Aug3

15 Down and a Lifetime to Go!

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I love you, Budge 🙂

Fifteen years ago today, I hit the lifetime lottery. Hopefully, Budge feels the same way even if she’s had less of a reason to rejoice than I have all these years. We celebrate our 15th Anniversary today. The traditional gift for the fifteenth anniversary is crystal. I’ve thought about that some lately and I’ve come up with some thoughts about the Crystal Anniversary.

Crystal is fragile — just like a marriage. Now by that I don’t mean marriages (especially Budge and I) are about to fall apart anymore than I mean an expensive crystal vase is going to shatter just by sitting it on a table. When I say fragile, I’m talking about easy to break. No matter how good a marriage is, it’s easy to break. Break trust, break hearts, break a whole lot of things. Just like crystal, you can glue it back together but it won’t ever be the same. No, it’s much easier to keep things together in the first place rather than having to try fixing it. Thankfully . . . VERY thankfully, Budge and I haven’t had to reach for the glue.

Crystal comes in all shapes and sizes and crystal is useful for a plethora of different things. HOWEVER, crystal isn’t meant to do everything. Some jobs need steel. Some need paper. The important thing to remember is not to try forcing something onto an object that isn’t meant to take the stress. A marriage is wonderful. It’s an opportunity for love and warmth and intimacy that cannot be found ANYWHERE else. HOWEVER, a marriage isn’t meant to take the place of everything in the couple’s life.

Way too often, people marry and expect their spouse will NEVER change and will ALWAYS provide EVERYTHING necessary for happiness. Going into a marriage like that is begging for trouble and ultimately a divorce. Marriage isn’t the be all and end all. Couples need each other but they need friends and family too. Most of all, they need God. Remember, I’m a Christian and make no apologies for it so all my atheist friends will just have to skip this part. Trying to make a marriage fulfill a role in life that only God can fill is a disaster waiting to happen. Budge has told me more than once that she loves me, but she’s known all along that I can’t make her happy. It took me a few years before I understood what she meant.

Crystal has to be cared for to look its best. Put a crystal plate on the mantle and leave it. It’ll sparkle for a long time. It’ll look good even longer, but if you walk up to the mantle and look closely, you’ll see dust and dirt. Marriage is just like that. Leave it unattended too long and the dust and dirt start to accumulate. It’s much better to take the plate down and rinse it off with clear water and maybe a spritz of cleaner to keep the plate shiny. To keep a marriage shining, it takes regular cleaning and care.

Speaking of cleaning, here’s a little known and somewhat unpleasant fact. Vinegar is a great cleaner for fine crystal but it has a harsh smell and isn’t really fun and pleasant to work with. Marriages do better if they have a little “vinegar” every now and then. When everything is sugar and teacakes, you don’t really know what your spouse can handle. A good dose of vinegar sets your teeth on edge and shows the true mettle of the matter. My Budge and I have drunk our fair share of vinegar . . . and part of some other couple’s allotment as well — I’ve BEEN the vinegar in Budge’s glass more than once. Thankfully, the sour times have made the sweeter times just that much sweeter.

Finally, remember this if you remember nothing else. Someone will ALWAYS want your crystal. That vase you were once so proud of? Now it just doesn’t sparkle and you’ve gotten tired of it. SOMEONE WILL TAKE IT IF YOU LEAVE IT OUT. What you may be tired of is exactly what someone else is searching high and low to find. Something else I’ve figured out along the road . . . the BEST way to DESPERATELY need something is to get rid of it and see it in someone else’s possession. Hopefully, we’re all adults here and I don’t need to draw you a picture. Keep your crystal safe and clean and shining. Don’t start yearning for other vases and glasses and knickknacks. Yes, the grass does always look greener on the other side of the fence but that’s because it’s got more cowsh- well, you know what I mean. If you want a good marriage, work at it. Be where you are and quit wishing to be somewhere else.

When Budge and I started dating, our relationship was very complicated for a multitude of reasons. I can’t tell you how many people, including members of our families, didn’t give us a chance. A good many people claimed we’d never make it. In fact, within 18 months of our wedding, eight other couples in our church at the time married. Of the nine total couples, only four of us are still married to the same spouse. Budge and I are one of them 🙂

No matter what people said, we’re still here. Still standing. Still together.

Still crazy after all these years.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend, my biggest cheerleader, and my favorite snugglebunny.

I love you, Budge.

Jul26

Illegal Hypocrisy

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I tolerate much offensive behavior without protest, but four things consistently anger me beyond my ability to remain silent. They are — in no particular order — lying, abuse of the helpless (elderly, children, and animals), Clemson football play calling, and bald-faced hypocrisy. At the moment, I’m pretty well pissed because  too many politicians and people are such hypocrites on illegal immigration. Immigration hasn’t out front lately with all the media coverage going to the “debt crisis.” (Debt crisis! Come to my house; I’ll SHOW you a debt crisis) Yesterday, though, I saw some stuff on Facebook in the comments section of President Obama’s page that remind me of how ugly this debate really is.

Here’s the problem as I see it; the story of Europeans in America is a story of raping and robbing, of deceit and destruction. When English Pilgrims and Jamestowners got off the boats, they would have ALL died if not for the grace of God and the kindness of the natives. How they repaid God’s grace is a matter for theological debate, but how they thanked the Indians is a matter of historical record: smallpox infected blankets, blatant disregard for Indian culture, and complete dishonesty in treaty after treaty. Sure doesn’t say much for people who founded a country supposedly based on “equality of all mankind.” (Of course they meant all free, white, male, landowning, and educated kind.)

Down South America / Central America way, the Spanish were at least honest. A conquistador would simply ask “Do you have gold? Good, we will take it all. Thank you. Now, you are my slave; carry your — I mean — my gold to the ship.” Then, a wonderfully pious priest would ask, “Do you believe in God? Who is that? He isn’t the real god. Convert immediately and live or cling to your stupid backward ways (that built at least 3 flourishing empires) and we’ll torture you until you beg to convert then kill you so you can go straight to Heaven.”

