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!

Jul1

Black Dog Howls

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Trying to describe depression to someone who’d never experienced it is about like trying to describe a rainbow to a man born blind. Now to be clear, I’m not talking about a case of “my baby done left me blues.” I’m talking about “my baby’s right here and wonderful and I still feel like Keith Richards looks.”

First off, this crap is sneaky. I can be just Cadillacing along with everything shining and happy in the world and just like Mjolnir cracking a frost giant’s head, I’m in an unrecoverable flat spin — just like the one that killed Goose. Then you always think it’s going to be a short spell. Just sit down, play some Ugly Birds or read a funny web page or ten and it’ll ease. Unfortunately, when you try that and it DOESN’T work . . . you don’t go back to square one. You go back to square -1.

Then The Tape starts rolling. On good days, I can keep the tape stopped because once it ever starts, I’m in for a miserable ride. See, most people can go through a bad experience and it may bother them; it may even scar them, but normal people put that stuff behind them and over time its impact gets less and less. Normal people can read a news story about some tragedy with people dying or animals being mistreated and it may be a tearful moment, but they won’t dwell on it and obsess about what happened to that little girl or those puppies or whatever.

Not me. I have The Tape.

The Tape is in my head and it contains — in vivid Kodachrome and THX sound — all the bad experiences I’ve had, all the tragedies I’ve read about or seen on tv, all the worries and anxieties and The Tape is on automatic loop. All this garbage starts rolling through my thoughts. Forty years worth of “stuff” all trolling by in exquisite detail. It’s like picking at a scab over a stab wound, which would be fine if it only went by once, but I just keep reliving “the bad ol’ days” over and over again like some perverse uber-version of Groundhog Day.

Oh and I love it when I try to explain The Tape to someone and he or she says “Why don’t you try just not thinking about it? Wow! What insight! You should get the Nobel Prize for Psychology with a brilliant analysis like that! I am in awe of such mental perspicacity! I really appreciate that advice, Captain Obvious. What do you THINK I’m doing?! Seriously? I’m not a masochist in any sense of the word so if I were capable of “Just not thinking about it,” I wouldn’t HAVE this problem, now would I?

That’s what I love about mental issues like depression and OCD — they’re invisible so everyone’s an expert. Really. I mean, who would say to a paraplegic, “Why don’t you just try walking?” You wouldn’t go up to a blind person and yell in her ear (you know, because everyone YELLS at blind people since the apparently can’t hear either) “Well, why don’t you open your eyes and just TRY to see?”

It’s just the nature of the beast and this beast is a black dog who’s been on the Wild Hunt for a week or so now. After awhile, though, you learn to expect it and you pull out all your strategies that five years of therapy teaches you.

Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t.

Love y’all. More to come later on.

Keep those feet clean.

Jun19

My Father’s Day Gallery

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Jun1

Happy Birthday, Norma Jean Baker, wherever you are!

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If the jackass, bed-hopping, Mafia-crossing, crooked-as-a-country-mile, love-’em-and-leave-’em, no good, four flushing Kennedys hadn’t had her killed, Norma Jean Baker would be celebrating her 85th birthday today. For those who have lived under a rock or in a hermitage or perhaps been in cryostasis with the likes of Walt and Ted, Norma Jean Baker is the birth certificate name of Ms. Marilyn Monroe, aka The Blonde Bombshell, aka “the OP” as in Original Playmate, aka the third most beautiful woman to ever walk this planet after my mama and Budge.

It’s safe to say that I am madly, passionately and forever in love with Marilyn Monroe and have been since puberty. To me, she was THE ideal body type and ideal woman. Oh yes, and for all you young (and some older) ladies out there eating rabbit food, running yourself silly on a treadmill, and sucking down bottled water like there’s no tomorrow — that ideal body was a SIZE 10.  A size TEN. ONE ZERO. Now I know some of you out there who might be Marilyn fans, even if nowhere nearly as big a fan as me, may have heard all your lives that MM was a 16 and in terms of the numbers in her dresses, that is true. However, just as my papas used to love to regale me with stories of movie dates costing a quarter with a nickle left over, things today ain’t what they used to be. What was a size 16 in Marilyn’s gorgeously voluptuous glory days would tape out today as a loose fitting size 10.

