Top O the Morning to Ya and Cheers.....Back from Across the Pond, Boyo

New York is a town full of tourists. It is something that I have gotten used to over the last couple of months. They are a major source of income for this city and Mayor Bloomberg has gone out of his way to make the city a welcome place for travelers. There are a few absolutions you can count on in this town when it comes to tourists:

1) They all WILL be in Times Square. As sure as I'm sitting here, as sure as Georgia Tech is going to suck this season, as sure as the Waffle House has the best hash browns in the universe. (God, how I miss them.)

2) Eastern Europeans WILL stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of nothing. All natives grumble as they try not to sideswipe Helga, Ernst and their three kids, Bjorn, Maria and Gunther as they stand there snapping an Iphone picture of a street vendor. They will also have a ridiculous amount of gear accompanying them that takes up at least a square mile when they stop.

3) Asians WILL eat at the Hard Rock. I guess Hard Rock Cafe is seen as an American institution, which baffles me. You are in New York City. We have the best food selection ON THE PLANET.....and you eat at a chain store where the best selling item is a t-shirt.

4) American tourists WILL also eat at Hard Rock and/or Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Now, they have an Olive Garden in Times Square. This place is packed every night. Again, you are in New York City, yet you choose to eat chain ITALIAN food in a city with two sections called "Little Italy." Amazing. That is like going to Beijing and eating at Panda Express. That is like going to Cassville and looking for a Huddle House. It's borderline sacrilege.

5) At least one family member WILL buy an "I Love NY" or an "FDNY/NYPD" t-shirt. This is the badge of honor that proves that you indeed were in the Concrete Jungle. Any trip is incomplete without such and nobody will believe that you were here.....unless you have a Hard Rock shirt or a picture of a street hustler selling knock off Louis Vuitton bags on Broadway.

Speaking of tourism, in a fit of spontaneity and with the whim of a UGA freshman going to Boar's Head for the first time, I took my talents to England and Ireland for a week. (+1 for comparing myself to Lebron James. We have a lot in common.) This was my first excursion across the pond, so I really had not the first clue what to expect. I knew only what I heard and the stories from friends who had ventured to the Old World before. I used a travel agency that was very helpful and booked my flights and hotels for me.

My first flight was from LaGuardia to Charlotte, North Carolina, which was my first visit back to Dixie since I left two months ago. This was going to be a quick flight and connection to London, where it would take 8 hours across the Atlantic. However, it was not to be on this day. The US Airways staff, lead by Mikesha, who only spoke in grunts and hand motions, caused an hour delay. Mikesha climbed my personal hate ladder with the dexterity of a three-toed sloth on fire. By the time I arrived in Charlotte, my London flight was over Bermuda. Since there is only one flight per day to the UK, it was a lost day in Charlotte...or so I thought.

My hotel in Charlotte was three blocks from the NASCAR Hall of Fame. What self-respecting, tire-squealin, dirt road navigatin' Cassvillian would be that close and not go? It was three hours of tributes to moonshiners, Junior Johnson/Richard Petty/Dale Earnhardt/Bill France, and rife with actual race cars, paraphernalia and videos of great races and finishes. While it glorified the globalization of the brand, it paid more attention to its roots......the Southern United States and the men from the South who made the sport what it is. We need to take this sport back because it is not the same. We need more Davey Allisons (Greatest mullet ever, possibly. They also had his deer hunting bow on display, does it get any better than that?) and less Jimmie Johnsons. We need more Neil Bonnetts, Harry Gants, and Dale Jarretts, guys who wore their 1983 Daytona 500 Champion belt buckle with pride and were sponsored by at least three vices (Alcohol, Cigarettes and Chewing Tobacco).

"I'd like to thank my crew and my sponsors: Marlboro, Levi Garrett, and Old Milwaukee. Kids, nothing makes me feel better after a race than a good chew on pit road."