By the end of the 20th Century, Indians controlled less than 10% of the continents they kept and tended so well for thousands of years. One would think they were just waiting to be discovered and exploited by the white man. Deemed savages because they didn’t understand or practice ownership of land and didn’t worship the Christian’s God — at least not by that name anyway — they were worthy of extermination as in “the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

Well, folks, karma is an ill-tempered bitch with a long memory. If the Hindu reference bothers you, then how about a Christian reference?  Apostle Paul in Galatians, “Whatever a man sows, he will reap.” For 500 years, European “immigrants” have destroyed and exploited the native people. Now their descendents want some of it back.

Thus begins the hypocrisy.

We took this land by force with the fervent belief it was our Manifest Destiny. Now people are pissed off at people, mostly brown people from Mexico, who want a piece of the pie. We wanted, nay, demanded, the whole cupboard and pantry yet begrudge them the crusts they want. Here’s the deal, our ancestors set out in rickety ships to “find a better life.” The new wave of illegal immigrants walk across deserts with no water while avoiding crazy, trigger-happy “Minutemen”  to do what?

“Find a better life.”

What made our ancestors so right and the new “illegals” so wrong? We didn’t feel the need to obey native laws or customs, so why do we cry foul when what went around has come back around?

I know people will want to say “that was different.” How was it different, exactly? Some will go on about how a lot of the illegals are criminals and represent a danger to our safety. Really? Well,  a lot of Indians died because Europeans wanted land, so I’d say the Indians were in danger, but apparently that’s okay with everyone .

Rash Limburger and his ilk love to blather about how, “They’ll take (or they’re taking) all our jobs!” Really? When is the last time you saw an illegal looking Latino individual working a white-collar job? Just exactly what jobs are these people stealing? Let’s see . . . landscaping? I’m sure hundreds of Anglo-Americans will line up to fill all the landscaping jobs once we deport the illegals. I mean, who doesn’t want to spread mulch, cut grass, and dig irrigation trenches in 100 degree heat and 90% humidity? How about highway construction? Sign me up to stand behind a dump truck full of 600 degree semi-molten tar and rock ready to spread it with a shovel! Household staff (aka “maids”)? Custodians? Slaughterhouse workers? Dish washers? The fact is, suspected illegals fill jobs Anglo-Americans have mostly abandoned but still need doing! Why begrudge someone a job you don’t want?

An acquaintance of mine owns his own full service car wash. He employs a large number of Hispanics, but it wasn’t always like that. According to him, in the first years he filled his staff with college students home for the summer or high school dropouts learning a hard lesson. Now the last ten years, he can’t get students or dropouts. When he asks them why they are leaving — the ones man enough to show up and tell him anyway — they say the work is “way too hard for the pay.”

He says he never has a problem with his Hispanic workers though. Men and women alike are always neat, clean, prompt, and hard-working. He doesn’t have to do nearly as much supervision as he once did because his workers are a community. Many of them live together, eat together, and go to and from work together. They police themselves, and as he puts it, “They push a lot of cars through and make me a lot of money.” He acknowledges some of them may be illegal but whenever he’s asked for it, they’ve the correct required paperwork.

This country was founded on the ideal that you could come here with nothing, work hard for a long time, and eventually “have something”. We even have a name for it. It’s called The American Dream. So why are we — a country of rebels and renegades, eccentrics and entrepreneurs — so incensed at a newer, hungrier wave of people coming in — just like our ancestors did — to grab a share of the pie we stole from them originally and have been hogged to ourselves for 200+ years? They want the same thing those early colonists wanted — a better life.

We even have one advantage over those natives’ ancestors who greeted our European progenitors; we can be relatively certain they don’t plan to exterminate or enslave us.

That’s what I think, anyway.

Love y’all and keep those feet clean!

Jul25

New Look for Grocery Store Feet!

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Now THIS is a grocery store you can get grocery store feet walking around in!

So, WordPress.com added a cool new theme called Matala and since I’d been using the Enterprise theme for the last year, I thought I’d try updating to something a little fresher and newer that looks older. It doesn’t put everything exactly where I’d put it, but the WordPress designers are way better with CSS and HTML and a dozen other code languages than I’ll probably ever be, so I’ll be happy with “good enough.” Y’all should cheer about that. I’m still OCD, but I’m letting go of a little control! In any event, this little update brings the total number of posts to 200. Two centuries worth of my thoughts down on paper — or electrons or whatever — you get the point.

I hope the new look attracts some more readers, unless of course, my writing actually is horrible in which case I guess they are staying away in droves. As Yogi Berra once said, “Nobody goes there anymore; the place is too crowded!” That’s a problem I’d love to have, if for no other reason, my shameless ego.

So, take a tour. See if you like it and if you do, let me and several friends know. If not, you can tell me and I’ll weep in the darkness alone about it and have a major setback, but I’ll recover. I do hope folks like it though. Otherwise, I spent five hours today wasting time!

Love y’all and keep those feet clean!

Jul24

“I Hope I Die Before I Get Old” . . . Club 27 Adds A Member

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What is it about 27? Astrologists blame Saturn. I blame fame. Of all the members of Club 27, I don’t think ANY of them were really comfortable with just how famous they became at such relatively young ages. Hendrix just wanted to get high and play guitar. Janis loved to sing her heart out and she had a pretty crappy voice . . . but she still hits me right in my soul whenever “Me and Bobby McGee” shows up on my iPod. Pete Ham and the rest of Badfinger were supposed to be the next Beatles, until they weren’t and Pete hung himself. The Lizard King? I don’t know about him. He was ONE WEIRD DUDE. Pigpen drank. I mean, how can you get cirrhosis of the liver at freaking 27 years old? I know a lot of people will disagree with me, but I liked the Dead’s sound much better with Pigpen than their later psychedelic stuff. Pigpen sounded good even if you WEREN’T high. Robert Johnson? I think the Devil called in his marker. I don’t think young Mr. Johnson really knew what kind of deal he was signing at the crossroads that dark night . . . and yes, I actually believe he sold his soul to the actual Devil in exchange for the ability to play and sing the blues like no one before him and a pitiful few since him.

