Category: D. Parker on the Road

Lots of people retire to Florida for the obvious reasons: the tax break, the weather and, of course, the Fountain of Youth.  But for me, Florida is The Land of Invention.  For it is only there, while lying on the pristine white beaches of the Gulf Coast, that my subtle spirit of entrepreneurism rises to the surface, and my creativity takes hold.  When I retire, it is in this place that I will satisfy my life-long dream to…wait for it… open a watermelon stand.

I know, I know, you can’t believe there aren’t watermelon stands in operation already, nor can you believe I’m going to retire so soon before I actually get a job. What can I say, innovation calls.

One winter vacation a million years ago, my mother thought she had a brilliant idea: my little brother (Charles the First) and I would sell watermelon on the beach.  It was a bold move, walking in from the Publix, two huge watermelons and a package of poster board in tow, but she was “sick and tired” of listening to us complain that Florida was “boring.”  While I don’t doubt that we were annoying the shit out of her, the idea was a real shot in the dark: we were painfully shy children.  Nevertheless she commenced with the slicing and wrapping, ordering us, with the sudden and shocking demeanor of an Army general, to make signs.  The whole scenario was heinous.  But we were stricken dumb: we were bored and she was being scary. Also we loved money. If Mom was right, we would be rich in no time.

Despite what we were taught, Mom is not always right. For three hours, Charles the First and I humped a heavy cooler up and down the beach, peddling our slices, dropping the price from 75 cents to, eventually, a dime, as our enthusiasm deteriorated into abject mortification.  In a last ditch effort, somehow defying our timidity, we took the business right to the customer’s door…er, I mean beach blanket. No sale.  You tell me how people tell two, scrawny, adorable (in a preppy, nerdy kind of way) kids that they won’t buy an ice-cold, refreshing, piece of watermelon for a dime.  “No, thank you,” was the response again and again, each time like a dagger ripping into our barely-there, self confidence.  Did I mention how fucking hot it was?  I mean, have you ever walked by a lemonade stand without buying a cup?  Have you always left a whole dollar even when the price was 25 cents? Right.

Humiliation not withstanding, the experience stirred something in me: that dormant spirit of entrepreneurism.  This makes sense, considering I hail from a long line of failed entrepreneurs.  My grandfather invented the binaural transmitter. Unfortunately an invention came along the next day rendering his obsolete, which is why I don’t summer in Newport with the Vanderbilts. And yet, Grandfather Harold’s spirit lives on in his brethren; it spurs us toward invention, but not success.  The never-patented, baby-bottle holder; quilted tennis-racquet covers sold to a boutique that never re-ordered; homemade bread sold on busy street corners; a college care package service that was too ahead of it’s time…all grand ideas doomed to failure.

But watermelon is a crowd pleaser and I’m convinced that Charlie One and I would have been successful, had we had better marketing.  A tiki hut manned by sexy lifeguards in bikinis and swim trunks, live reggae music and a good price point is how I’m going to start things off the second time around.  Also, I’m fully prepared to offer a free shot of tequila with every slice if business seems slow.

To be honest, I have better ideas waiting in the wings, and as soon as the watermelon sales take off I plan to parlay the profits directly into my other schemes:

What every beach resort needs are Sunscreen Spray Booths.  Who doesn’t hate applying and reapplying suntan lotion, only to discover later that you missed a whole section of your thigh and completely forgot about your feet.  Sure, we are all “concerned” about skin cancer, but truth be told it’s extremely disappointing to come home from vacation with an uneven tan.  Furthermore, lugging sunscreen bottles is a real hassle, especially when you could be lugging beer instead.  My SSB is shaped like a port-a-potty and works like a spray tan.  Upon entering, you can strip off your bathing suit and get an automatic, full-coverage, spray with your SPF of choice.  Hey Coppertone and Banana Boat:  as soon as my patent goes through we can talk!  Ca-ching.