Anyhow, I finally made the voyage to jolly old England the next day. The land of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, fish n chips,  and the Queen (in order of importance). I climbed off the plane and instantly the song "Norwegian Wood" popped into my head:

"Iiiiiiiii once hahd a guhl..." ("I once had a girl" for you Beatles illiterates)

The rest of my stay in England was littered with random extremely British songs: "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter," "Daydream Believer," and "Bloody Well Right" pretty much dominated my internal jukebox. The subway took me to the West End and with each stop, the train conductor tells you to "mind the gap," which means to be careful of the gap between the train and the platform. Apparently, if you fall in the gap, you will disappear like Artax the horse in the Swamp of Sadness. (+1 for Neverending Story reference. 90's kids, you know you cried when Artax died. )

From there, I trekked to Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. I saw the grave of King Edward I, who passed away in 1296. In Cassville, Georgia, when somebody says, "Man, that's old" they are usually referring to the following:

1) A 1971 Dodge Charger
2) A two week old can of Skoal
3) A rusty bandsaw
4) Yet another minie ball from the Civil War found in Kingston
5) A vinyl Charley Pride record

From there, I went to Soho and Mayfair. (Insert Werewolves of London line right here) I walked down Savile Row, where the Beatles held their final live concert in 1969. I saw the awesome St. Paul's Cathedral and the Tate Modern Art Museum. I've tried to understand "modern" art and glean some inspiration from the paintings and sculptures, but it eludes me. It's kind of like Tennessee football, a cacophony of randomness that only speaks to the severely intoxicated or falsely enlightened. As I passed through Southwark (pronounced Suth-ick), a small pub caught my eye. This place, called Tipperary, had stood since 1605 and survived the fire that nearly destroyed London years ago. The tattooed female bartender, noticing my accent, says, "And just what tree did you fall out of, love?" Hook, line and sinker. I stayed for an hour. She told me of the other old bars in Southwark and the City, so I completed a mini pub crawl at institutions such as Lyceum Tavern, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and Ye Olde Cock Tavern (complete with a huge rooster sign). Englishmen love to drink cider, of which I am not a fan. I tried one called "Sweet Rosie" that tasted like Mountain Dew with a handle of butterscotch schnapps dumped in it. I left after I recovered from my diabetic coma in the bathroom. I settled for a hamburger for dinner.

I cannot discuss England without mentioning the food, or lack thereof. Traditional English food is interesting. I think the guy who decided what food is "English" is the same guy who invented grammar rules, white noise for TVs and back-up warning beepers for large trucks. Horrendous. Thank God for hamburgers and the huge Italian presence in London. There was one day where I only ate one meal, and for those of you who know me well, this is almost impossible. The next day, I walked five miles along the Thames to the Imperial War Museum, where I saw the actual tank that Montgomery used in North Africa during WWII and a shell from the biggest cannon ever constructed in the history of the earth. I thought of Cassville: "Shoot, I'd kill my three year limit with that damn thing." I stopped for a hamburger near the Globe Theater. The coolest part of the day was the "Jack the Ripper" tour at night in East London, where I was taken to where the still at-large criminal killed and mutilated five prostitutes in three months....or they would say back home, "he done kilt five whores down nar and cut them girls all to pieces." I went back to the hotel, ate ANOTHER hamburger and called it a night.

The early morning flight to Dublin was a treat. You get on an Aer Lingus (Irish airline) plane and U2 is blaring over the speakers, seriously. I smiled, masking my eternal utter disdain for that group and their lead singer. Cliches abound, as the flight attendant, named Brendan, offered an Irish coffee to me at 8:00 AM. I took the bus from the airport into Dublin, known to the Gaelic population as "Baile Atha Cliath." One thing that overtakes you in Dublin is the overt "Irishness" of the people. They are damn proud to be Irish. I asked one Irishman how to get to Finglas Road or "Bothar Fhionnghlaise." He replied with, "Tiyien%4&& YIOWJENMS NMIDIkdsi17627." So, I nodded a few times and I just got on the first bus to Finglas or Albuquerque, whichever one came first.

Dublin is old, y'all. The tallest building is only seven stories high, I think. That is the Guinness Storehouse, where I imbibed in the finest non-craft beer I have ever tasted. Irishmen are proud of this accomplishment and they should be. The only drawback was that I had to share my experience with a tour group from Michigan, whose accents nearly turned my beer back into yeast before I could drink it. "Bahb, Bahb, take my picture next to this freakin beer glee-ass right here. Bahb! Bahb!" I saw the original St. Patrick's Cathedral, Christchurch and St. Aldouen's Church, which has stood since 1193. I did not go into St. Patrick's because they charge you to enter the grounds. Whoever heard of that? If I wanted to pay to go to church, I'd just call Jimmy Swaggart and tell him set up a tent in Acworth. The Irish Archaeology Museum was the biggest pleasant surprise of the trip. They had Viking relics, medieval swords, early Christian art and five actual bodies of men who had lived in 800-900 BC. They had been found in mineral rich bogs, which cover rural Ireland and operate as a preservative if something is buried within it. I also saw the Irish National Gallery, complete with original Rembrandts, Van Goghs, Monets and an actual Michelangelo. Now, THAT is inspiring.

