Where’s Jon Stone These Past 1,742 Monday Nights?
Where’s Jon Stone These Past 1,742 Monday Nights?
I owe an apology to Jon Stone. Not the sheriff from the old Beach Boys’ song, ala, “Sheriff John Stone — why don’t you leave me… alone…? I feel so broke up, I gotta… yada yada.” The kid brother of my lifelong buddy, Curtis Stone, famous country bass player of Highway 101 fame. Curtsie and I grew up together. Maturity doesn’t seem to be in the cards for either one of us.
We sorta played a near-fatal practical joke on his sibling, Jonathan and it’s not like Jon isn’t without sin. The three of us are apex predator practical jokers.
For years, Monday nights were reserved for poker. We’d gather in this little bunk house the size of a Home Depot tool shed, with room only for a poker table, chairs and cigar smoke. After 12 hours in a windowless lean-to the size of an outhouse and absorbing enough smoke to kill the dinosaurs, all of them, I’d head back to the ranch and have to strip completely naked outside, leaving my smoky duds hanging from an oak tree branch. What can I say. I had an understanding wife at the time.
Us guys would play late, usually 3 a.m. was the cut-off time as our host, Bob Becker and Jonathan had, ewe, cooties — “…jobs.” One particular evening melded into dawn’s early light and beyond. The next evening, Curtis and I, nocturnal creatures we were, slid into the evening and who do we bump into?
Jonathan Stone’s wife, Katie.
Beautiful, statuesque, Amazon of a woman. Nearsighted, too.
Katie gives us an earful about keeping her Johnny man out after milkmen and vampires are long ago sawing logs, the inference being me and Curtie are inferior, art-types who couldn’t spell “job” after being spotted the “J” and the “B.” Gentlemen we were, we didn’t infer that her husband was just out acquiring what he didn’t have at home — love, laughter, several concerned sets of listening ears and a good time.
“You guys are a coupla writers and musicians,” Katie pointed out. “You could sleep for a week and no one would notice.”
We’re gentlemen. We didn’t point out to Jon’s wife that Jon was a music producer, and, he, too, could sleep for a week at his desk and no one would notice.
Katie should’ve known. Me and Curt? We’re evil. Our lives are an ongoing performance art dedicated to The Practical Joke. We profusely apologized.
“Gosh. We’re so sorry we kept Jonathan out so late, Sis,” said Curtis. “The game ended up running late and we closed up — what time was it when everyone left, Dude?”
I shrugged. “Geez, Curt,” I chimed in. “It was pretty late. I don’t know. Coupla minutes after midnight when Jonathan climbed into his car?”
(Insert dramatic wifely pause here)
“…wuh…?” Katie stammered. Math was fighting inside her brain.
“‘ AFTER,’” Katie looked as if she required the immediate services of an exorcist, “‘ MIDNIGHT?!?!?!’” Katie shared what the two of us already knew. “He got home at 9:15 and had to be at work in the city at 10!!”
Me and Curtie should have been given our Oscars right there on the spot. I stuttered, pointing out that I didn’t see Jon drive away, that I think he maybe fell asleep in the car. “You know, Jonathan didn’t look well last night. I think he was…”
In unison, Curtis and I harmonized. Curt filled in the blank with, “sick” and I said, “tired.” Again, being a missus, Katie wanted to know about these Monday nights, stretching back years. Like a homicide cop building a case, she asked, what time did these unholy card games usually end? Again, in imperfect harmony, Curt and me shrugged, looked at one another and answered, “I don’t know. Eleven?” Atop his note, I said, “Ten?”
Curtie and I fumbled that we recalled seeing Jonathan asleep on the couch when we left. Pretending to fold like a Delaware savings and loan, we collaborated the fable of seeing Jonathan asleep on someone’s couch because, again, in unison, Curtis said Jon was “sick” and I said Jon was “tired.” I resisted to add, in Jon’s defense, “…poor little fella…” Didn’t need to. I could see that invisible Rolo-dex of female possibilities in front of Katie’s forehead, spinning out everything from Okay. Who Is She? to the memorized telephone numbers of life insurance salesmen and divorce attorneys.
