Ah, Kids

I worked two events today. For the first one, I guarded access to an off-limits area that no one tried to enter. I stood in a dusty, low traffic area with a cold breeze blowing down my neck for 4 1/2 hours. It kind of sucked, except for the one four- or five-year-old kid who was beyond thrilled to return my "Hook 'Em" sign when I flashed it at him. By the way, did you know that this sign proves that the entire Bush family are Satanists? Now you know.

For the second event I guarded a piece of equipment that I thought no one would try to touch. To my delight, near the end of the event, a nine- or ten-year-old boy touched it. I got to scare the crap out of him. Because of all the noise, he didn't hear me come up behind him. I didn't yell. I didn't threaten. I simply said, "Don't touch that, please." He jumped out of his skin. And he stopped touching it. And he didn't come back to touch it again. It was quite satisfying.

And Jason Dick was in my section. Pretty sure. He had a black wedding ring. Looked just like him, anyway. And two of the suit-wearing event sponsors came and shook his hand and asked him if the seats were okay. They don't usually do that for your average local pseudo-celebrity look-a-like, so it must've been him. And the black wedding ring. Who gets a black wedding ring? I'm not sure if I'll label this as a Brush with Greatness or not. I mean, he's a local radio D.J. That barely counts as famous, right? But he is drive time, you've got to give him that. And morning drive time. He doesn't exude greatness, though.

The best part of the evening was at the end of the night, when the fans were invited down onto the floor to get players' autographs and allow their children to run all over the place and throw footballs around and just generally wear themselves out before the car ride home. I saw Thumper out there on that floor. Thumper as he will look in about 3 1/2 years. His parents didn't look anything like the Mrs. and me, but he was the spittin' image. He was running, up and down, up and down, his still-toddler-chubby cheeks jiggling with the impact of each step. He was as perpendicular to the floor as a telephone pole. He took tiny steps. He pumped his arms furiously. And the way his brow was furrowed in concentration, I could tell he thought he was running faster than any human being had ever run before. I mean, he was practically airborn. I almost wept to see him. But then I snapped back into my black-shirted Security mindset and pretended to be stern.

Oh, How Things Might Have Been Different

Speaking of Soul Coughing:

In the summer of 1996, Mrs. Rodius and I went to see Soul Coughing at the Hatch Shell on the Esplanade in Boston. We went because it was free, it was a beautiful day to be outside, some friends had invited us, and because we liked that song that was on the radio, that song that if you know any Soul Coughing at all, you know that song.

There were maybe fifty people lounging in the sun on the grass. It was fun. We didn't know the music. Most of it seemed too slow. It didn't really click with me as what I liked in the days when The Chemical Brothers were the coolest thing I'd ever heard.

After the show was over, our friends mentioned that they knew a couple of the guys in the band. They were going to go backstage, hang out with them, and probably smoke a fatty. Mrs. Rodius wasn't into that kind of thing, but I most definitely was. But the friends didn't think it would be cool for them to bring somebody else along. They were sorry. They hoped I'd understand.

Over the next few years, I learned to love Soul Coughing with a deep and abiding passion reserved for only a few bands, like Pink Floyd, Fishbone, and System of a Down. So now I can look back on that day as the day I almost got to hang out with M. Doughty. Of course, he's Mike Doughty now. He's cleaned up, and his music is much more Grey's Anatomy than Ruby Vroom. But oh, how would my life have changed if only I'd been able to smoke out with the man who wrote these immortal words:

Get onto the bus
That's gonna take you back to Beelzebub
Get onto the bus
That's gonna make you stop going rub a dub

Eeek!

Holy crap! Matthew Baldwin actually left a comment on my blog! I'm as giddy as a school girl. That's totally better than watching Matthew McConaughey throw a football around.

Little Kids Scare Me, But Not Tool

I tried to think of something relevant or political to blog about today, but I can't think under pressure. Is it December yet?

Anyway, I need to get it done now, since the boy's asleep and I won't get home from work until after midnight tonight. I don't usually do weeknight events, but they were desperate for help. The median age of the usher staff is a little on the high side, and they're all terrified of Tool. So I agreed to help out. This will be the first time Mrs. Rodius and I do the downtown baby swap so that I can make check-in time for a weeknight event. Wish us luck! Here is what my night looks like. I'm new, so I doubt I'll get a security position, but on Sunday, when I told a fellow usher I was working Tool, she said, "You're big. They'll put in front of the stage to catch crowd surfers before they bash their heads on the barricade." Sounds like fun!

