Pray For Rain

I've never been a great man for parades. Don't get me wrong - I'm nothing if not a great man, for lots of stuff, and just in general really, but I don't much care for parades. I've don't think I've ever met anyone who shares such a passionate distaste for standing in the mid-day heat, miles from where I had to park, squinting into the sun at an occasional horse or convertible, ridden by some stranger who insists on waving at me like I once saved their life. I've been alive for a long time now and I remember the days when parades were a little bit more cool (mainly because there were far fewer things to do). I remember my aunts when they were in college, would spend every night for a month decorating elaborate floats and even when I was five years old I used to think, "good hell, what a waste of time."

It's not unlike writing these articles, I fuss over them for hours on end, and obsess over every comma. I look at them from every possible vantage to make sure they're as perfect as I can get them - and for what? Maybe a couple hundred people get a cheap chuckle out of it. Or maybe thousands - who knows, I certainly have no idea. Actually the Boneman deal is quite a bit like a parade. They only come along every so often, there's alot of waiting around and I'm only as good as my last float.

But I digress, what I'm really getting at is that parades suck. Nobody has time to make those painstaking floats and don't get me started on marching bands. Look closely at the youngsters in the band and decide for yourself if they're having a good time. Because I've marched in those boots - yes, in Jr. High the Boneman was the tromboneman. I know exactly how much fun it is to test your stamina and will to survive, marching knee-high amid the "livestock land-mines" and the July heat in an armor uniform to the tune of "Stayin' Alive." Luckily I was wise enough to get my brass out of the band by the time I hit High School, because in High School it's important to be somewhat cool. Trust me, there's just no way on earth to play the trombone, march in time with the Sousa-palooza, dodge the pony-piles and look cool at the same time. In High School you want to play the guitar. That's the ticket, hand that trombone to your little brother. For some reason the chicks don't go for musicians who have to drain three days worth of residual saliva on the floor through a little hole in their instrument.

In truth the reason I went off on this rather lengthy intro about my distaste for Parades is because I recently endured an equally grueling experience called the Parade of Homes. (For those of you reading this who may be from other cultures, this is an event where poor people take a tour of homes they can't possibly afford - and where wives become increasingly embittered about the limitations of their husbands incomes) good times, lotsa fun. It can be a very belittling experience for a man. It's pretty much like, "I know what honey, next weekend let's go see the Parade of Hunks with 10 inch penises - we'll bring the camera."

The thing is some of these homes are just ostentatious mansions worth well into the millions. Thus for most attendees it's not unlike the days of old when the Royals would take a holiday and allow the peasants an opportunity to tour the Palace. Some of these homes are so huge that they come with Public Address systems in case you become separated from your party. And if I never hear the phrase, "look at the closet space," ever again - Goodness! It's as if my house was built years before owning clothing and shoes really caught on. I swear if a man were able to provide a woman with a closet big enough to play raquetball in, he could get away with playing poker with the boys every night for the rest of his life. Some of these homes had rooms that we couldn't even determine any purpose for - other than perhaps a place to hide - "they'll never look in here - why would they? There's nothing in here!"

They make you take off your shoes before you enter these homes, which is understandable, and it gave the old Bonester a chance to have a little fun. I'd get to the front door and after they'd stamp my "peasant card" I'd take off my shoes, and then promptly start taking off my pants as well. After being stopped before I could fully drop trou, I'd complain about my new glasses and swear up and down that I thought the sign said, "Please remove your clothes." My bad.

I don't mean to poke fun of the organizers of this event because I know some of them and it's obvious that a lot of hard work has gone into the Parade, but there were certain things that I couldn't help notice, that I felt were a bit of an insult to one's intelligence. For example, in the master bedroom you'd find a book open on a nightstand, or toothpaste on a brush next to the bathroom sink. A 12-pack of fake eggs on the kitchen counter and stack of fake bills piled on a table in the study. Props designed, one would guess, to show the commoners that rich people live just like the rest of us. Just as a way to further illustrate this general concept on the second day of our sojourn I brought along a Baby Ruth candy bar in my jacket pocket and, while no one was looking, I unwrapped it and set it afloat in the master bathroom. Y'know just in case one of the peasants didn't know . . . squat, about how rich people live. C'mon - what kind of parade would it be without at least one float?

The parade organizers do a wonderful job, and I think they even got back at me without my even knowing. I noticed that my Peasant Tag was marked off each time with a blue marker, while most everyone elses was marked with red. I found out through my good friend Carol that red is code for "serious prospect" and blue is code for "penniless looky-loo." Though the homes and the floor plans are often more than impressive, some of the designers get a little crazy. No matter how rich I might one day become I don't think I'd ever like to have a 5 ton sandstone boulder between my kitchen and family room. But I could certainly get used to one of those home theater rooms, I won't lie about that. They come with motorized reclining chairs, screens the size of a billboard, unbelievable sound quality and one of them even came equipped with a guy who would sit in front of you and every so often turn around and tell your kids to shut the hell up! It just doesn't get any better than that?