Forgive Me For I Have Sinned

When the high priest Moses ascended the slope of Mount Siani he was in search of an answer. 40 days and 40 nights later he found his way back with the Ten Commandments. While I am thankful for the crisp clarity of the milenia old damning guidelines, I place confidence in the fact that the centuries have erased the fingered disclaimer scrawled in short hand upon the tablets. The said disclaimer allows us to cheat on a commandment or two when we are in a life threatening situation, of course.

I found myself on the same life threatening threshold that the Lawgiver found himself on while hillside: toilet paperless. The past 13 days I have been without toosh tissue. Every time I drop off a deposit, I am reminded that I hate buying potty paper and have forgotten to once again pick up an illusive roll.

The only solution to this moral dilemma: take a shower. I have never had 13 consecutive days filled with so much soapy nudity. Two or three times I day, I find myself pleasantly surprised by yet another burst of hot water cascading down over my body. This fine solution became a highlight in my toilet paper conservation program until house guests began asking to use my restroom. To their surprise, I invited them to stroll across the street to the local convenience store where they could poop freely and use the sandpaper-esque toilet paper.

Finally, on the 13th day of my Mount Siani, I found myself in a public restroom delivering my digested product to the porcelain god. There was an extra roll of toilet tissue perched along side the throne. It seemed to call to me in ways no other inanimate object ever has. "Take me. Wipe thy tender bum and be free of thy burden," it chanted. In a moment surely to cause the Parter of the Red Sea grief, I stole that roll of wonderful wiping weave.

A commandment may have been broken, but I feel that the long lost disclaimer applies to such languished lavatory laments. Forgive me, for I have sinned.

Period Preaching

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. It is a festivity for all the major social groups: couples, single individuals, and those with eating disorders. For many around the world it is a time to celebrate those who have passed from this life, but for everybody else it is a time to wear the least amount of clothes possible and try to avoid frost bite. Whether it is an overly exposed abundance of flesh or a creepy costume, nothing will scare me this Halloween compared to my recent rendezvous with religion.

I found myself in an unfamiliar chapel for church services. Several laymen expressed their devotion to God and the Holy Writ. The mood was believing and canonical until she made her way to the pulpit.

The slender framed ginger with a forceful chin stood upon the podium and declared, "I became a woman this week." I glanced around to see if anyone else thought that this was a bizarre statement for a 15 year old to be making, but found most of the congregation drooling. She continued.

"I didn't understand why I was bleeding," she announced. I wanted to dissolve into the cushioned pew in horror, shock and awe as she proceeded to inform the throng of innocent worshipers about her loss of vital fluids through the meridional escape route. Panic terrorized my anxiety as an extensive personal account of this young lady's female functions was unfurled and compared to the crimson suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane. I must exclude many of her poignant sentences in fear of being struck by lightening, but the finale came in a spin-chilling aphorism, "He bled for me."

This was by far the spookiest moment of my Halloween holy day.

Amen.

Was Blind, But Now I See

The blind have always held a very special spot in my heart. It was my pleasure to raise two Guide Dogs for the Blind in my youth. Seeing the immense help they gave to their sightless counterparts gave me insight to a world I could never understand. But it was a universe that I decided to explore on Saturday at the Jiffy Lube.

I parked my Buick along side the Jiffy Lube on 5400 South. After taking a deep breath, calming my nerves, I exited the Buick and began stumbling toward the brick building. Groping for the entrance, my fingers touched the door handle and I shuffled into the lobby of the garage. One of the grease monkeys approached me and asked if he could help me. I let him know that I had parked my car on the west side of the building and that I needed him to change my oil. With that, I handed him my keys and felt my way to a chair.

Reverently, quietly, I waited for the man to come back. He opened the door and beckoned for me to follow him. I, of course, ignored him because I was blind. Clearing his throat he muttered, "Mr. Cannon, your car is ready. I'd like to go over what we did today." I stood up and waited for him to come over and escort me, arm in arm, to the computer screen. Keeping my lazy glazed eyes loosely glued to his face, I began tearing up as he said, "You can read here what we changed on your car today." Swallowing every nerve to giggle, my voice quivering I said, "I can't see."

The poor man who was waiting on me shrank when he realized his blunder against the blind. Reading each and every word on the screen took the articulately challenged man an eternity and I soaked up each and every moment of it! Finishing the check list, I took his arm and let him guide his visionless patron to the awaiting Buick.

