The Real Deal....or my version of it.

If I posted a picture it would be of a 54 year old round-faced, shaggy haired man with three days of graying at the chin stubble. My brow and eyes would be squinted, my mouth partially open, portraying an expression of, "what the hell are you looking at?" As a young man I heard a comedian on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson say that his Dad was so ornery that he had "Whaderyu lookin' at?" chiseled into the headstone at his grave site. I thought that was funny. I also thought it would be a good epithet for my headstone.

I AM THE REAL DEAL! I am sure Bono and Dave Matthews think they are the real deal. There are women that would agree with that. Including my daughter Hilary (her students at work call her "Hi Larry" which I think is HILARRYIOUS!) Another subject, so back to the blog. Maybe Clint Eastwood, Jack Nicholson or Viggo Mortensen are the real deal. (What is a Viggo? - a Virgo Vegan?) Men might consider Sandra Bullock, Cheryl Crow, or Diane Lane the real deal. And we can't forget about the athletic side of the real deal; Tom Brady, Phil Mikelson, LeBron.

Why do we gravitate to the cover girls and boys? Why do we give them more credit because their faces appear on the cover of magazines? My face should be on the freakin' cover of a magazine! - The Real Deal Magazine that hasn't hit newsstands yet. It might not sell but it would get your attention. In fact, I bet if you were standing in the checkout line in Albertsons waiting for the lady in front of you to finally start getting her checkbook out of her purse right after the checker processed $200 of groceries and had to send Shawn the bagger down Aisle 4 to replace a box of Tuna Helper that was leaking a funny white powdery substance, and then Shawn had to run to the produce department because Alice, the lady buying the groceries... (you and the seven people behind you in line know her name and the name of her 9 grandchildren by now) ...said the avocados were marked half off. I-N-H-A-L-E (Sorry another blog on another day) Anyway, if you saw my face on the cover of The Real Deal Magazine with my "whaderyu lookin' at?" expression, you would pick it up. If nothing else just to see who that guy was on the cover. Your initial reaction would be that it's probably the Bus Driver from DesMoines Iowa that just won $350 freakin' million dollars in the Powerball Lottery that you read about. WRONG! It's me, The Real Deal! You'd pick it up, wouldn't you? Am I right? My face is on the mag cover. I must be important. My political views are vindicated and should be listened to. You should vacation where I vacation. You should wear the shirts, pants and shoes I wear. You should drive the car I drive and douse yourself in the cologne I use. And maybe, just maybe, you might want to consider my hair style. That 2000 watt, full bore dryer blown, finger teased hair style that you think looks kind of sexy that wastes 2 minutes of my valuable time every morning. But I'll bet I could can it, market it and sell my hairstyle to some idiots in LA with more money than brains and an IQ of a hockey score for $150! All I would have to do is get an endorsement from another face on a magazine cover. Label it Haute Couture and coin it "The New Look to Snag a Mate in 08' " (Oh, I make myself laugh sometimes) LOL LOL LOL LOL - in my day it was HAHAHAHA (another blog for another day). Because I know that when I actually laugh the sound it creates is more like "lololololol", than "hahahaha". Make sense to you?

I am the Real Deal! The Real Deal is loosely based on the premise of an enlightening moment I had as a teenager. I was at breakfast in a Denny's in Las Vegas in the summer of 1968 on the way to a baseball tournament in Salt Lake (we will go there too) I was the catcher-16 and was sitting in a red naugahyde corner booth with the center fielder-16, the 3rd baseman-17 and the shortstop-16. The chaperons were our two coaches that had reached the ripe and wise old age of 25 and 28 respectively. The shortstop went on and on about some girl we all knew that he liked at school and how cute she was. How pretty her hair was, her eyes, her tan skin....on and on. We were paying more attention to pouring catsup (or is it ketchup?- another blog) on our omelettes until the older and wiser of the coaches made the comment, "she sounds pretty, does she grunt when she S#*ts?" There was about 4 seconds of total silence at the table until the catcher, the center fielder the third baseman and the younger of the two coaches laughed so hard that they blew chocolate milk and scrambled eggs out of their noses! The shortstop looked truly confused and hurt. Which made it all the funnier. I never looked at that girl the same for the rest of high school. The fact of the matter is: we are all pretty simple people with simple needs. We all grunt when we S#*t. Even the faces on magazine covers do. ...More on the Real Deal and other mysteries of the universe next time.