Whatever curse the 27th year holds doesn’t really matter. All I know is that I’m sad right now and I really think I could cry but it would just make my head hurt worse and that wouldn’t help anything. Unlike a lot of my feelings and emotions, I can tell you EXACTLY the first and, til now, last time I felt this sick inside — April 9, 1994. I was on my way to my crappy job as a dye tech at a textile plant and I heard on my truck radio that Kurt Cobain was dead. I remember distinctly thinking, “Well, she finally killed him.” I still think she did too. Her PI found the body and they were always a train wreck anyway. She just got a little too out of control and shot him then staged the scene.

Now, Amy Winehouse is gone. It was just a little over a year ago I had this nagging feeling in my gut and head and this little internal voice kept saying, “Man, why don’t you try to get in touch with her? She’s a mess and she ain’t always been like that; maybe you could talk some sense into her.” Obviously, I figured that would have been stupid to even try, so I just pushed that feeling away. I wonder, though, if — by some miracle — I DID manage to get to talk to her personally if I could have changed anything. I mean, I’m just a middle age hick from a Podunk town in a Podunk state. I really doubt she’d have listened to a think I had to say . . . but I still can’t get over the memory of that feeling.

I hope y’all will forgive me for picking the picture of her off the cover of “Back to Black.” That’s how I want to remember her — clear-eyed and soaring, not strung out and falling down. She was really a very voluptuous and beautiful young woman with an amazing, smoky voice that belonged in an old Hollywood black and white movie. I heard she started losing so much weight because a magazine critic mentioned in an article that Amy looked a little heavy in the hips. If that’s the case, I hope that writer is happy now. More likely though, the fame led to the drugs and the drugs led to the grave. It’s like I said on Facebook — sometimes that limelight is so bright and hot it can burn the heart and soul and finally the life right out of a person who didn’t really want all that fame in the first place. I just don’t know.

I doubt you will, but I hope you rest in peace, Club 27 . . . you left us WAY too soon with a lot of music  unwritten and unsung.

The rest of y’all remember I love you and keep those feet clean.

Jul23

Mexican Restaurant Etiquette

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Budge and I love to eat at Mexican restaurants. She had never tried Mexican until we married and I showed her the joys of pollo fundido and arroz con pollo. I still can’t get her interested in flan, but she does like fried ice cream.

In our visits to Mexican eateries, I’ve noticed a few things that disturb me . . . of course, many things disturb me so this should not be seen as unusual. We ate at a local cantina last night called Papa’s and Beer and I watched several people do boorish and ill-advised things, so I figured I’d put out this post as a public service bulletin. Pay attention now, folks, and y’all might learn something.

Rules of Behavior in the Local Cantina

1) Do not try to carry on a conversation or even try to speak with the “chip boy / girl.” Any attempt at conversation will likely be met with a beautiful but tense smile. That smile is a coping mechanism because the vast majority of “chippers” know only very limited amount of English. Mostly their vocabulary is limited to “Chips?”, “more chips?”, and “Hot or mild?” Maybe, just MAYBE — if they sometimes run food — they will know “hot plate,” but that’s pretty much it. This isn’t being racist or mean. Fact is, these folks are usually the youngest employees and have been in the US the shortest amount of time so their English isn’t up to conversational levels yet. Now don’t ignore them entirely, but a smile and nod will suffice to make them happy and let them know you are not a complete jackass.

ABIERTO? CERRADO!! That's right! You watched it back in the day and you know you did!

2) If all the Spanish you know comes from Sesame Street skits don’t try to order in “authentic Spanish.”  Most of us, if we are exceptional, could say one or two things if someone dropped us in the middle of Mexico, Spain, or Argentina before we had to resort to pidgin and pointing at stuff. Personally, I learned all the non-food Spanish I know BEFORE I started to walk the Jericho Road so for me those two things are get a beer and find the bathroom. If you are from the South, you cannot roll your Rs and our precious accent does not lend itself  easily to other tongues. Do you REALLY want to say “please” in Spanish? If you’re Southern, I can almost guarantee it will come out “pair fay vor” instead of “por favor” and your wait person will go back to the kitchen and laugh at the yanqui‘ with the rest of the kitchen staff. Remember you failed Spanish in high school for a REASON.

The white boy sliding as the other guy kicks the ball away? Yeah, that's you.

3) If a soccer game is on, DO NOT try to impress the cute waiter or waitress by asking “do you watch futebol?” No matter how adorable her big brown eyes are, you will only look like a fool to her because of one of two things: A) she played on a B-league team in her home country and has forgotten more about futebol than you and your table full of friends will ever know OR B) her boyfriend, father, husband, brother etc played on a B-league team back home and she has to hear their boring, repetitious war stories over and over and she’s sick of it. Either way, you won’t score any goals with her.

Speaking of home,  4) DO NOT assume your wait person is MEXICAN because you hear him/her speaking Spanish. This is going to blow some minds, I know, but Spanish IS SPOKEN outside of Mexico, Texas, and Berea.  For example, out in the Pacific Ocean, there’s a big group of islands called “The Philippines.” Their native language is Tagalog but guess what? Many, many of them ALSO SPEAK SPANISH! Ever heard of Europe? Well there’s a country in Europe called “Spain”, and THEY speak Spanish too!!You know that big pizza-slice-shaped “continent thing” below the United States on a map? That’s called SOUTH AMERICA and the entire continent — except Brazil — speaks some form or dialect of SPANISH! Brazilians speak Portuguese, but I’m willing to bet the farm you can’t tell the difference.  Anyway, your wait staff could be Colombian, Honduran, Chilean, Cuban, or South Floridian and NOT necessarily MEXICAN!