That success should propel me to the standing in the business world needed to get noticed by McDonald’s. Perhaps then they will listen to my idea, an IDEA THAT I OFFERED THEM FOR FREE several years ago when it was conceived.  This time around I’m not giving anything away.

Roll and Dip Pancakes, is really about the packaging and marketing of a product they already excel in, hotcakes.  When Charles (II) was little, McDonald’s hotcakes were his breakfast of choice, which was a hassle when everyone else was ordering McMuffins.  Eating on the beach with a knife and fork is like offering seagulls an engraved invitation to join you. Don’t forget to protect your eyes, from their talons and sharp-as-a-razor beak, when they swoop down and grab that giant hotcake off it’s plate.  ROLL the pancake and eat it like a burrito!  Make the syrup cup tall and narrow to accommodate a rolled-up pancake, make the pancakes smaller, stack them vertically, and we’ve got a whole new product.  I even wrote a catchy jingle for the commercial.  Singing toddlers, on beach blankets, in carseats and umbrella strollers, lives’ will be forever changed. And evenly-tanned mothers everywhere will thank me.

Watermelon anyone?

 

Can we all agree that vacations suck? Not the vacations themselves, per se, but the fact that you have to come home when they are over. Maverick always threatens that he is “not coming home this time,” to which I say as long as he can successfully fake his own death so I can collect on the life insurance, we’re good to go. He has thus far failed to follow through on that promise, and we continue to struggle with the “re-entry” especially when we bring home new or certain habits.

For instance, we just got back from Sicily. As you might imagine, life in Sicily is very different from life here. For starters, the people speak a whole other language, nobody speaks English, and admitting that you don’t speak Italian doesn’t change anything. I was just getting used to pantomiming and shouting a combination of French and Spanish peppered with Italian, and adding an “io” to my English when all else failed, because aren’t all the romance languages basically the same anyway? And knock it off, don’t pretend you don’t understand me when I say “no comprende Italiano” even though it was really adorable when that hunky sailor shook his head and pretended he didn’t understand when I told him to come back to America with me. Sure, in Italy it’s usually the much older, married man with the young girl, but here in America it’s all about the cougar. And how about when I tried to make a joke with that waiter, only to discover with dismay that I am not funny in other languages, or perhaps not funny in other countries at all, but somehow I still ended up as a guest on a radio broadcast, speaking made-up Italian words that I learned from the “Pepper Boy” on Saturday Night Live. I am sure I was a big hit, and I can feel my career getting ready to take off, kind of like how Jerry Lewis is so beloved in France. But I knew something was wrong when I said “Ciao!” to my butcher back home and shouted, “MIO WANT QUATTRO FLANK STEAKS!” while gesticulating wildly, and he gave me that blank look he wears so well.

But getting my language skills in check is nothing compared to how I have to tone down my driving. Driving on mainland Italy can be scary, but that’s a walk in the park compared to Sicily. I suppose it would have been helpful to learn their street signs before we got behind the wheel, but that’s not how we roll. Apparently the way I roll is to drive the wrong way up a highway ramp. But that’s not even the scary part. Scary was driving up mountains with hairpin turns, flanked by a cliff edge with no guard rails, and ancient crumbling walls. Oh, and one lane in each direction. OH, and cars passing each other around the turns and when you take your hands off the wheel for just a second to reach behind you for a handful of pistachio nuts (yes, I know it would have been smarter to get nuts that didn’t need to be shelled…) and a car is coming straight at you and you might as well shut your eyes too, because that’s about how effective any of your driving skills will be to get you out of the that pickle. But you are, after all, in the land of the Pope, so you say a quick prayer, which is completely out of character for you, but thank you Lord Jesus, You listened and we made it to the top of Mt. Etna in one piece, and we even toasted You with house wine. That scenario would only repeat itself several more times over the course of our trip.

