Yesterday I dropped off a prescription at my neighborhood Walgreens drive-through. I had never ordered this particular prescription so I had to ask the pharmacy tech to clarify a few things for me, which he did.

At the end of our conversation the pharmacy guy said, “you got it, Boss!”

As we drove away, my friend Stacey (who was in the car with me) and I proceeded to have a whole conversation about people throwing out undeserved nicknames like “boss” and how there’s usually something undeniably condescending about their use, regardless of intent.

When I went back the next day to pick up my order, the same kid was there and he called me “boss” again, so I aimed at him with my finger pistol and said, “Right back atcha, Chief.”

(That’ll show him!)

Except then he responded with, “Oh, thanks…I’m 1/4 Cherokee.”

What could I do?

So I killed him dead.

Now I’m on the lam. But it was sooo worth it.

Don’t call me Boss.

“Gobble, Gobble!” said the Turkey, “I’m the fairest of the fair!”
“Gobble, Gobble!” said the Turkey, “I am wanted everywhere!”
“Only this morning Mr. Farmer came to say he is having me for dinner on Thanksgiving day!”

When I was in 2nd grade I played the Turkey in our class Thanksgiving musical play. Those were the lyrics of my big solo (don’t ask me how I still remember them)…I sang them right before a big black kid named Tyrone, (Mr. Farmer) dressed as a pilgrim and armed with a surprisingly realistic looking fake musket, shot me dead, threw me over his shoulder and carried my lifeless turkey carcass off the stage.

It was my first big role. Gobble, Gobble.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Back in olden days, I used to write songs and record them on cassette tapes using a Tascam Portastudio 4-Track analog recorder.   Back then I had the idea that some day (presumably when I had greater time and resources), I would take these “demos” and really record them, nice and proper-like.

There are about 20 or so of these analog recordings, each one a fairly complete song.  On most of them I’m singing and playing all the parts.   This particular track, called “The Night is Gone” is acoustic guitar and vocals.   It’s sort of my tribute to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and (ahem…) Young.

I wrote “The Night is Gone” in 1991 or thereabouts.   I had been dating this girl named Anne during college. We had broken up (I can’t recall why, although I’m sure it had something to do with me being an ass), yet I was very much still in love with her.   She had gone away on a trip…yada yada…long story short, she wrote me a letter while she was away.  In the letter she said she wanted us to get back together as soon as  she returned from her trip.   Needless to say, this pleased me to no end, so much so that this lovely melody just came spewing forth out of me like a rainbow fountain of…blarg.

Recorded all in one take (each part) lead vocal, and two harmony vocal lines (inspired from a George Michael song), plus de-tuned acoustic guitar with monster chorus effects.

Anyway, if I ever get around to recording these proper, I think this song is on the short list.   I apologize for the audio quality…this recording spent 18 years trapped in a magnetic field on a flimsy piece of rolled cassette tape before I transferred it to MP3.

The Night is Gone - Johnny Diggz Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

Read the letter, that you gave me.
Read it closely, looking for the words that I longed to hear.
You said you’d missed me, and that you loved me,
And as I read the words on the page, the world seemed to become clear.

You explained the reasons, for the distance,
But you were lonely, you longed to hear what I had to say.
So you said you’d be here, in the morning,
So when I wake up you would be right here, in my world.
And you’re here to stay.

Good morning, the sun is rising,
It’s glowing, on the horizon.
The night, seemed so long,
But now you’re here,
And now it’s gone.
And now it’s gone.
The night is gone.

Tonight at 3am I was startled awake by a noise.    I thought I heard a prowler outside my window.   No…I KNEW IT!   Whoever or whatever it was…it was big.  And noisy.   And it was definitely RIGHT outside my bedroom window.

So what do I do?   What would YOU do?  You’re all alone, it’s three in the morning….I have to find out what IT is, right? I can’t just sit here quietly and hope they just go away…right?   I decided action was needed.  Diggz action.

Armed only with a Maglite (the giant one that takes four D-sized batteries) and wearing my Atari Game Over pajama pants, I ventured out into the darkness.   I kept the house lights off…not wanting to lose the element of surprise.