"Are you sure you don't need some help? Someone to drive you home?" he repeatedly asked. To which I assured him, "I do this all the time."

Feeling my way into the car, I slid my body into the driver's seat with the grace of a sightless swan and buckled up. Pushing on the gas and break one after another, the sedan lurched forward with amazing gumption for such an old girl. "HEY STOP!" screamed the lube man, but it was too late. I slammed on the gas, spun the steering wheel and the tires screamed as I barreled away from that Jiffy Lube and onto amaurotic freedom.

Tropical Storm Lee

Tropical Storm Lee has ravaged the shores of Louisiana as Mother Nature continues her bizarre menstruation cycle this summer. Chaos ridden and draped with washed up seaweed, the relief efforts have begun to clean up Lee's wake. But there is another Lee that strikes fear in the hearts of the innocent, the peaceful office staff and pocket sized pygmies throughout the Rocky Mountain West.

We recently installed a new printer in the office where I pretend to work. The genius tech guy decided that it would best suit the office staff to place the over sized paper producer directly outside of my office door. Poor choice.

As I briskly exited my luxury suite, I always walk quickly and with purpose so that onlookers think I am occupied and unapproachable, my wide set hips clipped the fancy font fabricator and flung the five folder trays through the air. The whole office stopped and starred as I froze mid-mishap.

In my best angry voice I said, "This junk is always getting in my way!" With a sheepish tone that would have swooned Little Bo Peep, Hellewell said, "Sorry, I will have the printer moved." To which I promptly replied, "No, no I was talking about my bum."

Looks like our own Lee tempest has hit the office coast line: Please evacuate the area and avoid airborne articles previous attached to printers.

The "Right" Song

I was recently asked to perform at my little brother Stinky' wedding. With all the sincerity of my heart I began searching for just the "right" song to capture the love of this developing duo of devotion. The following paragraph is littered with links to my failed list of possible pieces:

The Police's magic melody of "Every Breath You Take" is a popular early 80's tune that might appear appealing as an aria for the wedding of a creepy stalker. If stalking isn't your flavor, perhaps "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion will be able to capture the essence of death and love. And if for some bizarre reason you don't want a funeral piece performed at your nuptial ceremony, perhaps the ulta romantic lines of "When I'm 64" by the Beatles will suit your ceremony better.

And then I found it: The perfect hymn to encapsulate the passion, the purity, the eternal pining for each other's heart. Like a cherry atop a mount of heavy whipped cream, like the chipotle jalapeno relish upon a greased up hot dog, like a large bird turd on a newly washed Buick, "Like A Virgin" by Madonna is the finale to a life of celibacy for these two stalwart saplings. Thank you Madonna for providing me with this beautiful ballad and thank you Stinky for providing me with such a fabulous captured audience to croon to.

The Secret of Life

Four steps to achieving the secret of life:

1) Click on this link :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
2) Watch this video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hWG3CyDw90o
3) Comment on the YouTube video :
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4) Share this video with everyone you know :
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Haunting Scars of Our Youth

When did Donald Trump first acquire his bouffant hair style? Is it reminiscent of his awkward adolescence? When did Lady Gaga first acquire her desire to wear meat? Is it a shadow of an overly carnivorous father figure? When did Adolph Hitler first acquire his square shaped mustache? Is it in memory of his overly masculine mother?

These inquires become the hinge on our window of memory that, when opened, allows us to see the haunting scars of our youth. What moment defined who we would be for the next 20, 40, or 80 years? Was it an epic failure that rocketed you into a successful career as a social worker? Or, perhaps you experienced a life changing success in your junior year of high school that, like Billy Ray Cyruss, left you with an impressive mullet? I recently witnessed this inspiring junction in the life of a young man.

While tutoring at a local elementary school, I watched the throng of 2nd graders bustling about in their microcosm of playground politics and classroom crushes. Each jockeying for their own chance to shine, one boy stood out. He was a sturdy chap with the flash of fire in his eyes and the smell of chocolate cake on his breath. Wearing an adult XL sized Cub Scout shirt busting at the seems, he paraded around his peers with the pomp of a perfectly plumed peacock. He looked hungry for an adventure, starving for a thrill, famished for fun. And then his eyes landed upon the bent over view of the student teacher Ms. Bells: his target was found.

