12 posts tagged “humor”

By: Michael Stone

It's there on my taskbar. Beckoning to me. Come search the world for information. It's my Google search bar. Or maybe it's Yahoo for you. It doesn't matter. It's there drawing us in and once we've made the cyber jump, there's no turning back!

I recently heard a story about (insert topic here), in my case it was , making your own cheese. I decided to "Google" info on that so maybe I could pursue the old world tradition and feel like I had a connection with my ancestors.

The first mistake I made was to use the word Google as a verb, an action, something that needed to be done!

So off I go and you know what happens next, pretty soon your investigating the origins of cheese making in the Khazak highlands with goat herders.

Every time this happens to me, I swear I won't be drawn into the Internet web of information overload. What an anemic attempt by me to resist the addictive nature of the Internet.

There is a reason they call it "THE WEB". You can't get out once you're in!

I've read recently they now have support groups started to "help" those of us thusly addicted.

So what's next? Library addiction support groups?

Isn't that what the Internet is? A wild and unfettered library of information with no end, but that of human kind's knowledge?

It's one addiction I can live with.....................Does anyone have some newly squeezed goat milk?

All the best!
Michael Stone
Radio personality
Singer-songwriter
----Observer----

O' say can you see, the mumbling masses?

The recent advent of America's Independence Day celebration and all the attendant festivities, including the singing of our national anthem gave rise to reminiscences of an experience I had considered gone and forgotten.

Apparently not.

This would be my singing of the National Anthem recently at a sporting event.

It's not unusual for me to go along with the mumbling masses while working my way through this difficult composition. I, in fact, am actually robust in my vocalization of America's national pride expressed in song. Much to my friends and neighbors dismay. However, this is in a group setting, ensemble, a chorus of, shall we say, (and let's be kind) mediocre voices.

So, when I got the call last fall to sing the National Anthem at the opening of our local Professional Hockey Team's game, I was honored and terrified. It had been fifteen years since I'd last sung Francis Scott Key's musically athletic ditty in public. The last public outing was before a baseball game in Wichita Kansas. Could I remember phrases like "O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!" ? I think I know what a rampart is, but how does it really relate in a world of X-Boxes and Starbucks.

To add to my tentative feelings of performing something so far in my past was the fact that they called me Thursday to sing the following night.

ONE DAY?

One day to re-learn the National Anthem! Oh sure, I THINK I know the lyrics, BUT one day! This is not the one time in my life I want to pull a Rosanne Barr. Out of tune, wrong lyrics with a quick crotch grab, just doesn't cut it anymore.

So off I go to the Internet, get the lyrics and proceed to sing it all the time, EVERYWHERE. Car, kitchen, shower, morning walk, evening walk, whilst enjoying the pleasure of the porcelain throne. Anywhere. I can not forget those words or invert them into some twisted phrase like; "through the perilous flight o'er the Ruperts we clocked the night light’s last gleaming".

Not only are there the lyrics, but there's the song itself. Likely the most difficult song on the planet to try to sing. This is no Oh Canada. Nope. One must possess operatic capabilities or at the very least Freddie Mercury of Queen vocal technique to work through this torturous composition.

My biggest fear is; "Rockets red glare". Very high for anyone. Aunt Betty used to break glass for miles and cause dogs to flee into the hills when those notes approached.

Not to worry. I had that figured out. Start the song LOW...Oh say can you see (bass notes apply here) and all is good. The "Rockets Red Glare" is nowhere near as difficult.

The night has arrived. No less than THREE attendants escort me to my queue position at the edge of the ice. Then I see them. SEVEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED screaming hockey fans. This is not your weekend badminton crowd. Nope they're expecting something.

The red carpet is rolled on to the ice. Me, all the time very lowly (bass notes) "Oh Say Can You See" to myself...La La La La... Keep it low at the start. Bass notes...Bass notes...

I tentatively step onto the red carpet, knowing that the slightest mis-step means I'm on a glacial surface capable of taking me out like a toothless defenseman. The intro, the bright lights in my eyes the crowd hushes and then I begin.

