Sunday Scribblings - First Date - 1/13/08

It was 1987. He was recently divorced and had finally decided to get back in the saddle, so to speak. He met an attractive young high school teacher at the gym. Twenty years later he spends an equal amount of time in a gym as in church. His body and soul both show the neglect. But I digress.

After a lot of consternation, he decided to ask her out on a date. Since his last first date was in 1971, he was uncertain of where to go. After talking to some of his more date-savvy friends, he opted for dinner and a movie. Particularly appealing after a lot of graphic references to “butter blouse.” Plus you don't have to talk. He made a mental note to get plenty of napkins.

Dinner goes fairly well. After talking to some of her more date-savvy friends, she had a salad, which is a girl’s traditional first date meal. Though she would rather have steak and lobster, the salad sends two messages. 1) that she is not a big, fat, pig and 2) the less he spends the less he will expect after the date. They also help her choose her wardrobe. A bra that would stop a .38 round and a blouse she had no affinity for. They know about “butter blouse” too.


Since the community he lived in only had a single screen theater, there was no movie choice to make. A hot, new, film, “Fatal Attraction”, was showing. The poster said it was a love story. A perfect first date movie. This was going to be great. Wrong!!!!


There definitely was no “butter blouse.” In fact, after an uncomfortably silent, high speed, drive to her residence, there was no goodnight kiss attempted or expected. Leaving the car running prevented any misunderstanding about coming in for a “drink”. He left her on her porch fiddling for keys and ran to the car and locked the doors.

He peeled out like he had just gotten the green flag at Daytona. He has remained single for 21 years. This movie still creeps him out.

Here are two first dates worse than mine:



Marilyn said it was midwinter . . . snowing and quite cold . . . and the guy had taken her skiing to Lake Arrowhead. It was a day trip (no overnight). No, not Marilyn. They were strangers, after all, and truly had never met before.

The outing was fun but relatively uneventful until they were headed home late that afternoon. They were driving back down the mountain, when she gradually began to realize that she should not have had that extra latte in the lodge.

They were about an hour away from anywhere with a rest room and in the middle of nowhere! Her companion suggested she try to hold it, which she did for awhile.

Unfortunately, because of the heavy snow and slow going, there came a point where she told him that he had better stop and let her pee beside the road, or it would be the front seat of his car.

They stopped and she quickly crawled out beside the car, yanked her pants down and started. Unfortunately, in the deep snow she didn't have good footing, so she let her butt rest against the rear fender to steady herself.

Her companion stood on the side of the car watching for traffic and indeed was a real gentleman and refrained from peeking. All she could think about was the relief she felt despite the rather embarrassing nature of the situation.

Upon finishing however, she soon became aware of another sensation.

As she bent to pull up her pants, the young lady discovered her buttocks were firmly glued against the car's fender. Thoughts of tongues frozen to pump handles immediately came to mind as she attempted to disengage her flesh from the icy metal. It was quickly apparent that she had a brand new problem due to the extreme cold.

Horrified by her plight and yet aware of the humor she answered her date's concerns about "what was taking so long" with a reply that indeed, she was "freezing her butt off and needed some assistance!"

He came around the car as she tried to cover herself with her sweater and then, as she looked imploringly into his eyes, he burst out laughing.

She too, got the giggles and when they finally managed to compose themselves, they assessed her dilemma.

Obviously, as hysterical as the situation was, they also were faced with a real problem. Both agreed it would take something hot to free her chilly cheeks from the grip of the icy metal!

Thinking about what had gotten her into the predicament in the first place, both quickly realized that there was only one way to get her free.

So, as she looked the other way, her first time date proceeded to unzip his pants and pee her butt off the fender.

And you thought your first date was embarrassing. This gives a whole new meaning to being "pissed off".

Sunday Scribblings - New (2) Gwap - 1/6/08

Today I received a check in the mail. It was not a large check but it was for royalties for a song I co-wrote. There are two points I wish to make here. The first is that this small check is the first money I have ever earned in my life from doing something I enjoy doing. I know that is a sad commentary, but I think many of us do what is necessary to make a living without enjoying what we do. If I am the only one that feels that way, I stand corrected. I question whether the guy that pumps out your septic tank is self-actualized, but maybe so. The second point is that at the bottom of the letter that Tim sent along with the check, he wrote: “Thanks for the great song!” Those few words meant much more to me than the check. Oh, I will spend the money, probably on something very unhealthy, but I am keeping the letter, forever.

I have always enjoyed writing, but most of what I write is never seen by anyone but me. It is not that I don’t think my writing is good. Sometimes I write something that I think is very good but I am not confident that someone else will share my opinion. Writing is very subjective. For instance, sometimes I read a blog on Sunday Scribblings and I don’t understand it at all. It seems to be way over my head. But then I read comments from others raving about it. As a result I often think my own writing is not at the level of many who write here. As a result, I tend to use self-deprecating comments to protect myself from anyone who might think I am taking myself or my writing seriously. Well, no more. From now on when Lucy says she likes my writing, I am going to believe it, instead of just thinking she is being kind.