With the stealth of a bloated walrus, he clamored his way atop the nearest work table. I could see the momentum building in his stocky body has he began a great squatting movement on the shaking desk. With one strenuous heave of his hefty human Ho Ho, this proud Cub launched himself skyward. The frail frame of the momentarily stationary student teacher did not stand a chance against the rotund mass of the airborne child.

The look of triumph rested on his glistening face as he stood over his flattened victim. This was his moment, his formalizing announcement to the world that he would be someone special: the next Rock, the next Hulk Hogan, the next President of the United States of America. His future was cemented for him in one glorious body thrust that took an authority figure to the ground. This 8 year old became king of his own mountain. What future will be haunted by this scar of his youth? Only time will tell.

My Tale

Charles Dickens penned, "I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by and by into our lives." Long hours have I sat, listening, listening to a thunderous throng of thespians soaking up each other's excitement to a level of saturation. And for that abundance of life, I would like to thank each of the individuals who have added to the synergy of my Tale.

"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature in constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other." Listening to each of your words, listening to each of your actions, and most importantly, listening to each of your love has been a treasured secret and mystery for me to explore. Through the secret places of our hearts, we have shared the vulernabilities that allow for pure understanding to occur. Your love has been the key to opening the door to this story, to our story. Thank you for letting me listen.

Dickens wrote that Dr. Manette would often lapse back into memory and experience things "incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away." I already find myself craving your "shadow" that you cast upon me. No one outside of our production can understand the culminating adventure that we took together. Your shadow is a comfort, a safe place in my life. Thank you for letting me be in your shadow.

Together we wrote our own Tale these past few months. Each line was written by the laughter, the tears, the drama, the hard work and the passion each of us have given freely. Freely is a poor word choice; not a single one of us can walk away from this family without acknowledging our investment in each other. The price we have paid through listening and loving each other will be an unremitting shadow in our lives.

Thank you for being mine.

Excuse Me?

A trio of recent events can be categorized under the title: Excuse Me?

The first Excuse Me? is brought to you by my fleshy friend, Brenda. Brenda and I met in a tragic treadmill accident involving her passing out, flying off the belt, denting the wall and me hyperventilating due to laughter. The cementing of our friendship occurred when Brenda positioned herself behind me during a squatting exercise. A low grunt escaped her pursed lips as she looked at my rump and said, "Your bum makes me crave cinnamon rolls!"

How does one respond to such a carnal statement? Excuse Me?

A second Excuse Me? came onto the scene during a recent filming of a flash mob. I was dressed as an innocent janitor who was called in to clean up the popcorn that had been thrown by an angry couple. Erupting into song, I bellowed through my part as the unsuspecting patrons were confused and delighted. At the end of the number, the performers dispersed back into the crowd and I moved several tables over and began nonchalantly sweeping again. At this point a senior member of the softer sex waved at me and said, "Will you clean this crap up?" motioning to the disarray of Diet Coke, french fries and crumpled napkins. I stared at her blankly. Why in the world would I clean up her mess? Following my confused silence the second question came, "Do you speak English?"

How does one respond to such a racist statement? Excuse Me?

Lastly, the third Excuse Me? exploded onto the stage this very night. It is my pleasure to perform at a professional theater nestled between the freeway and low income housing developments. I have been plagued by fairly abusive bowel issues as of late and made a mad dash off stage, through the empty lobby of the theater and into the abandoned restroom in hopes to avoid any soiled skivvies. The bass release that occured was of epic earth moving proportion somewhere in the key of B minor. As I opened my eyes after the reverbaration had passed, I saw through the crack of the stall the owner of the theater standing at the sink washing his hands. His was a look of awe and horror.

How does one respond to such a startled look? Excuse Me?

Gluteus Maximus Pile Driver

The United States led an international conversation on Sunday to force President Hosni Mubarak to listen to the Egyptian people's demands for democracy. But there was little indication that the wrinkled dictator would budge, at least for now.

With all this confusion plaguing the pyramid strewn country, I feel that it is my duty to give the people of Egypt credit for their courage and dancing style. Thank Ra and Orsis that the Egyptians created the "Egyptian" dance move. If only I had followed in Pharaoh's footsteps and done the "Egyptian" this weekend, then an innocent life would have been left unmarred.