Until BOOM: like someone flipped a switch we start driving like the natives! It’s awesome!! It might have had something to do with alcohol as we noticed the trip down Mt Etna was much easier than the trip up, after we consumed many, many glasses of wine at a beautiful winery poured by another adorable Sicilian man who didn’t understand my jokes about his “grapes.” Or maybe he did. Anyway, there don’t seem to be any rules or laws regarding drinking and driving in Italy, or I would be locked up by now.

So we were coasting along pretty well until we pulled into Taormina and got the car stuck between two buildings. You are probably saying to yourself, “D.Parker, that doesn’t even sound possible, how can that be?” And to you I respond, “Oh, it be!”
I guess wooden carts pulled by slaves in 300 BC were narrower than the Buongiorno Rental Cars of today. Take my advice, when the travel guide books tell you certain roads are difficult to navigate, they are being serious as a heart attack. All I can say is thank you Jesus, again (I really am going to have to start going to church) that we had those bottles of wine in the car because my claustrophobia would have done me in otherwise, and thank YOU, Cute Buongiorno-Car-Rental Guy, for talking us into the extra insurance, because that car was pretty banged up by the time we got it out, not to mention that we did a real number on the clutch, as was evidenced by the smell of burning metal. But I digress.

The cop that pulled me over for running a red light here at home didn’t speak any Italian, and feigned disinterest when I told him that in Sicily there are no red lights, just traffic circles, which sounds “loco” but it works! Although I did peak his interest when I told him that there is also a very casual attitude about drinking, especially wine, because it’s really just grape juice anyway, right? He looked at me the same way the butcher did, and sternly asked me to step out of the car. Oops.

Quick as a flash I said a prayer to myself as I heard the words leave my mouth, with perfectly rolled “r”s…..”No comprende Inglese!”

So did you all get up at 4am on Friday to watch Will and Kate get married? Hmm?? I don’t want to make you jealous (well that’s not really true) but I have to tell you that I, humble D. Parker, was INVITED to the Royal Wedding! To say I was truly honored is like saying Bianca’s boyfriend was nonplussed when I asked him if the strange pair of underpants I found in our laundry were his. I cannot reveal the nature of my relationship with the new Duke and Dutchess of Cambridge, as it would be a breach of their privacy, or as the Brits say it with a short “i,” “PRI-vacy.” Suffice to say when I was vacationing in London a few years ago, I met Will and Kate (and Harry!) in a pub, where I had jumped on stage with a local band who had asked me to help them out with my tambourine skills. By the end of the night, Kate and I were singing karaoke together, I was speaking with an English accent, and much like the owner of the convenience store in her hometown of Bucklebury, I told Kate to remember me if she and Wills ever decided to make it legal.

I know what you’re thinking: “D. Parker, why didn’t we see you on the telly, during the many, many hours of the wedding broadcast?” Well that’s not such a good question, because not all of my readers have ever seen me in person so you wouldn’t know if you saw me on tv or not, but it is a good question in that I actually never did make it into Westminster Abbey but I’ll get to that later.

As soon as my invitation arrived, I quickly made my travel arrangements, and then got to thinking about my outfit for the special day. Should I wear a hat? a “fascinator?” or just go with a small tiara from my personal collection? I had to consider the possibility of the bride borrowing a tiara from the Queen, and I didn’t want to be chastised for trying to upstage her. So I opted to go with a fascinator because I figured I would get a lot of use out of that once I got it back home, what with all the occasions requiring wearing what looks like a bird’s nest on one’s head, and if I didn’t, it would make a great chandelier duster. Worst case scenario, I’d have a new Christmas tree ornament. It was Kate’s special day, not mine, and I wanted to be sure I wouldn’t be doing anything to steal her thunder. At least not during the ceremony (or “cere-mUny” as the Brits say). What went on behind closed doors at the reception would be a completely different scenario, and I was confident that Kate, knowing me as she does, would come prepared with her own microphone and tambourine, probably bedazzled by a fancy designer like Philip Treacy or Stella McCartney, and not assume that she could share mine (personally Bedazzled with fake pearls and cheap crystals, but looking very “bridal” nonetheless).