If you want the original pub experience, then Dublin is your place. Stereotypes are alive and well here, but it is worth it. Places like Kehoe's, The Dawson Lounge, The Temple Bar, Bruxelle's and The Palace Bar keep the spirit alive, when they are not covered up with tourists. Then, I encountered the bar called Sin E, pronounced "Shin-Ay." Nothing compared to Sin E. (Yes, I went there, sue me.) It was operated by an Italian who told me to called him "Jump" and served the cheapest Guinness in Dublin. I sat next to a Jewish Frenchman from Normandy, whose grandfather was a member of the French Resistance and assisted the Americans with information and sabotaged Nazi supply lines during WWII. His great grandfather was murdered at Auschwitz. We talked for a long time. I told him of my grandfather and his landing on Omaha Beach, and he replies in broken English, "we are eternally grateful for men like him," and raised his glass. I raised mine to his grandfather as well. As some stereotypes lived on in Ireland, others died with the clinking of two glasses in memory of two heroes.

Overall, I am extremely pleased with my decision to go on this trip. Most of my fellow Americans flying back from Ireland, donned in loud, green sweatshirts from The Blarney Inn or their new tam 'o-shanter caps, would agree. Americans love Irish culture. They want to be Irish so bad, they can taste it. As for me, I only bought two Guinness glasses. I'm not a souvenir collector, I'm more of a memory maker. I'm glad to be back in the States because football season is around the corner, and I don't mean soccer. UGA vs. Buffalo in 9 days, y'all. Jarvis Jones is going to have 32 sacks in this game. A word to the Buffalo QB, as only Warren Zevon can put it:

"You better stay away from him,
  He'll rip your lungs out, Jim."

Go Dawgs.

Kudzu Hill, Applied Studies & Subway Trains: Connected, consequently.

I had a great memory come to mind about a week ago. Back in 2000-2001, UGA baseball was playing very well and my fraternity brothers and I made it a point to go to every game we could. Baseball did not have the following of the football team, but there was a small, very dedicated student fanbase. We were not hard to find at game time. We never sat in the stadium of Foley Field, not once. There was a hill behind right field, covered in kudzu (affectionately called "Kudzu Hill"), and at the base of the hill was a 1.5 acre flat piece of dirt where we parked our posteriors for nine innings. Donned in our best un-ironed, Febrezed Polo and New Balances that looked like they had been thrown into a hay bailer, we would fire up our grills and start the harassment of the opposing team's right fielder and first baseman.

It would start with simple barbs, "hey, number 4, you suck!" "Hey Nineteen! Sharpton gonna get you with three straight fastballs!" (+1 for unintentional Steely Dan reference). Bill Sharpton was our ace back then. He was from Vidalia, Georgia and when it was Bill's turn to pitch, the PA would blast "Vidalia" by Sammy Kershaw before the game. As the game progressed and our friends, Anheuser-Busch and Miller High Life joined the fracas, the words would become more pointed and creative. "Hey! 4! Your girlfriend is up here! Damn, they grow em big at Bama don't they?!" We absolutely killed the first baseman from Georgia Tech. We mercilessly assaulted this man on everything from his throwing style, "you look like my sister throwing left handed with a broken arm!" to the way he walked, "Yep! I guess Tech is like prison, no chicks allowed!" Hot dog flavored smoke wafted onto Foley Field. Don Henley's "Boys of Summer," The Romantic's  "What I Like About You," and Tom Petty's "Runnin Down a Dream" blasted over the PA between innings. We would discuss if we were going to "go out" after the game. Somebody would remark, "it's Tuesday."

Mack Williams, the cartoonist for the Red and Black would decide to break out his megaphone and proceed to destroy everyone on the opposing team. You could hear this megaphone in South Carolina. In his infinite wisdom, he would get on the Internet and research their roster, print it out and bring it to right field. He knew their middle names. He knew their majors. He knew their parents names. A strikeout? An error? Better run and hide, especially if you had questionable middle name or an inexplicable major. "Hey, 4! Good thing you are majoring in....(pause to read the printout)....Tourism Management. Really? Tourism Management?? My God. Well, I guess you gotta major in something." You could hear people laughing in the stadium. Auburn and LSU had some really creative majors. I swear one guy from Auburn majored in Birdhouse Construction. Oh well, whatever you gotta do to get the talent to finish third in the SEC West, you do it.

