Character in Cassville: We may not have good pizza, but we know a good spark plug when we see one

I was paid the ultimate compliment this week. A friend of mine from Cassville sent a message to me on Facebook asking about how I enjoyed my legal career. After discusssing my daily duties, she replied, "I was shocked to know you became a lawyer. Not because it's hard, but because every lawyer I know is a whiny, whimpy, lying jerk, and none of those words describe you at all." Totally flattered, I thanked her. Sadly, I could not disagree with her indictment of my profession, as I see many lawyers every day that fit that bill. The chances of the average person running into a lawyer that is a "whiny, whimpy, lying jerk" increase every day, as law schools keep churning them out left and right to a world with limited jobs, where the premium shifts from service to the client over to "I gotta get mine." I've often asked myself, after meeting one of these types, "this guy passed the same Bar I did?" Yep, he sure as hell did. So, I see it as my duty to prove to the world that some of us still have decorum, still care about our fellow man, and understood our Oath to mean more than just a license to don silk stockings and ride the elevator of self-importance .

Frankly, every profession, every religion, race, and creed has extreme negative sides. Take this week for example. I had my first encounter with a Hare Krishna member. He started handing me trinkets and a card that said "Peace" with an illustration of Krishna, he blessed me over and over, telling me that he prayed for peace in my life, blah blah blah. I say "blah blah blah" because he immediately asked for a donation, and I replied that I only had a credit card, which was true. His smile disappeared, he jerked his trinkets out of my hand and darted away quickly, ready to con the next person. I tried to let it go, but I could not. In New York, I have learned that confrontation is warranted at a moment like this. You know why I was mad? I was listening to a live version of "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd, enjoying it immensely, when this little ripoff artist accosted me. I said, "Don't interrupt David Gilmour ever again." Like I said, some things just cannot be ignored. Plus, they wear Tennessee orange colored robes, so they automatically join my s**t list just by existing.

There are so many types of people here and I have become immune to the "different" folks that call New York home. A guy wearing an orange mohawk and a tattoo on his face? Not a second look. Yesterday, a woman was walking topless next to Grand Central wearing nothing but jeans and a cowboy hat. I paid her about as much attention as a pigeon pecking at the horse feed next to Central Park. She actually stopped next to a phone booth and adjusted her hat in her reflection off the glass. I guess if you are wearing half of a birthday suit, you want to look your best for your eventual jail visit. Two days ago, one block from my apartment, I watched a homeless man absolutely "dog cuss" (a great Southern term) the padlocked door on the UPS store. I actually stopped for this one, because he was using combinations of foul language that I had never heard in my life and I thought that maybe God actually could strike him dead. He would start walking away, then come back and rip into this padlocked door like it just stolen his Iphone. (Homeless people have Iphones here, no kidding) This procession continued for five minutes until he realized he had more pressing business uptown and walked off for good. As I walked by that door, I almost overheard it talking smack, I swear. You never know in this city.

Cassville has about 8.99 million less people than New York. If you wear an orange mohawk, people will probably stare at you. You will probably be accused of being an atheist, or worse, a Democrat. We have precisely five restaurants and only one that is not located in a truck stop. There are no cabs for hire riding around, you have to call them. Then they show up in a busted 1994 Ford Aerostar, looking half dead and telling you that they don't go past Fairmount. Pizza is not our thing and Papa John's refuses to go past Mac Johnson Road, cutting us off almost completely. Street vendors don't sell pashminas or knock off Louis Vuitton purses, they sell autographed Dale Earnhardt Jr. helmets out of their front yard. The closest version of Times Square? Exit 296 with its truck stops, three hotels (one condemned) and the adult book store. You can see the lights all the way from Adairsville. You want to run through our Central Park and get a taste of history? There's a patch of grass next to Cass Grocery that you could run around about 2,754 times, it has a monument to Lewis Cass for whom the town is named.

However, what we lack in nightlife and activity, we make up for with character. For example:

1) We know what WD-40 can do, it's value is second only to duct tape. How many door hinges, engine parts and bicycle chains did I grease back home? Countless. Plus, you can make an awesome flamethrower with it. God help any fire ants that built a nest in the parking lot at Cass Grocery. We are talking Hiroshima-like conditions for these poor insects while my brother and I danced around them like fools. Why burn just one with a magnifying glass? That's inefficient. People here probably think it's something you file with your taxes.