The days prior to the wedding were like a whirlwind, and faster than I could ask “Do you have any cold beer?” it was go time! There I was, dressed to the nines, on my way to Westminster Abbey, trying not to move my head too much for fear that my fascinator would fall off, but trying to move it enough that a bird wouldn’t decide to lay an egg in it. This was, hands down, the most exciting thing I had ever experienced in my life, if you don’t count the time I saw Adam West, the original “Batman” of my youth, talking to Regis Philbin on the corner of 44th and Sixth. I was literally on the RED CARPET, steps away from the glorious entrance, when I was thrown up against the wall by a Royal Guard. Apparently they all don’t just stand there staring straight ahead for hours on end.

“I beg your pardon madam, but I am going to have to ask you what color your dress is.”
WTF?? Nobody told me there was going to be a quiz! Was this a trick question? As I tried in vain to readjust my fascinator, I noticed Elton John walking by. Damn it, I was missing all the celebs!
“It’s bloody yellow!” I shouted, in my best Cockney accent. I mean this dress was yellower than the belly on a yellow-bellied sap sucker.
“I’m sorry madam, I’m going to have to ask you to step behind the barricades and join the spectators.”
Huh?? There had to be some mistake….or did Bianca’s boyfriend infiltrate the Royal Guard to get back at me for the Underpants Incident? As I dug through my handbag in search of my precious invitation I noticed the Beckhams. Victoria appeared to have some sort of weapon hanging off the front of her hat, and I was hoping she would step close enough to this guard to take his eye out with it so I could give him the slip. But clearly she was using it to keep women away from her beautiful husband, and I was at a loss.

Some of you might be thinking, “D. Parker, don’t you know you aren’t supposed to wear the same color as the Queen?”  Well for god’s sake, did you? This was some anti-American trick to get us back for winning the Revolution, I’m sure of it.  So I was banned from the wedding, just like that.  Forced to stand among the masses who had been camping out for days and days, unshowered and unwilling to share their champagne with someone callous enough to try and outdo HRH Queen Elizabeth II. Who, in my opinion, had bigger fish to fry than me: did you get a look at those awful, homely, Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie? Tell me their outfits were not insulting to the entire country, much less the monarchy! There I was worried a bird might land on my head, when this chick was trying to channel a peacock. And I don’t even know what to say about her sister’s ensemble, except that if she was using the contraption she had strapped to her head to keep the eligible bachelors at a safe distance, she needn’t have worried. And don’t even get me started on that beast, Camilla Parker-Bowles. Let’s just say that her stylist must be a real jokester. (“Camilla, dahling, everyone knows that wearing a drop waisted coat with pleats at the hips is the only way to look slim!”)

Sigh. Things in the States might not seem as exciting, but I can dust my chandelier with my fascinator if I want to, and wear my yellow dress and my tiara wherever, whenever I want. Long Live the Queen. ME!

I’ve been on the road a lot lately on my Tambourine Adventures, auditioning, and I am coming to the conclusion that life as we know it in the Northeast is not the norm. Not that life in the Northeast this winter has been anything “normal.” What with all the snow I’m considering expanding my house with an igloo, and giving Maverick that “man cave” he’s always wanted, but I’m afraid it will increase my property taxes. Consequently I do have a better understanding of why most Alaskans are alcoholics.

But first let me update you on my tambourining, as you are probably wondering if I’ve gotten any job offers. Well, not yet, but I can tell I’m getting close! For starters, I got hip to the fact that some of the bands I muscled my way on stage with were putting me in front of microphones that were turned off, or “dead” as we say in the music business. I am not positive, but I think they have may been doing that on purpose. As you know I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, so now that I’m hip to that trick, I make sure to sing into the same mike as the lead guitarist. But I know I’m really going places because a drummer last weekend handed me his tambourine to use, which was way better than mine. Clearly he recognized my skills.

