SNL Halloween Costume #10: I'm Just a Caveman

For some reason my friends and I latched onto Phil Hartman's presentation of Cirroc (pronounced Keyrock), the Unfrozen Cave Man Lawyer, and when we didn't understand something someone said, we would say, "Your world frightens and confuses me. I'm just a Cave Man." Of course, Cirroc was smarter than that, and I think I was too, though it may not sound like it. This Halloween get-up is easy. You wear a decent suit, some bushy eyebrows and a long-haired wig, and act ignorant when you're actually really smart. But you'll have to be a smooth talker and a braggart about the expensive things that you own. Maybe on Halloween you can "defend" people if they do dumb things, like spill beer on the carpet, and then tell the owner/complainant that if they had expensive stain proof carpet like you do, this wouldn't have happened. Watch this video and the one below a few times and use them as your tutorial. Don't be frightened!

Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer

Halloween 2009, Saturday Night Live Style

In the mid 80's I got hooked on Saturday Night Live with a group of close friends. We would get together at one of our houses every Saturday night to watch the entire hour and a half episode. This ritual lasted to the mid 90's, though college caused those Saturdays to become much fewer. I personally think those were the funniest years of SNL, with the best actors and characters. Those nights truly shaped part of me, and helped to mold my current sense of humor. On top of that, I got to spend great time with my friends, and instead of being out drinking on a Saturday night, we would be Lothar of the Hill people and talking of walking with women.
Every year for Halloween usually the only costumes I entertain are SNL characters. Last year's costume originated from a Blue Oyster Cult studio recording with the infamous Gene Frenkle. The costume was a process: finding vintage jeans and a vintage men's shirt (I ended up with a women's) that needed to be three sizes too small, locating a huge cowbell, and getting decent glasses, shoes, a wig, and a drum stick. But after spending several hours working on the beard by weaving and gluing thread through plastic mesh and the end result occasionally falling apart or needing re-shifting, not to mention that it was a bird's nest to Frenkle's beard, I wondered why I went through all of the trouble when there were so many great SNL characters that weren't as difficult, and could be done on the cheap. So over the next couple of months I'll throw out a top ten list of the funniest, easiest, and cheapest SNL characters that you could be for Halloween, one at a time. Of course, I may miss some, or may have some taste bias, so comment back if there are any glaring ones that I've forgotten. Stay tuned...

Cardinal Red, White and Blue

I remember times as a boy riding home from staying at my Grandmother's home in St. Louis. Our large family would be comfortably crammed into a Station Wagon with the windows down and a hard, warm breeze fluttering my hair. It would usually be around sunset, and I would watch the blue darkness slowly drape over the moving landscape. The cabin was relatively quiet, except for an occasional comment or question...my Mom trying to start some dialogue with me or my sleepy siblings. But there was another voice I was more interested in. Jack Buck was calling a Cardinal game on the radio. It always seemed that our trips home included a Cardinal game, and when they didn't, I would be disappointed and bored. It wasn't necessarily that I was keeping track of the hometown team's wins and losses, but it was just was Jack who drew me in. After those long weekends in St. Louis of being with family, and staying up late sneaking a little Benny Hill on the tv, and then waking up early in the morning to go pick up Dunkin' Donuts with my Dad, I needed something relaxing, something soothing. And that was Jack's voice. It was like drinking water through my ears for a thirsty brain. All my eyes needed to worry about was to watch the stars...Jack Buck began announcing for the Cardinals in 1954, long before I was born, and I suppose had been broadcasting for nearly 30 years before I was lucky enough to hear him. He reduced his schedule to only calling home games through the 1990's, when several health problems probably factored in. On September 17th, 2001, just after the attacks on 9/11 and the night that Major League Baseball resumed playing, in his Cardinal red Jack read a poem to the crowd at Busch Stadium, and really all of America, that he had penned himself. Though I only saw him recite it on television, I'll never forget that heart-warming and heart-wrenching few minutes, coupled with what all of us had experienced just six days before. Soon after that I had learned that Jack had been a war veteran, wounded in battle in World War II, fighting for the freedom of others, and my appreciation for the man grew that much more. He passed away June 18th, 2002, seven years to just a few weeks ago and only nine months after that last public appearance, at the age of 77. Sadly, I think most of St. Louis was unaware of that anniversary. I was fortunate enough to be able to attend a Cardinal game on July 2nd with a couple of very good friends, and made sure to dress in my Cardinal red, white and blue. Jack Buck sure would have.

How Well Do You Really Know Me?