Which one of this bunch is Hispanic? Um, try ALL of them.

Furthermore on the subject of ASSUMPTIONS, 5) DO NOT assume your light complected, blue-eyed waitress is ANGLO. She may look like a true Southern belle straight out of a Junior League Cotillion yet not speak one word of English. That’s because once the South ran out of food and had to stop fighting The War of Northern Aggression, a good many BLONDE, BLUE-EYED Southern plantation owners packed up and sailed to that big pizza-slice shaped continent called what? That’s right, South America! Some of them carved out plantations where sugar and rubber replaced cotton and, unfortunately, they bought themselves new slaves because many South American countries, especially Brazil, didn’t end slavery until the 1880s. All those Confederate expatriates intermarried with the locals and over time their offspring forgot English, but kept the hair and eyes.

6) DO NOT assume every employee in the restaurant is an illegal alien. I don’t care what anyone says, Rush is NOT right, Hannity needs to shut up or be shot, and Glenn Beck needs Kleenex, some Valium, and a tour of duty in Afghanistan or Iraq so he’ll have something to CRY ABOUT. Not every Hispanic you see is here in the country illegally. Maybe they are but even if they are, you don’t have the right to look down on them and you DAMN SURE don’t have the right to give them a $1 tip after they’ve spent all evening running back and forth to keep your fat butt full of tea and salsa. They — like ALL OTHER WAITSTAFF IN THE WORLD — are HUMAN and make $2.50 per hour without tips so get off the hip and put 15% at least on that ticket and if you can’t afford to tip your hard-working waiter or waitress, EAT A PBJ AT HOME!

I bet he won't send the pollo fundido back NEXT time!

Finally, and to me most importantly, 7) These people prepare your food and you never want to piss off someone who has access to your food out of your sight. Some of these men and women have Aztec warriors’ blood running through their veins. Know what the Aztecs did to people who pissed them off? They drug them up about a gazillion narrow little steps to the top of a humongous pyramid, threw them down on a flat rock, then CUT OUT THEIR HEART AND BIT A CHUNK OFF OF IT BEFORE THEIR DYING EYES. Hispanics of all ages and occupations are very often an extremely passionate people and if you piss an extremely passionate person off, your ranchero sauce might be diluted with something you DON’T want, like Habanero pepper juice. Oh, yeah, and when you take a big bite and start gagging and eye-watering and wanting to scream at them, they’ll stand there sweetly and demurely and say, with great sorrow, “perdone, no speak anglais, senor!”

Don’t mess with the Aztecs!

Love y’all and keep those feet clean!

Jul21

Overheard In Target

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Tuesday, Budge and I made our weekly sojourn to Target for Jack’s favorite Jumbones and to pick up some cases of Dasani that were on sale. While we were shopping, I was forced to answer a call of nature requiring time and concentration. Because of my aforementioned irritation with public restrooms in general, I wasn’t very happy with the situation . . . until I heard the door open and somebody walk in. Actually, it was TWO somebodies and by the time they left, I had nearly bitten the blood from my right pointer finger to keep from laughing. You can’t make stuff this good up!

The conversation went like this:

Little boy voice: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?Daddy?”

Daddy’s voice: “Yes, son, yes. What is it?”

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Is this the girls’ bathroom or the boys’ bathroom? Huh?”

Dad: “This is the boy’s bathroom, son.”

LB: “But I don’t ever go to the boys’ bathroom I always go to the girls’ bathroom, why are we in the boys’ bathroom?”

Dad: “Because you are usually with Mommy when you are out of the house and mommies with their little boys use the girls’ bathroom, but today you’re with Daddy and we use the boys’ bathroom. Someday soon, you’ll use the boys’ bathroom even when you are with Mommy ’cause you’ll be a big boy and can go on your own.”

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Are you finished yet? Huh?”

Dad ( just the TINIEST bit tense): “No, son, I haven’t even gotten started yet. Now close the door.” At this point, “Daddy” gets seated and situated.

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”

Dad: “Yes, son?”

LB: “I wuv you a lot.”

Dad: “I love you a lot, too, son.”

LB: “Can I lock the door?”

Dad: “Yes, son, you may lock the door.”

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”

Dad: “Yes, son?”

LB: “I wuv you a lot.”

Dad: “I love you a lot, too, son.” The next sounds I hear are CLICK . . . CLICK. . . clickclickclickclickclick and then

Dad: “Son! Stop, now. That’s enough.”

LB: “Hee, hee, that’s a funny sound, Daddy. I like funny sounds.” One final CLICK then “Daddy, are you finished yet?”

Dad with a heavy sigh: “No, son, not yet, but it won’t be much longer.” Then I hear Daddy start rolling off some Charmin which leads to

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Do you need more, Daddy, can I get you more Daddy? Do you need me to help you? Mommy always helps me with the TeePee, an’ an’ an’ when you finish can I push the button (for flushing), can I, Daddy?”

Dad: “No, son, I can manage my business, thank you, and yes, you may push the button.”

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”

Dad: “Yes, son?”

LB: “I wuv you a lot.”

Dad: “I love you a lot, too, son.” At this point I hear the rattling sounds of change and keys as “Daddy” gets adjusted. Then I hear . . .

LB: “Wooowww! Daddy! That’s A LOT! Wait’ll I tell Dusty! Can I push the button now, Daddy? Now?” but before Daddy can answer, tragedy strikes — this toilet is an automatic flusher and I hear a little wail as the water whooshes away.