"Oh say can you see"

OH NO! NO! NO! Not me!

I've begun the song at least TWO full steps above my voices' acceptable tolerance level! Two full steps. That means when "Rockets Red Glare" shows up I'll be screeching like , oh don't even think it. Yes; Rosanne Barr at a Nationally televiised baseball game.

Funny how time slows down in panicky situations. All of the sudden fifty seconds seems like three hours of Alan Greenspan discussing MY checkbook.

But here it comes. "The Rockets Red Glare" ... By this time the knees are literally knocking. Just like you'd see in a cartoon. I can barely stand. It MUST be obvious. I could be be the driving force behind one of those jiggly weight loss machines.

Then, I realize, hey, I hit it. OK, it was a little strained, but "Rockets Red Glare" is now fading behind me and all that remains is "O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave". Nothing to me, a seasoned professional.

I'm done, the crowd goes wild, they love me. It must be me, not the fact that all the ceremony is FINALLY finished and the real reason they came , the game, is about to begin.

Lights out, attendants hold me up as I quiver and attempt to actually walk on legs that only moments before had been agitating like a washing machine in spin cycle. Great, they say, never knowing the near disaster that almost befell the opening of the Colorado Eagles Hockey game.

Michael
Michael's Original Music
Michael's Morning Show

By Michael Stone

Every year there's a stinkiest tennis shoe contest held in the USA.

I've been thinking that I should enter.

Well, maybe not the stinky division, but I could compete in the "rattiest" tennis shoe contest and I could be competitive.

Now, I must admit, I'm no connoisseur of recreational footwear, nor would I claim that moniker. I only own two pairs of shoes, one dress and the infamous tennies.

I'm not what you could call a clothes horse,or shoe horse, I guess.

So I received a gift certificate from family to get new shoes and ventured out on a footwear shopping adventure.

Now to some women, being in the market for a new pair of pumps may rival a chocolate covered truffle-a-thon, but for a man, or at least THIS man, shoe shopping ranks just below root canal and a skosche above dirty diaper duty.

So, off we go to the shoe-a-torium to peruse the available styles and colors. I must admit the entire experience was relatively painless. I found the shoes I wanted in minutes, tried them on and was ready to head out the door.

But here's where the disturbing part of the story begins.

The guy who's selling me the shoes begins a detailed examination of my old ratty tennis shoes. He held them up to the light like a gemologist determining the clarity of a diamond

To be honest, I feared he was about to bury his face between the laces and take in a big whiff of Michael tootsies, nothing I would wish on anyone.

Fortunately, that wasn't the case.

No, he seemed content to give the offensive tennie the once over like Inspector Clouseau.

Then; *gasp* to my horror he began to box up my old tennis shoes. Not being one that is learned in the etiquette of shoe shopping, I innocently and quickly blurted "hey, I want to keep those".

To which he replied "Yes sir I was boxing them so you could take them."

But I could tell by the amused, you're a moron, smirk on his face, and that of my Rebecca, that my initial reaction to the possibility of losing an old ratty pair of tennis shoes to the waste bin of shoedom was perhaps a bit hasty.

So anyway, I have my new wonderful pair of walking shoes and have increased my footwear options to three, though I don't think I'm allowed anywhere in the old ones, unless it's behind a lawn mower.

Michael Stone
Radio Personality
Singer-Songwriter
----Observer----

I have IMS.
Don't fret.

I'm hoping to be able to cope with Intermittent Memory Syndrome. Yes, it's that ghastly condition whereby a seemly normal, healthy individual, inexplicably can't remember something said only a week, a day even an hour before, if not just minutes prior.

I would have told you about this sooner, but I forgot to divulge the condition.

It came to light during a recent lunch conversation, just yesterday (or was it the day before. ) Anyway, I had to ask today "what was the name of that syndrome?".

Why?

Yep, you got it, I forgot.

Now, I don't want anyone to get this confused with YDS, or the more common, Yes Dear Syndrome. The ailment whereby a spouse seems to paying attention to the details of your conversation, when it fact they're reciting baseball statistics or supermodel measurements to themselves within the confines of their puny cranial cavities that house that pitiful excuse for gray matter.