I stealthily crept towards the source of the noise, turned a dark corner and flipped on the Maglite. Suddenly I was standing a mere 2 feet away from either E.T. or the largest damn armadillo I’ve ever seen.

We both screamed like little girls and fled….in the same direction.  I dropped the Maglite square on my foot, and, as the shooting pains ran up my leg, I realized I had made a terrible error in judgment:

I had left the door to the house open…and this giant alien dinosaur thing was scampering straight towards the open doorway.

INTO MY HOUSE.

Just then, like the Great White shark in Jaws, my cat, Nat, appears out nowhere, sees the varmint and puffs into a giant hissing spitting cobra. Startled for a second time, the thing squeals again and performs an M-F’ing four-foot leap into the air, displaying some serious Neo-dodging-bullets kind of acrobatics…right towards me.

Well, it was more of a straight up-and-down hop but, in the dark I was convinced it was launching straight AT my throat.

And, once again, I screamed like a little girl.

To my utter surprise it didn’t begin gnawing on my neck…it landed several feet away, stopping dead in its tracks. But it was most certainly not dead…No, it was very much alive.  And it was now parked between me, Nat, and the relative safety and comfort of my updated 1940′s-style kitchen.

This little pause gave me enough time to retrieve my flashlight (and my dignity).    At closer inspection, it was indeed an armadillo…a large one.  In fact, it was probably a good twenty pounds of armadillo.   Mr. Armadillo took a look at me, took a look at the hissing cat, and did what anyone would do in a similar situation…he darted UNDER my house.

Which is where he remains,  at the extent of my knowledge, to this very moment.

Tomorrow I may return with Reese’s Pieces.

A few weeks ago I was in the Guitar Center in Hollywood, jamming out on a Martin S-O Ukulele, when these two axehead asshats walked by, regarding me with mocking derision. One of them said to me in a high-pitched squeal, pinkies pointed, “Rock out, old man” while his friend laughed…

But the laughter only lingered for a moment…

For I, Johnny Diggz, responded to his jibe by commencing the sweetest two-handed tapping flourish either of these man-children had ever seen, even in their dreams. They were speechless, mouths swung open like carp.  When I finished I simply threw the Uke to the nearest sales rep and walked out the door, feeling triumphant.

Just kidding; Here’s what ACTUALLY happened:

I smashed the Martin S-O Uke over the first dude’s head, knocking him unconscious, and with a two-fisted downward motion I thrust the remaining jagged, solid-mahogany neck and dovetail joint deep into the eye socket of his laughing friend, screaming, “UKES ROCK!”

Now I am in prison, awaiting trial.   At least I have my principles.

Patricia Hawley, Associate Professor of Developmental and Social Psychology at the University of Kansas recently conducted research (to be published in the Journal of Sex Research) on forceful submission fantasies.

Men and and women read and rated erotic vignettes in which they either dominated or submitted to an opposite-sex partner.

Here are samples of what the women read:

“…Your breathing quickens as you attempt to draw away, but he grasps your arm like a vice and it sends a shudder through your body. He pins you against the wall and presses his mouth firmly against yours. As your resistance fades, it becomes clear to you that this is only going one way…”

“…His breathing quickens as he attempts to draw away, but you grasp his arm like a vice…”

Among women, everyone rated domination fantasies equally, but the socially dominant women especially enjoyed fantasies of submission.  This is science I can really wrap my mind around.

I’ve often thought about writing some good science studies.   I have some samples of my work available to select viewers upon request.

Why Dominant Women Enjoy Sexual Submission Fantasies, Part 1 | Psychology Today Blogs.

Plucked from the recesses of a response to a blog post from my friend Katherine…

Posted by Johnny Diggz on Monday, August 28, 2006 – 12:14 PM

I was traveling in Burma and a Buddist monk once offered to tell me where I could find, what he called, Ripeon-nok-tu (and I’m using phonetic spelling here).  Apparently it is a sacred banana tree deep in the Magwaese jungle.  He told me it was known for its sacred powers and delicious taste.  But he warned me that the journey to find it was treacherous and laden with danger.