Dad: “Hang on, son, hang on. It’ll fill back up and you can push the button then . . . see. Go ahead and push the button.”

Water whooshes again and the stall door clicks open . . .

LB: “Daddy! Daddy! You didn’t wash you hands! Mommy says always wash you hands!!

Dad: “Son I know what Mommy says and Daddy doesn’t always DO what Mommy says, now come on.”

LB: “But I always have to do what Mommy says, right?”

Dad: “Yes, you must always obey your Mommy. Now come on.”

LB: “Cause it makes Jesus happy when little boys obey their Mommys?”

Dad: “That’s right, son. That makes Jesus happy. Let’s go, come on, son.”

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”

Dad: “Yes, son?”

LB: “I wuv Jesus a lot.” Steps start out and then

Dad: “I’m glad, son. I’m glad you love Jesus a lot. He loves you a lot, too.”

LB: “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?”

Dad: “Yes, son?”

LB: “I wuv you a lot to though, Daddy.”

Dad: “I love you . . .  Then the outside restroom door closes.

Nothing quite like daddies, is there?

Love y’all. Keep your feet clean and your bodies cool!

Jul18

They Aren’t Loaded, They Just Smell Bad

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My Engine looked like this.Lately, I have taken to perusing the classified ads gathered on Craigslist.com. Yesterday, I found that the car of my dreams could be mine for $25K or the best offer. The car was a 1969 Chevelle SS 396, and it was hauntingly similar to Marilyn, the ’69 Chevelle SS 396 Daddy bought for me after I wrecked my beloved ’79 Mustang.

Like the car in Craigslist, Marilyn had a Chevy big block 396 cubic inch engine under the hood bolted to a racing transmission. I loved that car. I miss that car every day. I sold her to help pay for my last semester of college and to take care of some debts I owed. If I had it to go over with again knowing what I know now, I’d have kept the car, endured the bad credit, and dropped out of college. By now, the car would be worth more than my degree is anyway.

Marilyn looked like this only with white SS stripes on the hood and trunk lid.

Looking at that Chevelle in the classifieds then looking at the weatherman promising a week of sweltering days ahead led me back in my mind to the summer when I was 17 and had just gotten Marilyn on the road with her newly rebuilt engine. At that time, gas was hovering around $1.25 for the premium her engine required, which was good because Marilyn would

pass anything on the road but a gas station. I used to joke with my buddies that she got 60 mpg, then I dropped the engine and transmission in and the mileage went down to about 7 mpg . . . downhill . . . with a tailwind . . . and no passengers.

She was NOT an economy car, but I was a teenage boy with a job and no bills, a girlfriend, and what at that time looked like a great life full of promise ahead of me. In short, I was pretty much like every one of my guy friends. Life was good and it was summertime.

The day I remember in particular was particularly hot. I believe it was somewhere between “blast furnace” and “sunlit side of Mercury.” Unlike the complete restoration in Craigslist, however, Marilyn didn’t have one nice luxury — AIR CONDITIONING. Now, she had the vent system, controls, and spot on the firewall where an A/C unit had been when she left Detroit, but in the 20 years between that day and the one in question, the unit had disappeared. I had every intention of replacing the climate control right up until I found out doing so would cost $2000 . . . and this was around 1987, remember. On my $3 per hour stocking job at Community Cash, the likelihood of me getting that kind of lettuce together was somewhere between slim and none and slim had saddled up and left town.

Since I didn’t have the factory A/C, I made use of an aftermarket system called the 2WD70MPH model. That was short for “2 windows down going 70 miles per hour.” As long as Marilyn was moving she stayed cool. You did NOT want to be stuck in traffic though. In addition to the scorching ambient heat, it is amazing how much heat aluminum headers on a 396 ci  engine generate as they pass right under your feet. My car was HOT in more ways than one.

Due to this lack of climate control, it was my custom in those days to drive shirtless and shoeless. At the time, I could still take my shirt off without some crazy man with a peg leg and a harpoon trying to stab me while shouting “Thar she blows!” Now, did you know that in the state of South Carolina, it is illegal to drive barefooted? Guess what?

Neither did I, and thereupon hangs the rest of this story.

I was on my way to Gray Court from Laurens running about 75 up Highway 14 with my AC/DC “Back In Black” CASSETTE TAPE (!!!! remember those anybody? !!!) cranked to 11 when I passed the old fruit market in Barksdale. Did you know that stretch of road happens to be a 55 mph speed limit zone? Guess what? NEITHER DID I! However, the nice man in the grey car with the blue lights who pulled out behind me would inform me of that once all the excitement died down.

So, Smokey Bear was behind me and the road was too straight and the day too bright for me to out run him, so I pulled over, cut the Marilyn off, and waited. Trooper Douglas walked up beside my the car and said, just as I’d heard so many times before, “Son, get your license and registration and step out of the car.” Remember how I said I drove barefooted? Remember how hot that asphalt had to have been? I needed to get my canvas Nikes and put them on. Guess where they were?

Under the seat.

But there was just one of him. Of course, he was PLENTY.

Friends, a word of advice, should need ever arise to retrieve something from under the seat of a hot rod car in the middle of July with a very large and somewhat aggravated member of law enforcement standing beside your open window . . . tell the man (or woman) what you need and what you are about to do before you move. I didn’t say anything; I just nodded, reached down between my legs, and stuck my hand under the seat. At that point, the day got interesting.

Trooper Douglas took exception to me reaching under the seat and, being a man of action, reached through the open window, seized me under the left armpit, with ONE ARM drug me bodily through the open window, flipped me — shirtless and spreadeagled — across Marilyn’s hood, drew and thumb-cocked his .357 magnum service revolver, then placed said revolver’s muzzle right against my left temple with his hand still pressing me firmly into the sheet metal of the hood.

