ConstantCommentary® Vol. VI, No. 155, October 10, 2002

So Sue Me . . .

by Mike Jasper

 


Furman and the pussy hound
(... no, they are not the same)

I've been building a recording studio in the Bubbaland section of Austin, Texas, which means I get to meet many of those strange beings called pro audio dealers. One of my favorites is Morrison, who works as a sales engineer for Sweetwater Sound. (Motto: "If we don't know the answer to your problem, we'll make one up!")

I have a problem with the term "sales engineer." Semantically, it smacks of euphemism, i.e., sanitation engineer. If you take it literally, I guess it means the dude who engineers the sale.

"Yep. Just push that order though," Morrison says. It's a joke. I think.

Couldn't Sweetwater call the members of its sales staff consultants or advisors, if for no other reason than to give them at least the appearance of social dignity?

Whatever. I'm probably overreacting. Maybe even being insensitive. Morrison once confided to me that one of the toughest decisions he ever had to make was during his junior year at Harvard when he had to decide between a major in sales or electrical engineering.

Sales engineer? Spare me.

That said, Morrison's a pretty good guy, and he tells me insider stories about the business. For example, I found out that Jack Furman, the guy who makes Furman power conditioners, recently underwent a sex change and is now Janet Furman.

Furman's not gay, though. He bought the sex change to pursue a lesbian lifestyle, and since he lives in Sonoma County, California, he's got a decent shot at that lifestyle.

Morrison and I had a good laugh about Furman's puddy tuck. Unfortunately, Morrison made the mistake of telling me that when he got married, he took his wife's last name. The way I see it, he and Furman will eventually get drunk together at a hotel bar during some pro audio convention, and the conversation will no doubt end like this:

"...so, you see. You're the pussy."
"No, you're the pussy.
"Nope, nope. You're the pussy."
"No, you're the pussy."

But I'm not really writing this column about Morrison. I'm writing this column about his dad, Morris (Get it? Morris's son?).

Morris recently had a heart transplant, which means that every guy Morrison knows is wholly dissatisfied with his vital organs. In fairness, the heart transplant should probably be called the-dick-needs-more-blood transplant, because Morris comes from that too-horny generation called the Baby Boomers and takes pride in his participation on the front lines during the Sexual Revolution of the 1970s.

Before the transplant, he'd get drunk at bars and rant like a drug-crazed Viet Nam vet. "So, you think you were in the revolution? You weren't in the fuckin' revolution. I was at Woodstock in 1969, fucking Richie Havens old lady while he was on stage, baby. You weren't really part of the revolution unless you bedded blond twin virgins on the sands of Marina Del Rey. It was grisy, man. Cops and blood everywhere."

It's been a few weeks since his transplant, but he seems to b getting back to his old form. When Morrison first visited his dad in the hospital, he told him, "Dad. You don't look so well. You're swollen everywhere."

Morris looked at his son with sparkling eyes and despite having a tube shoved down his throat managed to utter, "Yes... everywhere."

The first two weeks of his recovery were dicey and his blood pressure fluctuated in proportion to the cup size of the nurses assigned to change his bedpan each day. Then there was the nasty incident at admissions, when he and a proctology patient (also named Morris) got their records mixed up. He had to endure a prolonged anal probing from Dr. Coldfinger before the hospital figured out they were working in the wrong area. But as of this writing, Morris is now home and in stable condition.

So why am I telling you this? Well, after all the death I've seen in the last two years, maybe this time someone will cheat it for a change. Maybe this time we win one.

(In lieu of flowers, well wishers should send bottles of Viagra to Morris, c/o Hooters Hoosier Hospital, Fort Wayne, Indiana.)

* * *

JOHNNY THE C. SIGHTING: Johnny the C. paid a visit to Austin, where we both worked a booth at the Pecan Street Crafts Festival for Club Fred. After a long day, we rushed to get to the Y Bar and Grill, hopefully in time for dinner. Given that it was 8:50, we doubted we'd make the 9 p.m. deadline, but why not give it a shot?

We entered the joint and I looked around for someone at the hostess station, when an official-looking woman came striding up to us. Must be the manager, I figured, so when she got close I asked, "Do you have time for two more?"

She looked surprised and said, "I'm sorry. I don't work here."

Johnny the C. leaned forward and said in a syrupy voice, "That's not what he asked. He wants to know if you have time for two more."

Unfortunately, we didn't get served or serviced.

THE RULES: This is just a note to friends and family who are planning to visit me in Austin during the next year. Despite recent financial gains, my policy is still in place: If you come to visit me, you buy. But if I should come and visit you, then you buy. I hope that's clear.

* * *

SUBSCRIPTIONS: If you're on my subscriber list but haven't received an email in awhile (or ever) you got lost between the cracks. Hit the subscribe link and try again. If you've changed your email address, resubscribe with the new one and send me the old one and I'll unsubscribe it. I can't subscribe anyone, but I can unsubscribe everyone.

* * *

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own.


Link(s) Of The Week

W. Bruce Cameron - Read the original column

8 Simple Rules -- The TV Show

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Mike Jasper is a writer and musician living in Austin, Texas. Originally from the San Francisco Bay Area, he has strong ties to Seattle, St. Petersburg, Florida and North Platte, Nebraska. He can be reached at column@mikejasper.com or PO Box 91174, Austin TX, 78709 or 24-hour voice mail at 512-916-3727. Accessible? I think so.
© 2002 by Mike Jasper, All Rights Reserved. ConstantCommentary® is published whenever Mike Jasper feels like it. All material is the responsibility of the author. Special thanks to those who helped along the way: Jeff Cox, Susan Maxey, Catherine Clay, Cathleen Cole, Valerie Sprague, Ian Wolff, Laura Martin and Karin Stephenson. (You may download this article, print it out for personal use and e-mail it to your friends. But you must never, ever give Kurt Vonnegut the credit.)