This was before the days of cellphones. Curtis and I both had sports cars then and raced back to his Rolling Stone Ranch in Sand Canyon because we knew somebody would be calling.
Sure enough. Jon’s still at the office, ear warm from Katie’s inquiries about his whereabouts on the past 642 Monday nights.
“KATIE’S GOING TO DIVORCE ME!!” screamed Jonathan. This was followed by a few minutes of blue language.
“Buddy,” said Curtis. We’re in his recording studio, both hunched over, grinning like special needs third-graders. “I’m sorry. Dude. You want me to call Katie, maybe smooth things over for you?”
Jon screamed, “NOOOOO!!!”
I asked Jonathan if he needed a place to stay. I didn’t offer my own, warm, cozy, spacious home with an Olympic-sized swimming pool but asked if he had ever stayed at that budget motel in Castaic, “…at the foot of the Grapevine.”
Curtis cut in, “Because, bro, that’s where Katie thinks you’ve been getting your mail.”
Jonathan was never in the Navy. I wondered where he learned to creatively swear like that.
More inappropriate language, and laughter, from Jonathan. I have to hand it to him. He could see the Guy Humor in it and we wouldn’t have pulled anything on the couple if the two of them didn’t just adore and trust one another.
Deep down, Katie knew it was one of those idiotic, immature, incurable, Guy Maladies.
Actually?
Me and Curtie were doing the couple a favor.
Why?
Because these are but the little things that keep a marriage interesting…
John Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist/satirist. Look for his new novel, ‘Naked Came The Novelist.’
I OWE AN APOLOGY TO MY PAL, JON STONE. Not the sheriff from the old Beach Boys’ song, ala, “Sheriff John Stone — why don’t you leave me… alone…? I feel so broke up, I gotta… yada yada.” The kid brother of my lifelong buddy, Curtis Stone, famous country bass player of Highway 101 fame. Curtsie and I grew up together. Maturity doesn’t seem to be in the cards for either one of us.
We sorta played a near-fatal practical joke on his sibling, Jonathan and it’s not like Jon isn’t without sin. The three of us are apex predator practical jokers.
For years, Monday nights were reserved for poker. We’d gather in this little bunk house the size of a Home Depot tool shed, with room only for a poker table, chairs and cigar smoke. After 12 hours in a windowless lean-to the size of an outhouse and absorbing enough smoke to kill the dinosaurs, all of them, I’d head back to the ranch and have to strip completely naked outside, leaving my smoky duds hanging from an oak tree branch. What can I say. I had an understanding wife at the time.
Us guys would play late, usually 3 a.m. was the cut-off time as our host, Bob Becker and Jonathan had, ewe, cooties — “…jobs.” One particular evening melded into dawn’s early light and beyond. The next evening, Curtis and I, nocturnal creatures we were, slid into the evening and who do we bump into?
POLICE SKETCH ARTIST rendition of Bob Becker, poker player extraordinaire, who had nothing to do with the prank we played on Jon Stone, BUT, did provide the smoke-filled bunk house where the alleged crime was committed.
Jonathan Stone’s wife, Katie.
Beautiful, statuesque, Amazon of a woman. Nearsighted, too.
Katie gives us an earful about keeping her Johnny man out after milkmen and vampires are long ago sawing logs, the inference being me and Curtie are inferior, art-types who couldn’t spell “job” after being spotted the “J” and the “B.” Gentlemen we were, we didn’t infer that her husband was just out acquiring what he didn’t have at home — love, laughter, several concerned sets of listening ears and a good time.
“You guys are a coupla writers and musicians,” Katie pointed out. “You could sleep for a week and no one would notice.”
We’re gentlemen. We didn’t point out to Jon’s wife that Jon was a music producer, and, he, too, could sleep for a week at his desk and no one would notice.