You don’t have to take my word for it though. Feel free to check it out for yourselves. Sorry to burst anyone’s bubbles, but STILL, she is a far cry from the twigs walking Sunset and Vine these days. Angie Jolie — and I love me some Angie Jo — could wear one of Marilyn’s dresses and have room for Calista Flockhart, Lindsay “Crack-baby” Lohan, and an Olsen twin to share. No, MM was curvy and all her curves were FLESH, not silicone and saline.

Just to illustrate the depths of my crush on Norma Jean, at the moment, I am typing this up on my computer whose network name is MARILYN and listening to my iPod whose name is Mini-Marilyn. Every woman I’ve ever dated has had a touch of Marilyn in her. For some it was looks and for others it was attitude. Then I met Budge and she combined all the best MM traits with a few twists of her own! Somewhere down at Mama’s, I’ve got pictures of my all time favorite car I’ve ever owned — a 1969 Chevy Chevelle Super Sport 396 — named Marilyn. In my younger and less rotund days, I had a blue jean jacket with said Super Sport airbrushed on the back beneath an airbrushed portrait of her namesake. I always intended to have “the dress scene” from Seven Year Itch airbrushed on the hood, but that was when I was young and foolish and had no idea what airbrushing cost. That jacket, which a crazy ex-girlfriend took and soaked overnight in Clorox, was as close as I ever got to that dream.

Hollywood doesn’t turn out stars like Marilyn anymore. I know some people say she couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag and while I admit she wasn’t much of an Oscar threat, on her worst day she was a better actress than Lohan, Hilton, Lopez, and the rest of today’s “famous for being famous” paparazzi-fodder are on their absolute knocked-out best days.

Keep trying, Lindsay . . . on second thought, just don't.

In any event, she wasn’t famous as an actress, she was famous as the ORIGINAL sex symbol. If she’s not the prototype, then why do so many actresses pay homage to her memory at some point in their careers? I’m looking at you, Lindsay.

If I had to pick the closest modern day equivalent to Marilyn, I’d go with — and you’ll think I’m crazy — is Brittney Spears. Brit’s current shape is a good match to MM’s and Marilyn and Spears share similar backgrounds. Both are from backwaters. Both got seriously good breaks and both have had their share of drama. The main difference is the press wasn’t quite so tawdry and vicious in Marilyn’s Hollywood as they have become in Brittney’s internet connect lifetime.

Of course people will disagree with me and point out that, among other things, Brittney is a better singer than Marilyn. To them, I simply say, “Happy Birthday, Mister President . . . Happy Birthday to you!” Sometimes it ain’t what you sing, it’s who you sing it to. Unfortunately, that song ended up getting Norma Jean killed . . . ***sigh***

Well, know that I love y’all. Keep cool if you can and keep those feet clean!

May19

It’s the End of the World as We Know It . . .

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And I feel fine. My apologies to Michael Stipe and the rest of R.E.M.

Harold Camping, current Doomsday prophet.

So by now you’ve probably heard that the world is going to end this coming Saturday. According to 89 year old self-taught theologian, Harold Camping, the numbers all add up and it’s all over but the shoutin’ as they used to say. From his readings of the Bible, Mr. Camping has worked out the exact day and hour of The Rapture, the supernatural event when Jesus is returning to gather His faithful home. The prediction has spread like wildfire among fringe Christian groups and folks all around the world are, in the words of the old gospel song, “gettin’ ready to leave this world.” A group of atheistic animal lovers has even started a company to address the needs of the beloved pets who will be “left behind” as their owners are Raptured.