I don’t know how many of you, my loyal readers, have ever driven into, and out of different time zones. Let me tell you, it’s very confusing. Sure, if you are a fancy pants and fly everywhere, the pilot is usually the one doing the math and telling you how and when to set your watch. But math has never been my forte, which is probably surprising to you given my expertise keeping time with my instrument. This I cannot explain. Anyway,  the navigation system in my car is great about telling me what time I am supposed to arrive at my destination (it would be better if it would take into account the number of times I have to stop to pee, or reward myself with a Milky Way Dark) but it doesn’t factor in the time zone and that is almost as annoying as wondering for hours on end when will I pass into Central Time and will there be a sign welcoming me to Central Time? and when you finally do pass into Central Time (yes there is a sign, but no welcome) and then the road goes around a big curve and you slip back into Eastern Time, and then curves again and back to Central (no sign this time) what happens to those few minutes that you were back and forth in between?? And if you stopped the car at the sign and got out and had a picnic there along the highway for an hour or more, what time would it be when you finished? You would think an hour difference is no big deal, but I’m serious as a heart attack when I tell you that you will need a calculator with algorithms to figure out how many hours you have actually been driving.  The problem is compounded if someone calls you from the Mountain or Pacific Time Zone and starts asking you questions like, “What time did you leave?” and “What time will you get there?” and they want the answers relative to their time zone, and are we in Standard or Daylight Savings time??  Unless you are some sort of math genius. Which begs the question, why you are wasting your time reading my blog when you should be figuring out how to fix our economy?

I finally got over the stress of doing all that math and was settling into Central Time when I was thrown for another loop. It was almost noon on a Friday when my entourage and I headed out for lunch. We rolled into a Chinese restaurant at precisely five minutes before noon, only to be handed a beeper by the hostess and told there would be at least a 20 minute wait. WTF? A peek around the curtain into the dining room confirmed that the place was packed to the gills with people already into their meals. Could this be some sort of Chinese food brunch trend that I hadn’t been aware of?? or were my math skills even worse than I thought and I was still a whole hour behind? or did I take a detour into Bizarro World? Perhaps I had been too sober for too long….So I said to myself, outloud, “D. Parker, why is everyone already halfway done with their lunch at 11:55?” And the bitchy hostess with the beepers turned around and said, with attitude, “Well, it IS noon!” To which I responded, “Unless your name is D. Parker, I wasn’t talking to you!” So there.

Nonetheless, folks were filing out of the restaurant with their doggie bags by 12:15pm. I had to ask everyone I met from that point on, if I was crazy or if it was weird to eat lunch before noon. I mean where I come from, the only reason to go to a restaurant before noon is if the bar opens at 11:30. But from what I’ve been told, it’s only me and THE REST OF THE EASTERN SEABOARD that’s crazy because everyone in middle America thinks it’s normal to eat lunch at 11am. Maybe because the food is so lousy they need more time to digest it. Or maybe they are just losers. Or both.

Something else that’s really sticking in my craw is that some of the less expensive hotels don’t have bathrobes.  They think we won’t notice because they load up the bathroom with a thousand hand towels, but it’s really difficult to try and wrap yourself in hand towels, especially if you are applying body lotion which you have better brought from home because the crap they have in the hotels with no robes is the consistency of milk.  Furthermore they don’t all have pay per view, but they do have the porn channel, which is strange enough, but not as strange as the eggs they serve at the free continental breakfast which are formed to resemble a yellow, nylon wallet.  And why on earth is the yogurt always strawberry banana, and never just strawberry or here’s an idea, PLAIN, so you can add your own banana if you want it?  even though the bananas they have are bruised, and they don’t have any strawberries at all.

I guess life on the road can be hard, and once I make it really big I’m going to have one of those fancy tour buses with room to transport my robe and my tambourine and a driver who will do all the necessary math for the time zone conversions, and who will keep me in the dark about what time it is when I’m eating lunch.  And now if you will please excuse me, it’s already 1pm Eastern Standard Time, and somewhere there’s a tuna sandwich with my name on it.