Oh sure it's mainly a male affliction, but I have been "wifed" more than once in my time. But I digress.

Back to Intermittent Memory Syndrome. If you, like I, find this to be creeping into your life ever increasingly, I suggest you just go with it.

Don't try to fight it.

As they say on Star Trek "Resistance is futile." or is that Star Wars?

Oh well you get the gist of my thinking. I find this of increasing concern, especially with my increased performance of my original music. I've actually forgotten lyrics and chords to songs I've been performing for years. I have many tell me not to worry about it when I get frustrated with this situation, by telling me, "Don't worry no one knows the songs anyway".

Thanks!? I think.

Many of my "friends" in fact say that I should just use another of my recent ailments as cover.

But I don't want to have to depend on MMS, Momentary Mumbling Syndrome, when it comes to my music. No! I want everyone to get the full effects of my prose and musical subtlety. I refuse to fall into the trap of depending on medical infirmities to explain away the problems.

That being said, I've decided to start weekly meetings for those with IMS/YDS/MMS. We might as well combine the support groups so we can all benefit at once.

Now if we can just remember where the meetings are to be held.

Michael Stone
AudioPros.com

I recently read of those wanting to tax junk food.

AND WHAT'S NEXT?

It is difficult to understand this tendency for some to put their noses smack dab into the middle of other people's business.

The chosen method is to get the government involved , "for the greater good".

Taxes are the weapon of choice. Now it is the food that we choose to eat.

The proponents of taxing some foods higher than others would tell us they are doing it to protect us from ourselves.

We, the poor clueless public that continues to consume, the Big Macs, and fries and Double Stuffed Pizzas, with extra toppings.

Thank goodness the nutrition and diet watchdogs have our back. What would we do without someone to hold our hand through the grocery and fast food aisles?

This continuous creeping of governmental institutions into what are private decisions should appall all who believe in individual choice.

If I "choose" to consume something perfectly legal, whether it be alcohol, tobacco, or God forbid a DQ Blizzard with extra Oreo Crumbles, then so be it.

Stay out of my car, stay out of my home, stay out of my bed, but definitely stay out of my food choices.

If you want a new tax, how about taxing people who can't mind their own business?

Now there would be a government windfall! And it would be "for the greater good".

One might assume that a visit to the local supermarket is uneventful. Usually it is.

But this was to be no ordinary shopping excursion to the grocerteria.

No ,there were other forces at work. Providence had intervened. All knowing fruit, dairy,veggie and bread deities were at play in the aisles of Safeway that day.

I; your humble narrator, had begun my journey innocently enough in the fruits and vegetable corridor. Navigating the rows and rows of Apples; Gala, Fuji and Grannies, then visiting strawberries, blueberries, raspberries. All of which seemed to beckon to me that fine day.

Come, inhale the aroma , embrace our textures, taste our succulence.

Perhaps it was this cornucopia of delectable temptations that was my first failing.

Because it was after my temporary insanity that I was aware that I was now five aisles over, grudgingly perusing paper products. I don't care if Bounty is The Quicker Picker Upper, nothing lifts my spirits like a blissful expedition down the intoxicating aisle of nutrient rich fruits and veggies.

It was at this moment, as I was being awoken from my fruit induced drunkenness, that I realized someone was calling to me.

They weren't calling my name. In fact, the voice seemed cold, monotone and strangely distant and muffled. But something about their words spoke to me. Summoned me to listen more attentively.

That's when I was jolted completely sober by the words.

"Would the person who has the wrong cart please return it to aisle 4?"; said the voice, in a rather annoyed, why am I being bothered with this, tone.

First it hit me as humorous. How could some idiot take the wrong cart.

Then, like a splash of cold water on my face, the facts came rushing in.

I, had been in aisle four.

I had been walking around in a daze.

I had cat food in my cart. WAIT! Cat food? I don't have a cat. I don't even like felines. I don't associate with cat people, so why, oh why would I, of all people, be in possession of cat food? And.... Gasp! AND kitty litter!?!