As for me, I plan on going to our church’s Saturday night service like Budge and I usually do. Sunday, we’ve got a full day of doing nothing planned, pretty much like always. I’m not really worried about The Rapture taking place this weekend for one simple reason — when Jesus Christ Himself was on the earth teaching His followers, He specifically told them that He didn’t even know when He would return. The only Being in the universe who is privy to that date and time is God the Father and while Mr. Camping IS as old and white headed as most people seem to figure God is, he’s not God.

Ergo, he doesn’t know squat. He’s just another member of the lunatic fringe like that idiot Fred Phelps and his congregation of inbreeders out in Kansas. Just another person heading up a group of like (and feeble) minded people carrying signs and giving non-believers the world over just another reason to mock Jesus and Christianity.

At least the members of Heaven’s Gate had the tact and decency to kill themselves rather than spreading their kooky comet-following message all over the internet.

My Aunt Betty had this painting called "The Rapture in Dallas" hanging in her living room. It scared the crap out of me when I was a kid.

Don’t misunderstand me though. I was raised in a fully Rapture believing and Rapture ready home and church. To be completely honest with y’all, I never figured I’d see forty years old because I believed whole-heartedly that my family and I — based on the steeply declining condition of the world — would be gone in the Rapture well before then. Obviously that hasn’t happened . . . yet. That’s right — yet. I don’t discount the possibility that the Rapture could take place, but it’s not one of the major doctrines of Scripture, it’s very divisive to the Church, and it’s just not a mountain I’m prepared to die on.

All that said, however, growing up steeped in the belief of an imminent Rapture did lead to one of the most “terrifying-then-and-hysterically-funny-now” events of my life. I was a junior in high school and enjoying my best, and last, season as a starter on the school wrestling team. I got home from practice one Tuesday afternoon and the house was empty, which was odd because Mama should have been home. I sat down to a bowl of ice cream and waited. After half an hour, I started to get concerned. One very important thing for y’all to know is this was 1987 — before answering machines were commonplace and way before cell phones were ubiquitous, if they even existed.

This series is pretty close to the beliefs I was taught growing up. If you've read any of it, you know why I was freaking out.

I called Mama’s work, no answer. I called Papa John to see if Mama was over there. No answer. I called Granny and Papa Wham. No answer. Finally, I called out to Aunt Mary’s and I KNEW she was home because her car was in the yard when I came by and she’d be getting supper cooked for Uncle Carroll. No. Answer.

I went into a blind panic and started calling around and everywhere I called either no one answered or I got a busy signal. Now at this point, most rational people would have figured something totally explainable was at work. Well, I was reasonable and I came up with the only logical solution I could think of — The Rapture had come and Jesus took Mama and the rest of my family and I had been left behind! When that realization hit me, I almost upchucked my bowl of ice cream. If you’ve ever studied what some churches teach on the Great Tribulation period that will follow the Rapture, you’ll know what had me in a twist. Seven years of Hell on earth ruled by the Antichrist — Satan’s agent. Anyone who converted to Christianity during that time would be hunted down and publicly executed. Plagues of demons in the form of scorpions. It’s not a pretty picture and that’s exactly what I thought was waiting on me because everyone I knew was a Christian and loved WAS GONE. I was alone and left behind.

When Mama got home thirty minutes later and came into my room to ask my help in getting the groceries she’d stopped off after work to pick up without telling me, she found me sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor rocking back and forth nearly in shock. When I realized it really was her and not a vision of some sort, I nearly broke her back and neck in a bear hug. To this day, I have never felt more relief about anything than I felt at that moment.

Why couldn’t I get in touch with anyone? A car had taken down a telephone pole nearby and service was interrupted. Calls went through like normal, but they wouldn’t connect anywhere.

So be careful what you scoff at!

Love you all and keep those feet clean.