Riding the 1 Train yesterday, listening to "Policy of Truth" by Depeche Mode, I began to notice the advertisements that adorn the inside of the cars.

"1-800-BANKRUPTCY"

"Dr. So and So can rid your face of pimples in two weeks, guaranteed!"

"Don't surf the train or you will be wiped out forever."

"The LIRR will be going to SI ASAP, with transfers to the N, Q, R, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."

Ok, I made that last one up. However, there was another advertisement that caught my eye. It was one of the many advocating the matriculation of subway riders at a local college that offered majors in "applied studies." Without researching what this means, I instantly became amused. Remember in school when a classmate would have to give a presentation and it was clear he/she did not prepare? They would begin to use SAT words and three syllable adverbs to try to cover up the complete bulls**t they were sputtering. "Applied Studies" harkened back to those times. I imagined the class schedule for Applied Studies in my head:

8:00-8:50: Waking Up 101: The Movement of the Body Out of the Rest Area and the Ambulation of Your Leg Appendages to the Restroom

9:00-9:50: Laptop Skills 302 (Honors): Extinguishing the Power Source to the Laptop During a Computer Freeze

10:00 - 10:50: Mailing Letters 508 (Seniors Only): Envelopes Exceed Minimum Weight Requirements for the Forty-Four Cent Stamp: Procedures, Postulations and Theories

11:00 - 2:00: Lunch: State mandated four hour lunch break

2:30 - 3:20: Cash Register 701 (Advanced): The Reciprocation of Currency in the Event of a Malfunction in which the Register Cannot Calculate the Correct Return Currency Automatically. (Dropped mid-semester due to difficulty)

3:30 - 4:20: Student Loan Repayment 102: How to Whine to Your Congressman Effectively When You Get Fired and Can No Longer Afford to Pay Back Your Loans

I looked up Applied Studies when I got home. You should do the same. It makes me realize a couple of things: 1) now, I know where state "customer service" employees come from and 2) I am in the wrong business. It makes for some interesting reading while you light your degree on fire, realizing that it was just cheapened a little more. I thought about the Auburn player majoring in Birdhouse Construction. I hope it all worked out for him and he is building sweet pigeon condos in Dothan, Alabama.

It is funny how things come full circle in your life. I ran into Mack Williams last week in Brooklyn. Apparently, he lives here now too. We had a good laugh about the right field days, the megaphone and all the fun we used to have. The crowd at the NCAA regionals against Florida State in 2001 was epic. The right field crazies were in full regalia that Saturday and when the Dawgs pulled it out, we felt like a part of it as they celebrated in a Dawgpile on the infield. The team actually tipped their hats to us after the game ended. Alas, it is no more. President Adams incited his "No Fun of Any Kind" policy to the UGA campus after we left and the right field area is now fenced off, charges admission and does not allow grills or alcohol. Another great tradition blown away with the stroke of a pen and a few bow tie wearing cronies with nothing better to do. Luckily, Adams is gone after this year. I hope his next job is teaching "Water Filter Replacement" in an Applied Studies program.

Oh yeah....the Georgia Tech first baseman that we lambasted mercilessly......Mark Teixeira, currently starting at first base for the New York Yankees. Who knew?

City At Night....but this ain't LA Woman.

One of the proudest moments I have had in New York City happened yesterday. I was strolling down Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side, listening to "Hello Stranger" by Barbara Lewis (a great forgotten hit, by the way) and wearing my old Georgia basketball t-shirt ca. 1999. The shirt has seen better days. It is faded, the shoulder has a hole about the size of a penny, and the stitching in the sleeves unravels more and more each time I wear. But, by God, it is one of my favorite shirts and I will wear it until it falls apart, then I will use it for a kitchen rag.

Anyhow, I ambled past St. James Gate, an Irish pub near my apartment. An elderly man was outside taking a cigarette break. It was about 7:30 PM and he had clearly been a patron of the bar since lunch time. He drags on the cigarette and studies my shirt closely. His head moves up and he makes eye contact, and in an Irish brogue assisted by no telling how many pints of Guinness, he says, "Georgia Bulldogs?" I remove the headphones, now playing "Crossroader" by Mountain, and say, "Yes sir. Born and bred." The Irishman smiles and "Go Dawgs. And to HELL with Georgia Tech." He grins and goes back to his stool at the bar. See? Even Irishmen hate Tech. It warms the heart, it really does. Erin Go Bragh.