Oh no, it was me.

I was the mindless twit who had inadvertently taken someone Else's shopping cart. I could only imagine the interrogation at the hands of the 16 year old bag boy.

"But officer"; I would mutter, "The cart in question had bananas, kiwi and fresh ripe strawberries from Michigan's Upper Peninsula." I would continue, "and the aforementioned fruit was all placed in the child seat just as I always do, so you can see the innocent error of my ways....Can't you?"

This is where my puppy dog eyes kick in and my most sincere voice is oozing from my lips like strawberry sauce on a chocolate cake.

"Did you not notice the woman's purse?"; said my examiner.

In fact I had not. Fruit and veggie intoxication can cause one to do unspeakable things, but they weren't here to listen to excuses. The aggrieved woman wanted her cart back and she wanted it now.

I relented and gave it to her. And for the briefest of moments I almost asked for my Bounty and me Lucky Charms back, but I thought better of it upon reflection.

One must pick their battles carefully when in the confines of the grocerteria.

The saga began innocently enough. I, the gentle gardener, newly rediscovering my, play in the dirt roots, so to speak. Me against the elements and those pesky horticultural demons that had haunted my recent gardening past.

But this year was going to be different. No browning patches of once optimistically planted flora. No clinging to the, vine of life herbage; in need of resuscitation stat! This was the year I, the handy backyard gardener, would do his farmer father proud. I even had visions of state champion gourds in my head, but I get ahead of myself.

First I must actually put something in the ground, right? That I did starting with some small starter plants and flowers I picked up at my local gardening proprietor. After spending and morning and afternoon, playing in the dirt, shoveling, spading and generally just moving a lot of terra firma around, I was satisfied with my endeavors and thought it time to sit back and enjoy the fruits, er veggies of my labors.

That's when it all began. That's when the Dachshund named Rio came into the picture. I'd call him a wienie dog but this is after all family entertainment, though there have been many different incarnations of the tiny canine's name muttered under my breath since our first gardening encounter.

It seems that Rio enjoys gardening as much as I do. Wait, I've erred. Rio enjoys de-gardening as much as I. It seems the munchkin takes exception to the method, location or style of my planting ways. Either that or she has a secret hidden agenda, a doggie vendetta, if you will, based on a past misdeed on my part.

I suspect the "my socks are not a chewy" incident, but I'll save that conflict for another time.

At every opportune moment, Rio, the miniature Wienie dog will sneak upon my favorite newly planted seedling of beauty and decide either to stomp, chew or otherwise demolish a gardeners best efforts.

It first began with clandestine forays into my fields of greens. I imagine the litter critter clad in petunia, pepper, and tomato camouflage ready to do battle against my dear friends.

They never even saw it coming when the wienster snuck upon them and vigorously began the de-gardening she is now infamous for.

As of late the incidents have become blatant. She no longer waits for me to abandon my leafy friends. Now she begins the deconstruction of my efforts right in front of my eyes. In fact, to Rio it's become a competition. Who can reach the affected greenery quickest?

I plant, she digs. She digs, I re-plant, and on it goes. When will the abomination end!?

I know that you too, have your horticultural horror. Most likely based around the occasional rabbit, crow or pesky chipmunk eager to enjoy your smorgasbord, but my dilemma is much worse.

This is a devious, scheming creature, this wienie dog. A canine with no heart. And a deep seeded grudge against me the garden's master.

The next time I come out and see her feasting on a bed on MY mixed greens, I'm going right up to her and saying, BAD DOGGIE, in my firmest voice. Right after I seize the bottle of Raspberry Vinegarette from her little furry wienie dog paws.

Mchael Stone

First, don't call me a DJ.

I'm an on air radio personality. I realize that they may seem interchangeable to some, but the words are not synonyms.

A DJ is someone who plays records or cd’s. A radio personality is someone who communicates, informs and perhaps most importantly entertains.

The notion that a radio person is there to play music is huge misconception, especially in today’s world of commercial radio where every playlist is finely honed by program directors targeting very specific audiences.