May10

The End Draweth Nigh

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Okay, forget the craziness surrounding 2012 and the Mayan calendar. Don’t pay any attention to all the folks blathering on about Nostradamus’ final predictions and such. Ignore the prophetic signs abundant in the Middle East. Don’t even worry about the guy on the corner with the sandwich board proclaiming “The End of the World is Near.” These petty predictors pale in comparison to the omen I received yesterday morning that our days on this planet are truly drawing to a close.

Before you ask, I didn’t receive a divine visitation or some ESP related premonition. My source is much more reliable than either of those . . . well, depending on WHO the divine visitation is. I mean, I would consider Angelina Jolie or Scarlett Johansson dropping by unannounced as a divine visitation, but I wouldn’t give much credence to any prophetical statements either might make (even though Angie does have that whole “weirdness” thing going on sometimes.)

No, my wake up call, literally, came from the radio beside my bed. I know that the end of the world is coming because NPR — that’s National Public Radio for the Dittoheads out there, you know who you are — aired a full segment interview with (cue ominous music) . . . THE BEASTIE BOYS!

No worries, mates. The show won't last that long!"

Yep, Ad-Rock and Mike-D chatted up a new project they have coming out with one of the erudite and hyper-literate NPR hosts. MCA was sadly absent because of his ongoing fight with cancer. Let me run that one by you again in case you missed it the first time The Beastie Boys — yes, THOSE Beastie Boys — were being interviewed on N.P.R. As Bugs Bunny once remarked in his Bronx accent, “Now I’ve seen everyting!”

I could understand when Pearl Jam started appearing on my local Classic Rock station. It was hard at first because I was like, “Pearl Jam?! What gives? Vedder rocks forever! They just had a HUGE tour in 2000! Oh, yeah, um, 2000 . . . that was like  eleven ye-. . . *heavy sigh*.” So yeah, that was harsh, but I could deal. I deluded myself into thinking some things are just “instant classics”, you know?

I was even able to handle the crushing blow of seeing one of my other favorite bands — Foreigner — have their Greatest Hits cd on sale — not at somewhere like Record Bar (if you don’t know what Record Bar is, PLEASE, don’t ask. I feel bad enough already) or even Target or Walmart. Foreigner, the whole “Hot Blooded” bunch of them was on sale at HALLMARK. Right between the stationery with puppies and kittens and the new Vera Bradley releases sat one of the iconic rock bands. HALLMARK. I could just barely hold my composure until I got to the Element where I could give full vent to my sorrow. Budge was extremely worried and asked me what was the matter. I sobbed out, “Foreigner is on sale at Hallmark!” and erupted into another bout of misery.

She just looked at me with that look of “Someone tell me again why I hitched my wagon to this horse?” I have a picture of that look. I really want to put it up in a post on here but I’ve been promised grievous bodily harm should that ever happen.

"I'm givin' 'er all she's got cap'n! She cannae ta' much more!"

I managed to survive the revelation that Steve Tyler — the rock god frontman of Aerosmith (and father of Arwen Evenstar) — was going to be a judge on American freaking Idol. When I read that news on MSN, I couldn’t help but start quoting from Shelley’s “Ozymandias”. I didn’t realize I was speaking aloud until Budge asked my why I was quoting

Romantics and I told her that Steven Tyler was to judge American Idol.

I got The Look again for my trouble.

The Beastie Boys on NPR though? That’s it. I am officially PAST old and well on my way to ancient. When one of the first groups you ever headbanged to trade in “Brass Monkey” for Perrier, the Apocalypse cannot be too far away. All that is left is for The Rolling Stones to finally disintegrate and fall into dust right in the middle of a live performance of “Satisfaction” for me to know that it’s all over but the crying. After all, once The Beastie Boys do NPR, what’s left? I guess I could hear Def Leppard playing as elevator Muzak. Of course, once that happens, I’m just taking that elevator on up to the ceiling and jumping off. I don’t want to be around for the earth-rending events that are sure to follow!

Love y’all! Keep those feet clean and if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go read my Easton Press copy of W.B. Yeats’ poems. I think I’ll start with “The Second Coming.”