The Best. News. Ever.

They say you always remember every intimate detail of where you were and what you were doing when you receive life-altering news. I had one of those moments recently. It was in my living room, late at night, walking from our side room to our living room. A voice on my television said, “The national tour of Phantom of the Opera will take it’s final bow.”

Why will that moment live in my mind forever? Because I hate — and I do mean HATE — the Phantom of the Opera. I hate everything about it. I hate the music. I hate the mask. I hate the t-shirts and the typeface and the promos spelling the word “fantastic” with a “ph” and Andrew Lloyd Weber for writing it and Michael Crawford for nauseatingly caressing every sappy note of every sickening ditty.

And in case you’re wondering, no. No, I’ve never seen it. I wouldn’t see it if you paid off my house. There’s only one way I’d go see it and that’s if I got to personally meet Andrew Lloyd Weber afterward. Because I’d kick him right in the nuts. I’d wear a tuxedo and pack boots for the occasion. And I’d be hitting the squat rack months beforehand.

I hate Phantom because it would never leave me alone. Ever. This miserable, overblown piece of dreck has pestered me and haunted me and annoyed me for over twenty years.

It all started with a co-worker who had a cassette tape of the soundtrack. Instantly, I didn’t like it. Which is no big deal. If I don’t like it, I won’t listen to it. But no. No, she played that tape at least once a day for months. By the 50th time I’d heard it all the way through, I wanted to unwind that tape and personally strangle the entire original Broadway cast with it. Including the stage manager.

Maybe that early exposure increased my sensitivity to it. All I know is that for over 20 years, my blood pressure has instantly spiked every time I hear that obnoxious overture:

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

I could never escape the Phantom, though I desperately wanted to. For years, my radio kept telling me to go see the Phantom at the “beautiful Pantages THEE-uh-tah in Toronto, Canada!” with that melodramatic overture playing for 60 seconds behind an announcer who sounded like he just threw back a jigger of lye. But it must have worked, because that ad ran several times a day for YEARS on every radio station I listened to. Sports, classic rock, new rock, country, news/talk, Gregorian Chant, Hindu hits, Jesus-fish… all of them. I’d be driving along, minding my own business when suddenly…

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

You can trace the advent of road rage to that particular commercial.

Then of course, it would come to town. And even though it sold out every show roughly 26 seconds after tickets went on sale, they still advertised the living hell out of it for months. I’d be watching a Pirates game, or catching up on the news, or flipping around the radio looking for a song when suddenly…

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Then I’d have to listen to people talking about what a marvelous show it was. “Did you see Phantom? Oh, you HAVE to see Phantom! Phantom is wonderful! I LOVE Phantom. I won’t miss Phantom! I got my Phantom coffee mug. Phantom, Phantom, Phantom!”

And then, three days ago, as I spent my customary seven minutes an evening channel surfing for anything other than ultimate fighting or CSI Miami reruns, I heard it again.

DAAAAAAAAAH!!! DAH-DAH-DAH-DAH DAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

Only it was different this time. Before I could reach for a lamp to throw through the TV screen, I heard those beautiful, beautiful words: The national tour of Phantom of the Opera will take it’s final bow.

Instantly, my blood pressure receded. Thank you, God. My long personal nightmare is over. It’s leaving. It’s finished. The stage will go dark. Hopefully forever. Good riddance. May it rot in hell from whence it came. 

The Best Survival Kit

I recently renewed my membership in the NRA, primarily for two reasons:

1. Government is a lot friendlier when people can shoot back;
2. They have some great gun raffles. 

Number two is important, because there are a couple of guns I really want, and the NRA tends to give them away once a year. One is a very nice side-by-side shotgun, the other a well-built .50 caliber Hawken flintlock muzzleloader. The problem is, they both cost more than I’m willing to part with presently. So it’s cheaper to buy a membership and take my chances, even though I’m 0 for 20 in this scenario.

But as a consolation prize this year, the NRA did give me a wonderful free gift for renewing my membership: the Official NRA Survival Kit. It includes a pseudo Leatherman tool, a flashlight and a knife. That led me to wonder…

Why the hell is the National Rifle Association giving me a knife?

I mean, seriously. You’re a GUN organization. And you’re giving me a knife? That would be like the Beer of the Month club giving me a free corkscrew.

I wouldn’t expect a free gun because they’re expensive, of course. But what about a cleaning kit? Or a sling? Or a can of bore cleaner? What can I do with a knife that I can’t already do with a gun (only louder)? Kill a squirrel? Scare off an intruder? Untangle a knot? No!  

Come to think of it, the NRA has to know that if I join their organization, I likely already own a gun or six. So why do I need any survival kit at all? A gun IS a survival kit. Say you’re lost in the middle of the woods somewhere and along comes a bear or a rabid coyote or the hillbillies from Deliverance. What’s more likely to get you out of those woods alive:

     A) The above survival kit (in a handy carrying case), or

     B) A Remington 870 Express 12-gauge pump action shotgun

Don’t think too hard on it because the answer is B.

If you said “A,” well, you’re in for a brutal encounter with Darwinism some day.

Still, I’m not complaining. My Official NRA Survival Kit was free after all, along with my subscription to American Hunter magazine, which is often chock-full-o’ gripping stories of harrowing escapes from Cape Buffalo. None of which involve a four-inch knife, by the way. Or a flashlight. Or a faux Leatherman tool. Just a really, really big gun.