Katie should’ve known. Me and Curt? We’re evil. Our lives are an ongoing performance art dedicated to The Practical Joke. We profusely apologized.
“Gosh. We’re so sorry we kept Jonathan out so late, Sis,” said Curtis. “The game ended up running late and we closed up — what time was it when everyone left, Dude?”
I shrugged. “Geez, Curt,” I chimed in. “It was pretty late. I don’t know. Coupla minutes after midnight when Jonathan climbed into his car?”
(Insert dramatic wifely pause here)
“…wuh…?” Katie stammered. Math was fighting inside her brain.
“‘ AFTER,’” Katie looked as if she required the immediate services of an exorcist, “‘ MIDNIGHT?!?!?!’” Katie shared what the two of us already knew. “He got home at 9:15 and had to be at work in the city at 10!!”
Me and Curtie should have been given our Oscars right there on the spot. I stuttered, pointing out that I didn’t see Jon drive away, that I think he maybe fell asleep in the car. “You know, Jonathan didn’t look well last night. I think he was…”
In unison, Curtis and I harmonized. Curt filled in the blank with, “sick” and I said, “tired.” Again, being a missus, Katie wanted to know about these Monday nights, stretching back years. Like a homicide cop building a case, she asked, what time did these unholy card games usually end? Again, in imperfect harmony, Curt and me shrugged, looked at one another and answered, “I don’t know. Eleven?” Atop his note, I said, “Ten?”
Curtie and I fumbled that we recalled seeing Jonathan asleep on the couch when we left. Pretending to fold like a Delaware savings and loan, we collaborated the fable of seeing Jonathan asleep on someone’s couch because, again, in unison, Curtis said Jon was “sick” and I said Jon was “tired.” I resisted to add, in Jon’s defense, “…poor little fella…” Didn’t need to. I could see that invisible Rolo-dex of female possibilities in front of Katie’s forehead, spinning out everything from Okay. Who Is She? to the memorized telephone numbers of life insurance salesmen and divorce attorneys.
This was before the days of cellphones. Curtis and I both had sports cars then and raced back to his Rolling Stone Ranch in Sand Canyon because we knew somebody would be calling.
WHAT OUR WIVES ENVISIONED our all-guys Monday Night poker games to be…
Sure enough. Jon’s still at the office, ear warm from Katie’s inquiries about his whereabouts on the past 642 Monday nights.
“KATIE’S GOING TO DIVORCE ME!!” screamed Jonathan. This was followed by a few minutes of blue language.
“Buddy,” said Curtis. We’re in his recording studio, both hunched over, grinning like special needs third-graders. “I’m sorry. Dude. You want me to call Katie, maybe smooth things over for you?”
Jon screamed, “NOOOOO!!!”
I asked Jonathan if he needed a place to stay. I didn’t offer my own, warm, cozy, spacious home with an Olympic-sized swimming pool but asked if he had ever stayed at that budget motel in Castaic, “…at the foot of the Grapevine.”
Curtis cut in, “Because, bro, that’s where Katie thinks you’ve been getting your mail.”
Jonathan was never in the Navy. I wondered where he learned to creatively swear like that.
More inappropriate language, and laughter, from Jonathan. I have to hand it to him. He could see the Guy Humor in it and we wouldn’t have pulled anything on the couple if the two of them didn’t just adore and trust one another.
Deep down, Katie knew it was one of those idiotic, immature, incurable, Guy Maladies.
Actually?
Me and Curtie were doing the couple a favor.
Why?
Because these are but the little things that keep a marriage interesting…
John Boston is Earth history’s most prolific humorist/satirist. Look for his new novel, ‘Naked Came The Novelist.’
Blog Post Title Two
It all begins with an idea.
It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.
Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.
Blog Post Title Three
It all begins with an idea.
It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.
Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.
Blog Post Title Four
It all begins with an idea.
It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.
Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.
Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.