there's something I've been noticing. Despite his oatmeal/hippo-house odor, he's got this spooky ability to attract beautiful women. They're mesmerized by him. They say things like, "Isn't he the most darling thing?" And, "Look, he knows we're talking about him." And, "You love being scratched there, don't ya boy? Hey, put that away. Nobody wants to see that."

He's got it made. And, by proxy, so do I. I swear to you, I could be walking him in July wearing moon-boots & a Jim Jones sweatshirt & they'd still want to talk to me & rub his belly. Therefore, I've decided that I won't be trading him in on a newer model this year. His tenure has been granted, you could say. And not only to offset the aroma but also to emulate his appeal, I've changed out all the bottles of Suave on my shower-shelf with Gee-Your-Hair-Smells-Like-Grits.

Hope you are well.

Sincerely,

Max Von Poteet

Is that door unlocked?

2004-06-22T19:16:00.000-05:00

Not sure what my brain might do with this power so let's all keep our heads. OK?