The song I co-wrote is called ‘The 3-Legged Dog” and is the title track of Tim Bays' latest recording. You can hear it here: http://www.timbays.com/mp3/3leg.mp3




Tim is one of a legion of great Nashville singer-songwriters who dwell in relative obscurity. He is one of a dying breed of folksingers. His songs seldom carry a message about cop-killing, ho’s and bitches, popping a cap, hate, or satan. As a result, he is not as commercially successful as say Flo Rida, who has this weeks Billboard #1 song.

In case you are hip-hop challenged, one of the verses goes:

Shawty what I gotta do to get you home
My jeans full of gwap
And they ready for Shones
Cadillacs Maybachs for the sexy grown
Patrone on the rocks that'll make you moan


(I think if my jeans were full of gwap, I would not write about it.) You could never use spell-check to edit a hip-hop song. The computer would crash.

But I am very proud to have Tim record a song that I contributed to. Don’t get me wrong, Tim is a very successful singer/songwriter. If you Google Tim Bays, his site is the first thing you see. If you Google me, Rick Wainright, the first things you see are “Did You Mean Rick Wainwright” and my son’s biography. But Tim's posse consists of his wife, her mother, two dogs, and a totally useless cat. I guess useless cat is an oxymoron.

Well, the new thing here is that I am going to send Tim some more song lyrics very soon for his review and I am not sending any to Flo Rida. My writing is not full of gwap. By the way, according to the Urban Dictionary gwap means money. My jeans are definitely not full of gwap. And so it goes.

Sunday Scribblings - "New" - 1/6/08

Sometimes my blog can reveal how stupid a man with a 145 IQ can actually be.
New things and foreign concepts confuse me. I usually end up falling back to that which is familiar and comfortable. Having traveled much of the world, this shortcoming can be magnified. My last blog discussed my failings as an Italian. We will now move on to my experiences as a German.




On my initial visit to Germany I was experiencing my first Gasthaus and after drinking several of the largest beers I had ever seen, needed urgently to visit the restroom, which they call a water closet (WC) or wasserklosett. The signs on the two doors said Damen and Herren, with no pictorial help. I used my innate faulty reasoning ability to figure that Damen was like Da Men, therefore the men’s room and the Her in Herren must mean woman. It may be apparent that I am not Sherlock Holmes. I am certain that the beers added to my illogic. I was so very wrong, even with a 50 percent chance of being right. There were indeed Dames behind the door I chose. By the way, why is the Oktoberfest in September? I missed it my first year there.

That was not my only Teutonic blunder. Some of my friends were discussing whether the largest city in Germany was Berlin or Hamburg. I interjected that I thought it was Ausfahrt. I had seen signs for it everywhere I went. For those challenged in German as I was, Ausfahrt means exit. The fahrt should have given it away. Think about it.


After a few similar incidents, I purchased pocket-sized a German-English dictionary. It was not convenient for conversation, but it came in very handy for getting the gist of what someone was saying or writing.


My landlord’s mother stopped by one day and seemed very distraught. What it sounded like she said was “Mein Ehemann ist Tute.” I had her repeat it several times to make sure. She seemed impatient. I knew some simple words at that point. I verified what I suspected, that Ehmann was indeed husband. But when I looked up Tute what I came up with roughly was that her husband was a doggy bag. I, of course, as is my nature, broke into hysterical laughter. She probably did not get the joke as she was telling me that her husband was DEAD. She was saying “Tote” not “Tute”. Simple mistake. I later satisfactorily explained to my landlord, Werner, who had become my friend. His mother never did. Come to think of it, she never “Sprechen” to me again.




Even though Germany tries to take over the world from time to time, it is basically a very religious, Christian, country. Martin Luther (no, he is not Superman’s archenemy. OK, I was confused on that too.) was a German Monk, who rebelled against the Pope and formed the Lutheran Church. Anyway, in small German villages, such as the one we lived in called Queidersbach, Sunday is a quiet time. At least in the 80s, when we lived there. No stores are open, no Gasthaus serve, and nothing is allowed that disturbs the peace. I wonder if they stopped bombing Britain on Sundays. I will have to research that. I learned that one Sunday when I was washing my car with “Sledgehammer” by Peter Gabriel cranked up on the stereo. My landlord, Werner (Yes the same one that forgave me for laughing at his father’s demise) came by and calmly related to me in his broken English that my activity was against the village laws. He explained about quiet Sunday and that he was ordered by the village to get his American under control. I immediately had a vision of the scene in Frankenstein where mobs of townsfolk are approaching the monster with torches and pitchforks.



I adhered to their customs during my years there to include sweeping the sidewalk every Saturday, but I drew the line at sitting down to pee. Yes, many German men do. Most American women are content to have their husbands put the seat back down when they finish or at least aim in the vicinity of the bowl.



I also tried my best to learn the language, which I think is the responsibility of any immigrant or long-term visitor to a country. That is the only political statement I will make in this blog.