Within 50 Feet of a Celebrity

In writing my brush with greatness post yesterday, I wondered: do I have enough of these to justify an entire category? Probably not. I kind of work in show business, though. Sort of. I have a signed photo of Peter, Paul, and Mary on my office wall. And one of Mack Brown. I've heard Peter, or Paul, or one of them, but definitely not Mary, whine to his manager about how hungry he was. On my way into the office in the morning, I once had to stop to let a line of elephants in ahead of me. My nose hairs have been singed by the uniquely horrifying odor of tiger pee. I have seen the naked, tiger-striped animal activists in cages, protesting the exploitation of the real thing. A coworker has a picture of Jon Bon Jovi's bejeaned ass in her digital camera. I said, "Excuse me," to Chuck Norris once. I've seen Vince Young and his entourage holding court in the cafeteria. I've seen Colt McCoy eating by himself in the same cafeteria. I've heard the Dalai Lama speak, and Hillary Clinton.

But the story to which I alluded yesterday is probably my best celebrity moment. And since I wrote an email at the time with which to regale my friends and family, it's the best kind of blog post: one that's already been written. I was blogging before I even knew what blogging was. So without further ado, here is the tale of how I saw a barefoot Matthew McConaughey from a distance. And Jake Gyllenhaal in cowboy boots. Maybe.

It's not like he was playing the bongos in my living room, but this is as close as I ever get to partying with the Hollywood elite:

Big Brother and I tailgated at the Texas-Ohio State game. We staked out a spot on the top of the parking garage on the east side of the stadium, pulled out the cute little propane grill that his wife gave him for the occasion, unfolded our folding chairs, popped open a couple of beers, and commenced to making with the good ol' American fun.

The garage overlooks the soccer stadium, and a large group was partying on the soccer field with a couple of campers and big screen TVs. Just about the time I wondered aloud who you had to be to get to party on the soccer field, another tailgater said, "That's Matthew McConaughey." Sure enough, a barefoot, sweaty, straggly-bearded McConaughey was tossing a football around down there with a handful of other guys.

I didn't have a camera, or even a camera in my cell phone, so I did the next best thing: I called Mrs. Rodius and said, "Guess what I'm doing right now?" She didn't guess, but when I told her, she said if I got close enough to be sure to get his autograph and grab his butt. Fortunately I didn't get that close, though, because I think that might have been embarrassing for both Matt and me.

Before long, a small crowd had gathered along the edge of the garage roof. One mohawked young man suggested that he was going to go down there and tackle him, just to say he did. He went down there with a friend and took some pictures, but he never worked up the nerve for a good tackle. Big Brother and I were disappointed, because we didn't see any security staff around, so we hypothesized that his bodyguards were the regular joes he was throwing the ball around with. Those regular joes would probably be the guys delivering a beating to the mohawk man. We never got to see the hypothesis tested, though.

A young woman in an Ohio State shirt went down, too, and tried to work her way into their game. Matt wasn't throwing it to her, though. Her friends yelled down to her that she'd have more luck if she took her top off, but she wasn't going for it. Instead, she managed to chat a bit with another woman in Matt's party, which Big Brother and I agreed was a good strategy. She never quite wormed her way into his inner circle though, hindered as she was by the Ohio State gear. Matt and I are both loyal Longhorn fans you know, Matt and I are.

So that's my tale of greatness. Pretty exciting stuff, huh? Someone among the spectators said that one of the football-tossers who'd wandered off had been Jake Gyllenhaal, but I don't remember noticing "the guy in the black jeans and cowboy boots," so I can't attest to his authenticity myself.

And then the Longhorns lost. The End.

Hook 'Em!

International Man of Mystery

I'm happy to report that, much like Hank, I am now an International Man of Mystery. Did I go somewhere exotic and exciting? No, not unless you count Ecology Action, and you might. It does have a sort of otherworldly quality to it. And a somewhat foreign odor.

So no, no exciting travel. But I did correspond today with a minister in the government of the Republic of South Africa. One that was jailed for his involvement with the United Democratic Front and the African National Congress. Exciting, right? His bio also says he used to be a hooker, but that's apparently some sort of rugby term and was in no way a factor in his incarceration.

Not as thrilling as the time I watched Matthew McConaughey and Jake Gyllenhaal throw a football around, but it seems more important somehow. More adult. More sophisticated. I emailed a South African minister today. And snail-mailed him. I hope I addressed the envelope correctly. As an American, it's my patriotic duty to remain completely unaware of how anything is done in nations other than my own.