As a matter of fact, that hole DID look this big or maybe a mite bigger.

Time stood still. Somewhere off in the distance a bird sang. A lone dog barked. I heard a radio across the meadow playing Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried”. My nose was filled with the smell of chest and thigh flesh roasting on the superheated sheet-metal of a car hood. I remember thinking, “Well, Mama, wearing clean underwear whenever I went out presupposes the underwear that was clean when I left will be clean once they examine my body.” It wasn’t.

After an eternity, Trooper Douglas spoke and his voice rolled down like Moses commanding the Red Sea to part for the Children of Israel, “Son, just what in the hell (pronounced in the Southern 2 syllable way “hay-yill”) do you think you are reaching for?”

Somehow or another, a primitive part of my brain realized my survival depended on the careful wording of my answer so I said, with somewhat of a sob, “Um, my canvas Nikes, Sir. They are under my seat and I promise they aren’t loaded; they just smell real bad.”

Love y’all. Stay cool and keep your feet clean.

 

Jul11

My Thoughts on a “Caylee’s Law”

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I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback telling me how “right on” I am with my previous post demonizing (deservedly) Nancy Grace for her larger-than-credited role in the Casey Anthony Trial. I’m betting I don’t get the same feedback on this post, mainly because I figure this post is going to upset more than one person. I, however, ascribe to the position held by Femi-Nazi Gloria Steinem (probably the ONLY thing she and I would agree on) when she said, “The truth shall set you free, but first it shall piss you off.”

Let the pissing off begin.

I personally don’t think Florida OR the US needs a “Caylee’s Law.” I think it is bogus and an attempt by pathetically pandering politicos to cash in on the furor surrounding the wildly unpopular verdict in the Anthony trial. While we’re on the subject, let’s go a little deeper, shall we? Take a look at the pictures in the following gallery, s’il vous plait?

I won’t keep you in suspense. These are all dead children who have or will have legislation named for them. These are the namesakes of Ginny’s Law, Adam’s Law, The AMBER Alert, Chelsea’s Law, etc, etc. Now that you know what they are, do you notice anything missing?

How about a Jakwuan’s Law? Maybe a Juan-Carlos Law? Bubba Ray’s Law? Leqweshia’s Alert? Thao Po’s Law? Mayeller’s Law?

Where are all THOSE laws? Why are all the dead children laws named for middle class White kids?

I’ll tell you why. They represent the greatest potential for political photo ops and sound bites. Dead, raped, and / or kidnapped W.A.S.P. children are ratings boosters for today’s Don Henley-esque “Dirty Laundry” news cycle. Dead colored kids or dead white trash / redneck kids? NOT SO MUCH.

Oh, no he didn’t! Yeah. As a matter of fact, he did. Does anyone who reads my blog — besides Ronald Taylor — realize just how skewed public perceptions are when it comes to finding lost or murdered children? I’ll grant you that a greater statistically valid number of white children are kidnapped and / or killed each year than other children, but where is the outcry over the missing black children? How many young black boys did Wayne Williams murder in Atlanta before pressure mounted on the authorities to “Do Something?”

Casey Anthony stayed in the spotlight for three years and prosecutors could do little more than wring their hands. Earlier this year here in South Carolina, a black woman murdered two of her children in Orangeburg. It was out of the news in less than a week. Why?

Why all the psychoanalyzing Casey Anthony, Susan Smith, and Andrea Yates, but most people can’t even name ONE black mother/murderer or ONE black missing child. The ENTIRE WORLD knows who Jon-Benet Ramsey is. She has movies and memorials and web pages to perpetuate her memory. Can anyone — ANYONE AT ALL — tell me who Celina Janette Mays is? Since I’m fairly certain no one can, I’ll tell you who she is. She is a beautiful young black girl who went missing from her home in Willingsboro, NJ on December 16, 1996. That’s nine days before Jon-Benet was found murdered in her basement under what can only be described as bizarre circumstances. Where are Celina’s memorials? Where are her made for TV movies?

I know this must look like I am saying dead and missing colored children are more important than dead or missing white children. I most emphatically am NOT saying that. I believe the death or abduction of ANY child is a tragedy. I assure you, as anyone who knows me can attest, if Caylee had been MY daughter or granddaughter, the City of Orlando and State of Florida would have had to spend MUCH less money on a trial since I would have plead guilty to first degree murder with VERY exacerbating circumstances. I don’t have much faith in lawmen, with the possible exception of the Texas Rangers and the R.C.M.P. Those are two organizations bad people would be wise not to cross. I have no problem with vigilante justice.

I’m afraid the lack of attention on missing and murdered colored children is a symptom of something much more insidious. I think the lack of media attention is the direct result of things not being all that different now than they were in 1955 when young Emmett Till was murdered in Mississippi. I think the media, despite Oprah’s near canonization and BETs success, is a white man’s game and white children make the news. People of color are marginalized, and I think it’s because of a subtle attitude of “that’s what you can expect from them.”

I even have one concrete example — Ennis Cosby. Ennis Cosby, for those who don’t know, was the only son of beloved comedian Bill Cosby. Ennis was murdered in 1997 while changing a tire on the side of the road. Even though Ennis had never had any history of drug use or even any negative history at all, because he was a black man in a bad neighborhood, initial media kneejerk response was “drug deal gone bad.” Eyewitness testimony from Ennis’ friend present at the murder soon cleared the air, but that initial reaction was black = bad.

People of color are not the only marginalized group though. The poor and those on the fringes of society don’t get much news coverage of their tragedy either. If a girl goes missing from a trailer park in Detroit or El Paso, well, she must have just run away. Really, bossman? Even if she was NINE?

To bring this back around to Caylee and land this plane, I don’t think laws named for dead children are a good idea or good legislation. I believe Caylee is in a better place, ala Martina McBride’s “Concrete Angel”. Do we REALLY want to memorialize her with a law that remembers only her death?