If you haven't noticed, I occasionally like to wear vintage and even modern clothing that has flowers or bright colors on them. Whenever I'm surfing the net for vintage clothing and I see something that I dig, it usually ends up being meant for the female gender. I use conditioner on my crew cut. I wear an eye mask some bright mornings so I can sleep in. I have danced to "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)". I grow herbs. I use Chapstick often. I put cream and honey in my luke-warm coffee. I own a book about purses. I wear linen pants. I want to learn how to sew. I have a high-pitched laugh when I can't stop. I generally wear an A-shirt underneath to prevent too much nipple/man boob from showing. I made a pair of my cargo pants into capris. I like to wear flip-flops, and own white ones. It takes me a very long time to choose what to wear and a very, very long time to pack for a trip. My bike has a bell on it. I occasionally wear a leather fanny pack. I bought one of those European Speedo-type skin tight boxer/brief -like swim trunks, just to see....Now, after being told these things you may have formed your own opinion about me, and no offense, but frankly I don't care what others think of me. I contend there are tons more "manly" things about me, and hopefully my wife, friends, and family can attest to this. I said, hopefully. Recently I went to my cousin Sarah's wedding (my Mom's sister's daughter). I had met her new husband, Jassen, a couple of times before spending a week in his presence at our family reunion ten months ago, and had talked with him briefly this past winter. Sarah's wedding was big, beautiful, and elaborate, and Sarah is a somewhat eccentric person, and I love her for all of it. Knowing all of this about Sarah, I didn't think she would mind if I wore my men's vintage suit to her wedding--my Dad's 3-piece blue suit from the late 70's. I happened to find a modern Van Heusen shirt that matched the green of her wedding perfectly, and a black tie from the 70's that had darker green accents. My shoes were two-tone brown Nunn Bush's from the last ten years. My 70's sunglasses, being that the wedding was outdoors, were clear gray, big and round, and probably a woman's before me. The seating at the ceremony was sporadic, so I and my brother David, in my late Grandfather's 80's black pinstripe suit, black shirt, and silver tie, sat alone together in the front row. It was a splendid service. At the reception I learned that Jassen asked Sarah, "Is David gay?" Not because David, who Jassen knows, looked gay, but because Jassen thought I did. He thought I was my brother's gay lover. I know, it sounds like it could be complicated, but it's not really. Jassen, who apparently does not remember me each time we meet (He has said to me before, "Hey, guy, how are you doing,? Nice to see you again." When someone uses "guy" or "chief" or something like that when they talk with you, it's pretty obvious they don't remember your name.), just has a bad memory and thinks I dress effeminately. So you see, it's not the gay part that bothers me, it's the lack of impression I'm leaving (and not that I'm trying to impress, but naturally it feels good to be remembered by people). Do I need to try harder? I think every time I "meet" Jassen from now on, if I say, "Hi Jassen, I'm Chris, my brother's homosexual lover," I'm pretty sure he'll never forget me again.

Four!

I've been in this conversation with a lot of different people, and pondered this question myself. What is golf? Is it:
A. A sport
B. A hobby
C. Recreation
D. Silly time
Actually, it's all of the above. I've come to the conclusion that I've played golf for all of those reasons, ever since I took it up in 7th grade 23 years ago. And I realize that sometimes it's been for a combination of those reasons in the same round. I have taunted many a friends right before teeing off of hole #1 in competition with them, but then claim by hole #10 that I'm just playing for fun, and then by #14 it's goof-off time--if I've been bad up to this point I may as well really stink at it. I am no Tiger Woods, and I have to remind myself that golf, for me, has to be fun. And fun only fits letter D, because I still get too friggin' ticked off if I'm thinking A, B, or C. I can't take myself too seriously, because then I get too stressed. However, golf is an easy game to take too seriously. You see it from just about anyone on the course on any given day. People are getting angry all over the place. At their crappy shot. At their crappy lie. At the crappy course. It's too hard. It's too easy. The wind's changing direction. There's a puddle. The grass is too long. You stepped on their line. They stepped in goose poop. That guy's shirt's not tucked in. The birds are too loud. Someone laughed....They'd cuss out their own grandmother if she was in front of them and playing like a turtle. In no other sport, game, or whatever you want to call it do people complain and get mad so much. The greatest golfer ever, Tiger Woods, makes millions, is good-looking, has a good-looking wife, gets to play golf for a living, but still is often angry at something and occasionally will throw a club. I'll tell you a little secret if you want to have a little more fun and a little less chance of dying of a heart attack on the course. It's how you dress. I came across this picture of John Daly with a big smile on his face. No, it wasn't the first thing I noticed, but it was the second. Here's a guy who doesn't take himself too seriously and who has fun. Jesper Parnevik has fun. Ian Poulter has fun. Camilo Villegas has fun. Payne Stewart had fun. Johnny Miller had fun. The Three Stooges had fun. Tiger Woods though? He's having fun rolling in his pile of money. Golf can be boring enough already (how many of you actually watch matches on television?), especially when everyone's dressed in the same polo and khakis and you confuse one guy with the next. Tiger Woods won't tell you it's true because he doesn't know, but I do. I've been there and done that in pink men's vintage pants and a men's vintage shirt. Golf is more fun this way. "But Tiger makes a lot of dough and he wears ordinary clothes," you mock. Here's the difference though. You and I have moxy. And you and I will never make one red cent from our golf skills to pay for a quadruple bypass that will happen one day if we don't do this. Maybe your new, bold outfit will just be one more thing for that old guy behind you to complain about. And the new you will just laugh at his misfortune, kick your ball out of the rough and into the fairway, and whack away.