2) We know Briggs & Stratton, Smith & Wesson, and Allis-Chalmers. We know Dean Durham, Shaw Grigsby and Denny Brauer. People here probably think these are all law firms. I cannot count how many Briggs & Stratton spark plugs I sold at the store and I would run back to the TV because Bill Dance was coming on and I did not want to miss the bloopers.

3) We can talk about pouring concrete, installing drywall, working on a car or hanging shingles for hours. In fact, we can make it into a dramatization. Forget Broadway. Imagine one man in front of Cass Grocery talking to 6 other men drinking coffee.

"So, there's Lamar, he's got the manifold in his hand. He tells Bobby to put the air filter back in, but Bobby can't find it. They get to fightin.." ("get to fightin" is a great Southern term)

The group all looks at each other with an understanding glance, fighting over an air filter....totally worth it. Some of them grumble about the price of air filters, there's a sidebar discussion of Advance Auto, Autozone, and Cass Grocery prices. They all decide they would rather buy from us because they like us, take a sip of coffee and the story continues.

"So, Bobby goes to lookin. He can't find the air filter nowhere. Y'all know how dumb he is. All over the shop, he tears up everything, lookin for this air filter. Sure enough, the damn dog took it and it was tore up all over the yard. Lamar had to go all the way back to Cartersville (4 miles) to get another one."

During this riveting exchange, nobody takes their eyes off the storyteller. They laugh uncontrollably at Lamar's expense, then somebody tells a story about sheetrock falling off the wall at a job. Like old man river, it never stops. (side note: having to go to Cartersville for anything is equivalent to going to Spain. If you have to go outside the county, it might as well be Antartica.)

4) We don't have a homeless problem. Everybody lives somewhere, by God. Since we all claim 5th and 6th cousins and are all 1/32 Cherokee, it's like one big happy family...we just pile into a single wide on Cedar Creek Road, stick a mailbox in the dirt and call it home. I knew one family on Mostellar's Mill Road, on the Cassville/Adairsville/Folsom border, that must have had 56 people living in their house. How do I know? They all wrote me bad checks and had the same address.

5) We don't have a pile of newspapers influencing our political decisions in Cassville. In New York, there's the Daily News, The Times, The Post, The Wall Street Journal, and the AM Metro (and that's just off the top of my head). The Upper West Side is an undesignated area with no real boundaries, yet it has its own weekly newspaper. For you Bartow natives, that's like Rydal having a newspaper. Nobody knows how or when you get to Rydal, you just sort of materialize there. The only magazines that anyone ever asked for at Cass Gorcery were the latest Auto Trader or Georgia Outdoor News. I guess we cared more about the biggest buck taken in Early County and what it scored on the Pope & Young (also not a law firm) rather than what some politician felt about the latest SPLOST proposal.

So there you have it, the 30123 may not have the bright lights, it may not have any restaurants that can get higher than a 73 on the Health Inspection, and we may not be able to get pizza other than DiGiorno from Ingles, but we definitely have a way of life unique to us. I've told New Yorkers, who are in disbelief at the size and quiet nature of my hometown, that we were never bored. Seriously, who would not be entertained by a story about fence staples? Who would not want to watch me burn a cockroach with a WD-40 fueled flamethrower? Who does not want to see a picture of the biggest bream caught in Polk County? As for the homeless guy cussing the padlocked door, if he did that in Cassville, he would be dealt with as nonchalantly as he was on the streets of New York. I could hear them at the store now:

"I bet that sumbitch is from Fairmount."

Recap of the Weekend: Don't Cry Over Spilled Bud Light, Cry Over Sloppy Second Quarters

Well, boys and girls, it's here. The air smells fresher, my coffee tastes just a little better and I walk around with extra pep in my step. I am just a little more patient with others, more forgiving and just in an all around better mood. After the long months of waiting, all the pregame talk, the rankings, the "what ifs" and the praying for no injuries, it is finally here. I'm talking about the US Open being played over in Queens. The alpha and omega of American tennis. The single greatest spectacle.....zzzzzzzz.