Finally, I’d like to pose the question of how much have things changed in this country? July 4th was a week ago. How far have we come towards “all men (and women) being created equal?” In my opinion, not very far at all.

After all, not all slavery involves shackles and chains.

Love y’all and keep the faith and feet clean.

Jul7

Lay Blame at the Right Feet . . . or Mouth

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Monday’s “not guilty” verdict in the Casey Anthony murder trial has a tremendous segment of the population livid with anger. Moms all over the country, joined by more than a few dads, seem quite prepared to form a lynch mob and travel to Orlando to administer the justice the jury did not.

That anger has just one problem — it is woefully misplaced. If people want to be angry with someone and blame someone for the debacle of a trial they should ignore the jury, prosecution, and even the defense. The blame for this miserable failure of justice should be placed squarely on the doorstep of one Nancy Ann Grace lately masquerading as a journalist on CNN and before that a prosecutor somewhere. If her handling of the Caylee Anthony murder case is any indication of her skills as a prosecutor, it’s little wonder that she is no longer trying to put criminals behind bars.

Three years ago, Nancy started calling for Casey Anthony’s blood on her talk show. She went on ad nauseum about how guilty Casey was and what a monster she was and over and over she kept calling for a trial that would hang the vile party girl from the tallest tree in Florida. Unfortunately for Ms. Grace, she forgot that in this country, people are only sent to prison — or the death chamber — when they are convicted by a court of law, not the court of public opinion.

For the record, I am certain in my own mind and heart that Casey Anthony killed her daughter. I’m equally certain she is an evil, detestable monstrosity of a human being who is on the Red Line Express Long Black Train to Hell in a Handbasket. Finally, I’m positive the jury handed down the correct verdict based on the law and the judge’s instructions. If the prosecution had not be put under such scrutiny and constant pressure by Nancy Grace, that verdict may have never been handed down and Ms. Anthony would be on her way to a prison cell now instead of on her way to the talk show circuit. I cannot tell everyone just how thankful I am that Oprah is off the air because I don’t think my nerves or digestive system could handle that interview.

What most people are focusing on is the not guilty verdict for the count of First Degree Murder. I can promise you that right from the start of the trial, the prosecution had ZERO chance of getting a conviction for FDM. By definition, First Degree Murder is premeditated. That means you sat down and planned out exactly when, where, and how you were going to kill this person. Premeditation, by further definition, implies — nay, requires — a motive. Furthermore, I truly feel Casey Anthony is INCAPABLE of premeditating a murder and coverup of this magnitude because doing so would require her to think about someone other than HERSELF for more than 30 seconds and I simply don’t think she has that ability. In any event, the prosecution NEVER effectively presented any scenario involving a motive for Casey to kill Caylee. You can get a conviction for 1st Degree Murder without a body. You cannot get a conviction without a motive.

Nancy Grace kept up a steady stream of harping on “the massive amount of evidence.” Yes, the amount of evidence was quite large, BUT, none of it lead anywhere. Define “the smell of death.” Where is the receipt or credit card statement showing where Casey Anthony purchased a bottle of chloroform AT ANY TIME DURING CAYLEE’S LIFE? Sorry, but all the prosecution convinced the world and jury of is that Casey Anthony is an ugly, cruel, blight on the earth’s population — but that’s not the same as proving she committed 1st Degree Murder and should have been sentenced to death.

That is another factor to keep in mind. The prosecution was angling for the death penalty and Nancy was on TV squawking about how appropriate she felt that punishment would be. Now, with that in mind, put yourself in the jurors’ places. If you convict this woman and she is sentenced to death, in a very real way, you have taken the life of another human being. Not everyone is capable of doing that. Not everyone is LIKE CASEY ANTHONY! If you are going to have someone put to death based on your word, you had better damn sure KNOW they are the person who committed the crime. Otherwise, sleeping may get difficult around the execution date.

Again, I loathe and despise Casey Anthony. I think she overdid her regular routine of chloroforming little Caylee into unconsciousness so Mommy Dearest could go have some “Me / Slut time” at the clubs. Once the child was dead, she was disposed of. Had the prosecution taken the death penalty off the table and pressed HARD for Second Degree Murder, which requires no premeditation, I think the jury would have been convinced.

Our legal system worked exactly as it is supposed to. According to reports now reaching the blogosphere about interviews with actual sitting jurors and not alternates, it appears that the majority of the jurors believe Casey Anthony is a murderer, but the prosecution failed to prove it.  Make no mistake, justice WAS done in this case. Most people are angry because most people don’t REALLY want justice; most people actually want VENGEANCE. Most people want the guilty punished in the most heinous way possible, which is just as it should be — until an innocent person is wrongly convicted or, God forbid, executed.

The electric chair doesn’t give a mulligan.

So the jury was correct and if Nancy Grace had spent more time doing something about that godawful hair helmet of hers and less time rabble rousing for a witch burning, the Orlando sheriff’s department could have taken five or ten or more years to build an airtight case against a witch. As it is, a murderer walks the streets of the home of The Happiest Place on Earth scot free and set to make a truck load of money on book deals. I only hope she remembers ONE thing when she contemplates her wonderful luck . . .

She still has a Judgement to stand, this Judge cannot be swayed by fancy rhetoric or forensic tricks. Ms. Anthony — and Ms. Grace too, for that matter — would do well to keep in mind that paybacks REALLY are Hell.

Love y’all!

Jul4

Happy Fourth of July (yuck)

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BAH! Humbug, I say!

Of all the holidays in the year, I like The Fourth of July least of all — even less than September 19th, which is Talk Like a Pirate Day. (That might not seem like much of a holiday, but if you’ve ever taught 3-5 in elementary school, you know the deal.)