I love Irish pubs in this city. You know why? Because most of them are actually Irish, rather than a gimmick. That was always my complaint with Atlanta, nothing was authentic to me. It was like a group got together, formed a bullcrap LLC, and decided to open a bar. One day, they had a meeting and one guy said, "so, what kind of bar we gonna have?" After 2.7 seconds of thought, one guy throws out the original suggestion, "Irish?" So they go out, buy every Guinness, Smithwick's and Bass bar sign they can find, splatter them all over the walls and call it "O'Shaughnessy's." It would be just like Dublin, except you are in a strip mall next to a tanning salon and Chinese take-out. I'm not saying these places are a bad idea, they just have no allure to me. In this city, if you found a bar called "O'Shaughnessy's," it is probably because some guy named O'Shaughnessy opened it in 1934 because Prohibition ended and he needed to make money.

I think that is what people enjoyed about Cass Grocery: our authenticity. It kept the place novel, rather than run of the mill. When was the last time you heard the following statement in your life?

"Man, I love the new Pilot truck stop on I-75. There's nothing like fighting 63 tourists from Michigan to get a Diet Sierra Mist from the fountain."

Never. Nobody gives a damn about that place. Nobody darkening the doors of that place remembers a thing about it. They might brag that the fountain has 76 flavors or that gas is fifty cents cheaper than everyone else, but that is the extent of their discussion. They had nowhere for locals to drink coffee, no fruit for sale purchased from Henry Stephens (no relation), they could not tell you how much a post hole digger costs, nor could they offer to show you how many Nightcrawlers were in the newest delivery of live worms. Nobody could remember the time the cat pooped on my uncle's arm on the front. Or the time that the Stanley brothers, after witnessing a rude customer threaten yours truly, inform him, "you touch that boy and you won't walk outta here." You won't hear me and Gary Gray singing "After the Thrill is Gone" by The Eagles while putting up sweet feed.

We did not have Diet Sierra Mist, in fact, we only had six flavors: Coke, Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Diet Dr. Pepper, Sprite and Mello Yello. Our coffee maker had two pots, all caffeinated, all day. You want sugar free, Godiva chocolate creamer with a lemon twist? Sorry. We ain't got it. Neither do we have sleeves for the cups or lids that open conveniently. We drink coffee as God intended in the 30123 and if it burns your hands, then we made it right. There are no Bose speakers installed in the ceiling playing Kenny G. We have an old Panasonic radio and it will probably be playing Tracy Lawrence, Tracy Byrd, or Travis Tritt. The TV will be on Denny Brauer fishing in Lake Okeechobee, not showing a camera image of you walking down an aisle. Nobody would ever return to the Pilot at night, just to sit on the front and watch cars go by. I used to do that when I was 17. I would take a Coke and a Snickers and just sit there. It would be so quiet for minutes and then headlights would appear. The horn honks, "BOY! What you doin' out here? Ain't you had enough of this place?!?" I raised my glass bottle Coke in a toast as they pull away. Nope, never, I said to myself.  Then it's just me and the crickets. There is truly nothing like Cassville at night.

The Dublin Tap Room, which is located about one block from my apartment here, has an awesome bartender who calls me "lad" when I stop by. When I order a Guinness, he says, "You mean Mother's Milk, lad." His accent is so thick I can barely understand him. Women are welcome, but this is a man's bar. One television has the Yankees channel and the other has European soccer, both watched equally by the patrons. Almost every man over 50 orders a shot of Jameson's with his beer. I'm nowhere near to that point, I'm more of a "one and done after work" customer. They have some signs on the wall, but most are advertisments for local bands or framed newspaper articles about Irish soccer teams. No frills. No gimmicks. No Cee-Lo blaring out of the speakers. Just a quiet place to reflect, watch sports, and people watch out the window to 79th Street.

There is something almost religious about it when the sun goes down. They have a blinking neon sign hanging over the door, a mix-hued conglomeration of red, green and yellow. The colors blink separately, so the sidewalk and the passers-by change color as the sign changes. One night, Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" was playing over the speakers and I just sat there and watched people walk by. Young white teenagers, adorned by the red flash, laughing and horsing around. A black man in a suit, lit up by the yellow flash, talks on his cell phone as he walks home. An Asian couple pushes their child in a stroller, brought to light by the green. The bartender talks quietly and expediently with other Irishmen and goes out to smoke. Cabs fly by toward Riverside Avenue and New Jersey. The day has gone to bed, but the everybody and everything moves on. "Same dances in the same old shoes," said Glenn Frey. I almost can hear the crickets. There is truly nothing like New York City at night.