Those, on air, have very little if any leeway to deviate from decisions sent forth from the hallowed halls of programming.

With today’s technology there isn’t even a need for a warm body to show up. Just let the computer run things.

That tends to be the prevailing attitude of some broadcasters. But they usually find that the average radio listener does genuinely want to hear news, information and entertaining repartee between their songs, whatever their format of choice.

That’s where radio personalities raise their weary heads.


Rising at 3 in the morning to dig through the day’s information, humorous stories and anecdotes. Then searching for the way to communicate in an engaging manner so that they, the individual personality can be heard through the clutter of media messages that we are all bombarded with on a daily basis.

This is the true challenge. In fact some days it seems an insurmountable task. But plod on we do. Trying to find the right combinations of words, phrases even vocal tone and inflection to genuinely touch some nerve within the potential listener.

Do we make a lot of money? No. Some do. Some even obscene amounts, but all the better for them. Most have worked hard to get to that pinnacle. Few have their success handed to them as with any profession.

So don’t call us DJ’s. We prefer radio personalities, communicators, interesting people, anything but DJ.

As Vizzini said in The Princess Bride. "INCONCEIVABLE".

I know it's hard to believe but I didn't win the American Idol songwriting contest. Not only did I not win, I didn't even make the final twenty. Inconceivable.

My entry was strong. "Believe" has all the attributes of and American Idol finale song. Positive, uplifting with the 'ol I can do it message. But alas, I guess it just wasn't meant to be.

As with any exercise of this nature, I then began the analysis of WHY. Why did I not win? Why did I not make the top twenty. Was the song below standards? Did I miss the mark?

Then I did the math. Now normally I don't do numbers. It has to do with that left brain right brain thing. I'm just not very good when it comes to using the abacus. But I think I've got this one figured out.

It had nothing to do with song quality or happenstance.

NOPE! Simply put, it was the odds. Vegas bookies would have laughed in my general direction if I had asked them to bet on Michael Stone's "Believe" to win, let alone get into the top twenty of the competition.

A look at the facts and yes those pesky numbers reveals the answer:

• 38,000 entries
• 2 week time period to listen-
• 336 hours to evaluate and choose the top 20

That would take 633 hours! Hmmmm.....I've got a strange tingling in my gut that says maybe each song didn't get a complete listen.

Call me a cynic, call it instinct, but I think I'm on to something here.

The American Idol folks must never have heard "Believe". I mean, how could they have NOT have chosen such a perfect song to be sung on the finale by the winning American Idol? How could I not have been launched to worldwide fame and instinct songwriting success over night?

I'm glad I did break out the calculator and realized it was nothing I did creatively to impede my own success, but instead there was a mathematical explanation to the inexplicable, inconceivable result.

After all with my ONE entry against all the other songwriter wannabes in the world, I did have a .0000263% chance of success. Who wouldn't jump at those odd?

If you'd like to hear "Believe" or any of my other songs the player below should help!

I wish you all the best!
Michael Stone

Here's yet another case of politically correctness run amok.

Let me start with this politically correct statement. I'm against bullying. Indeed, I do not condone it, hazing or any other type of activity where intimidation is the nefarious goal.

However; 18 year old Benjamin Co's situation in Australia is .. It seems that the young adult has been bullied his toddler years. His Mum, Angela Cox, says teachers never did anything about it. Guess what? She thinks they should pay for the years of bullying. Guess what else? They are! Over $200,000! Not only that he'll receive a stipund FOR LIFE! You read right.

The "victims" mom says: "my son has little education and is unable to work. She added that he rarely went out, had no friends, and just locks himself in his room playing PlayStation games."

"Locks himself in his room playing Play Station games." Sounds like half of the teenagers I know.

Don't get me wrong, I think there must be limits but this smacks of the "blame everyone else" syndrome to me.

Parents and everyone in general need to take responsibility for their actions and of those around them and stop depending on someone else to bail them out when the going gets tough!

Michael Stone Singer-Songwriter
AudioPros.com