The scene unfolds as I was dancing on a VIP party platform several feet above the club dance floor. Please do not misinterpret that statement by painting a picture of me dancing atop a table, thank you. When the song "Apple Bottom Jeans" exploded through the sound system, my body took flight into what one may call modern art, a mating dance, or straight up booty dancing.

Unknown to me was the distance between my feet and the edge of the stage. As my body reacted to the intense beat of the song, it did a fairly common dance move, The Drop It Like It's Hot. As my rear end descended downward in a swift dropping motion it collided with a very solid object. Startled, I turned to find a large black woman laying on the ground directly under my bum. My fanny had flattened this female to the floor!

It was a run by rumping. Booty bump, tush push, rump thump, hindquarter sneak attack, it does not matter what you call it; I took that poor girl out with one gluteus maximus pile drive!

So when life gets dark and dreary in Egypt or wherever you may be, don't forget that some crazy white boy might plop his fanny down on your unsuspecting head. Hey, maybe the Rump Thump can be the dance move that gets President Hosni Mubarak out of office!

Somnambulism: A friend maker

Today, I am prepared to reveal an extremely personal piece of information. According to the National Sleep Foundation, I, Lee P.Cannon, suffer from a behavioral disorder. Now this may not come as a huge shock to those of you who have had the pleasure of being exposed to my disorder, but to the innocent reader who believes that I am merely a victim of awkward experiences, this may shake your confidence in my mental stability. I am a survivor of somnambulism.

Somnambulism is a behavior disorder that originates during deep sleep and results in walking or performing other complex behaviors while sleeping. In layman terms, I am a sleep walker.

Now sleepwalking might seem like a great theme for a 1940's horror film, in which the male antagonist butchers his lover Lucille with the blunt end of a plunger while "sleepwalking". It has also been the rationalization for many sex-capades throughout history (see http://www.sleepsex.org/ for more details). But for me, sleepwalking is simply a way of life.

Recently, I have taken to stripping my body down to the prenatal state while sleeping and then taking adventures beyond the bedroom. When I wake, instead of being in my plush pillow top queen bed, I will find myself sprawled out in the arm chair, snuggled in the tub, or sitting on my kitchen floor: always naked. This nude awakening has always been a welcome surprise until it became a public affair.

The last time my tired eyes opened to find my exposed body in an odd location I was propped up against the railing of my patio. Some patios might be prime locations for nude nocturnal narratives, but my patio is down town Salt Lake City. Located 36 inches away from a fairly busy street lay bare the Lee Cannon modern art exhibit.

I have no excuse for my public display of flesh, but only good has come of the event. I was expecting a phone call from the police informing me that I would be appearing before a judge to be sentenced for my indecent exposure ticket. But instead, I received 16 friend requests on Facebook that day. Sixteen complete strangers from Salt Lake City happen to add me in the wee hours of the morning during and after my most recent au naturel stroll. Thank you Somnambulism, you truly are the best friend maker.

Ending 2010 On A High Note

In the light of the season of goals, lifestyle change and over eating, I ventured into the world of retail therapy to rehabilitate my need for radiant raiment. Little did I know that on this innocent outing I was to be visited by own Ghost of Christmas Past, much like Charles Dickens' classic character Ebenezer Scrooge.

The spirit came to me in the form of a store clerk. A young man in his late teens with fairly poor hygienic qualities, the Ghost of Christmas Past looked at me with a quizzical excitement. When I acknowledged his eagerness for social intercourse he bleated out, "Are you Lee Cannon?" This caught me off guard, but my affirmative answer led him to explain, "I was you for Halloween last year!"

Normal children dress up as vampires, monsters, Hilary Clinton or mummies on Halloween night, but this pimpled adolescent chose to get gussied up as Lee Cannon. I could not decide if I should be flattered or offended at his outward adoration for the LeeLee of my youth. The high road was taken, and I graciously accepted his declaration with a hesitant, "Thanks?"

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and I am proud to support future generations using this photo as the raw material for a spectacular Lee Cannon Halloween costume. Thanks 2010 for ending on a high note!


P.S. My favorite reaction to this piece so far has been from Claudia Bigler, "I can't think of another local mortal that this would happen to. Infamy has reached our little world."