It is safe to say that I absolutely LOATHE and DESPISE this overblown monstrosity of a midsummer excuse for a day off.

If someone ever decided to take Dickens’ novel A Christmas Carol and set it in America on the Fourth of July, I would HAPPILY play Ebenezer Scrooge and hand out copious amounts of humbugs to anyone who would listen. I suppose instead of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, I would be assaulted and browbeaten by the Ghosts of Edward Rutledge, Button Gwinnett, and John Penn!

Humbug, I say! Bring them on.

Ooohhh, John! I bet King George will be REALLY impressed with your big ol' signature!

Now I hope no one mistakes my lack of devotion to this insanity called July 4th for a lack of patriotism. I adore what the Fourth of July stands for . . . I just hate the celebrations surrounding it AND I think we celebrate the COMPLETELY WRONG DAY. If we’re going to call something Independence Day, then July 4th is ludicrous. A bunch of rich white men — about half of whom never picked up a musket in the Revolution — signed a big piece of parchment in a blazing hot hall in Philadelphia.

SO FREAKING WHAT?!

Signing the “Declaration of Independence” didn’t a bit more make this country free than me signing a million dollar record deal makes me able to sing. As a matter of fact, had things gone differently in just a mere handful of battles, skirmishes, and alliances, we’d still be members of the Commonwealth of Nations, if not the United Kingdom, and the Fourth of July would be another November 5th style Bonfire Night in the streets of London. The only difference would be the great drunken unwashed masses would burn Washington in effigy instead of Guy Fawkes. Read about what the Crown authorities did to HIM when they caught him and you’ll see just what would have awaited Jefferson, Franklin, and Co. if the French hadn’t taken pity on us (yes, there actually WAS a time when the Frogs could fight instead of retreat).

Who knows, maybe V would have worn a George Washington mask in the comics instead of a Fawkes visage.

Why yes, Mr. Cornwallis, sir, I believe we upstart rabble DID kick y'all's pompous British @$$es! (GW was from Virginia and therefore a Southerner and would have used y'all)

No, if we’re going to properly celebrate something, let’s celebrate October 19th!! THAT was our REAL independence day because THAT was the day an unruly mass of shopkeepers, merchants, tradesmen, and yeomen farmers (with a little — okay, a LOT of — help from the aforementioned French)  beat the most powerful army of the most powerful nation on Earth at a little place called Yorktown.  (Jeez, how can we owe the FRENCH our freedom of all people? The ignominy of it all.) THAT’S when we were free! Think about it — the US Navy has never named a ship the U.S.S. Declaration of Independence, now have they? On the other hand, at least TWO very important aircraft carriers — one of which is a floating museum about 200 miles from where I’m sitting — have been named U.S.S. Yorktown.

However, bad history isn’t the MAIN reason I despise the Fourth of July. No, I hate the Fourth of July for two much more obvious and realistic reasons. First, I am FAT and FAIR-SKINNED. Neither of those conditions makes for a great deal of enjoyment on a holiday that falls in the HOTTEST month of the year AND where everything — barbeques, the beach, the lake, etc — that people want to do is OUTSIDE.

Haven’t any of these Sol-worshipping lunatics heard about the Atmospheric Ozone Hole or Global Warming? Oh, that’s right, the GOP has control of part of Congress right now so Global Warming is a myth for another election cycle.

It’s CRAZY HOT OUTSIDE! How much fun can you have with sweat pooling in your nether regions?! I think not much, and have you ever SEEN what goes into most lakes? All that treated sewage water has to go somewhere. That’s another good reason for celebrating Yorktown instead of Liberty Hall — it’d be a WHOLE LOT COOLER!!

The REAL, MAIN reason for my loathing the Fourth of July, however, is simple. I. Hate. Firecrackers. I hate them with a passion the Bloods reserve for the Crips, the passion Red Sox fans reserve for Yankees fans, the passion Cleveland reserves for LeChoke. But you get the point.

I don’t mind the professional displays put on by people with the appropriate credentials to be dealing with high explosives. They are actually very pretty and if I can go to one and get a spot not surrounded by Rhode Island’s population squeezed onto a football field, I’ll gladly go.

No, I hate Roman candles, Black Cat firecrackers, and MOST OF ALL, bottle rockets. I hope a special circle of Hell awaits the Chinese fool who invented bottle rockets. Bottle rockets should be placed on the UN list of weapons of mass destruction. You might think that’s funny and a little overdramatic — but then you aren’t a TOAD! Think about it.

By far, though, the worst part of bottle rocketry comes from the “backyard artillery specialists” who have such great fun “shooting them off!” Personally, I think it’s a compensation thing, but what do I know. All I know is the bombardment starts a good week before the Fourth with just a few random pops, but come the night of “Independence Day” all Hell breaks loose in an all out aerial attack that terrifies my dog, sets many small brushfires, and keeps me awake in fear of my roof becoming a conflagration. It seems to me that the legislature should pass some sort of law that requires people who buy and set off these black powder menaces to at least have a minimum of three teeth. As another safety feature, the “firecrackers” should have some sort of audio amplified microphone that renders the explosive charges inert if the words “Hey y’all, watch this,” OR “Somebody whol’ my beer ‘n hand me that ‘ar lighter.”

We are talking about people (and I use that word loosely) who are not only willing, but delight in putting the stick of a bottle rocket in their anus and lighting it so their butt cheeks sear in the escaping flame and gift us with Eau de Fried Redneck.

Here’s an idea, Bubba; put the bottle rocket on THE OTHER SIDE. Maybe it’ll cook your genetic material and save us from your offspring. Imagine that. Bottle rocket as tool of natural selection — who’d have thought?

Well, all y’all who insist on roasting yourselves, have a good day today, wash your feet tonight, and remember that even if y’all drive me insane, ol’ G.S. Feet still loves you!

Til next time, have a good one!