My traveling companion, Mantu, a Congolese man of Scottish descent, warned me not to search for the Ripeon-nok-tu, but my sense of adventure and desire to taste the sacred fruit of the tree was too great.  He told me he could not go with me, so after a toast with a shot of Burmese rice wine, we parted paths.  “Go forth, brave Diggz,” he said, “and find your sacred fruit!”

I embarked on my quest alone.

It wasn’t until day three that I encountered any serious trouble.  I arrived at a small village deep in the jungle.  I bartered some trinkets I had purchased at the Sagaing Market for intel.  A village elder named Pin-kat-kin, intoxicated from chewing too many rubber tree leaves, warned me of the Yatishi gorillas.  He told me they knew I was coming for the Ripeon-nok-tu.  I had been betrayed!  Mantu was a trusted traveling companion, but he had a weakness for rice wine.  Damn you, Mantu!

The Yatishi gorillas were no ordinary rebel faction.  They were gorillas.  Big ones.  The kind that really like bananas.   And they didn’t take kindly to foreigners.

I joined the villagers for a feast of rubber tree leaves and minto soup for the night.  The next morning, before I departed, Pin-kat-kin pulled me aside and placed something in my hand.

“Take this, young Diggz,” he said.  “It will help you on your quest.”

I looked down into my palm and in it, was a golden jewel in the shape of a crest.  I thanked Pin-kat-kin for his hospitality and set forth into the domain of the Yatishi gorillas, and the sacred Ripeon-nok-tu.

So there I was. Alone, deep in the country of the Yatishi gorillas, betrayed by my former traveling companion, on my mission to seek the revered Ripeon-nok-tu banana tree. I was armed only with my machete and a crescent-shaped talisman given to me by a tribal elder on a rubber leaf binge, named Pin-kat-kin.

Times like these test one’s constitution and commitment. Had I made a terrible mistake? Was this to be my last adventure? Reason and logic had long since past. I was driven to find the Ripoeon-nok-tu. For its fruit certainly bears sweet nectar. I was hell-bent in a banana-infused journey from which I may never return.

The monsoon rains pelted the jungle canopy, echoing like drums. The Yatishi gorillas are cunning, so I moved forward with caution. As I crested a hill, I suddenly found myself overlooking an immense gorge, uncharted on any map. This was certainly the place the Buddhist monk had described so many days before.

Movement. From behind. I leapt to my side, but it was too late. A blinding flash. Losing consciousness. Fur. Grunts. The scent of bananas as I drifted away.

I dreamed of C-3PO and Ewoks.. Luke Skywalker wielding a giant banana-flavored lightsaber. Hard candy. John Candy. Wally World. The Jungle Cruise ride. Minimum wage. They Might Be Giants. Istanbul (not Constantinople). New Amsterdam. Martin Scorsese. Martin Scorsese’s mother. The Golden Girls. “Thank you for being a friend…”

I opened my eyes to a canopy of giant leaves swaying above me. My head throbbed as I turned and locked eyes with the largest gorilla I had ever seen. Slowly I sat up, resting my hands on confusions of tangled roots. I was surrounded by dozens of Yatishi gorillas.

With slow, purposeful moves I reached for my machete, but it was nowhere to be found. Suddenly I remembered the golden jewel that was given to me by the tribal elder. It was gone! I looked back to the largest Yatishi. He was wearing my talisman around his neck. I was doomed!

The gorillas began to grunt as the largest moved towards me. I backed away, into the trunk of a large tree. The grunts grew in volume and intensity as he came right up to me. I flinched as he shot his arms straight towards me, stopping only inches from my face.

In his hand was a single yellow banana. He seemed to be offering it to me. I cautiously reached up and took the banana from his enormous hand. It was a Ripeon-nok-tu banana. I looked up, and saw that I was sitting at the base of the sacred Ripeon-nok-tu banana tree. It was enormous and beautiful. I longed for a John Williams score that would perfectly capture its magnificence.

I pulled open the peel of the banana. The gorillas were now screaming and dancing about. I closed my eyes and took a bite.

As I tasted the sacred fruit, I thought to myself, “Eh, pretty much tastes like every other banana.”

The End…..or IS IT?