Sorry, my mind has been demolitioned and been renovated into a fort of college football knowledge. Some guy asked me, "what if you see Roger Federer?" I replied, "what's his 40 time?" Yes, it is that drastic. I swear, I ran a post pattern through Times Square dodging 35 Europeans taking pictures of a manhole cover. I am experiencing this season in a new light. Since I am in New York, I obviously cannot make the 795 mile trip to Athens, so I have to settle for a UGA alumni bar here in the city. In fact, on football Saturdays, the city is abuzz with alumni of every school imaginable taking the subway or a cab to "their" bar. I think Devry has a bar in New York City somewhere.

The UGA alumni bar here is called the "Village Pourhouse." It is located near NYU on 3rd Avenue and it is owned by Joba Chamberlain, the Yankee relief pitcher. This place gets packed on gamedays, full of ex-patriates from the South, coming to share our love for the Dawgs and Athens-like drink specials. People walk in a scream, "Go Dawgs!" and the crowd responds. You high five people you don't really know, but they recently became your friend because you came to the Pourhouse. I can almost transport myself back to 2001 and see myself standing at Boar's Head in Athens with the same people. If you cannot have a good time at the Pourhouse during a Georgia game, then you should head over to Queens, I hear there is a riveting match between Andre Retrieeenrvich and Jorge Breaiahsiudhnski going on.

The Pourhouse was especially crowded on this opening weekend. My folks came to visit so Dad and I wedged ourselves in the midst of NYC Dawgnation and ordered the biggest plate of nachos in the history of mankind. Kickoff was in twenty minutes and I needed a calorie fest to get me through the nervousness.....I know it was Buffalo but it does not matter who we play. My nerves are more frayed and frazzled than Auburn's O-line during a pop quiz in Advanced Toilet Scrubbing 102: Applying the Comet and Using the Brush. This recap is brought to you by Guinness, Starbucks coffee with nonfat milk (because I was too busy checking my phone for scores to notice my mistake), the Steve Miller Band (Abracadabra is a vastly underrated song) and veal papardelle, courtesy of Angelo's on Mulberry in Little Italy. Amo Questo Ristorante. (Translation: I love this restaurant....I'm learning Italian.)

We kicked off to Buffalo, who looked so much like Kentucky that I did a triple take. A perpetually unimpressive squad and a lamb to the slaughter, I thought. They did nothing with the ball and punted to us. I could not help but notice that our defense looked a step slow, however. Guys just seemed to be going through the motions and there were "hands on hips" really quickly in this game. The Dawgvent had been awash in a sea of anger earlier this week when players were "tweeting" at 2 AM from bars in Athens. While I do not subscribe to this incessant prying into the lives of people who were born when I was in middle school, I still wonder if those angry keyboard cops weren't on to something. We get the ball back and Murray is flinging the ball all over the field, some accurately and others looked as if he was throwing clay targets for a skeet shooting contest. He has not matured like I hoped he would, to be honest. He overthrew a wide open Tavarres King on a sixty yard post that was a sure touchdown. Not just out of his reach either.  In fact, I think that ball actually landed in Brookhaven. Luckily, there was a man wearing a #3 jersey....a man from Tarboro, North Carolina.....a man who eats arm tackles for a light snack before slamming your soul into a blender and hitting "puree." That man is Todd Gurley.

The dreadlocked freshman phenom scored the first touchdown of the season on a ten yard run reminiscent of Richard Samuel against Florida last year. Futile Buffalo tackle attempts were stomped out like a Basic Light 100 cigarette in a Cassville trailer park. The Pourhouse went crazy, Dad and I high fived strangers, and the first of twenty pitchers of beer was spilled all over the floor when an overzealous Dawg's kneecap struck the underside of their table. We kick off to Buffalo and they start picking apart our defense, courtesy of Mike Zordich, their long haired quarterback. Dink and dunk, quarterback draw, tight end across the middle and they score in the corner on a twenty yard route where Shawn Williams looked like he was running in a pile of gravel. To be fair, there was a MAJOR hold on that play where the Buffalo left tackle brutally raped Jordan Jenkins, our true freshman defensive end. The referee was close enough to count Jordan's mustache hairs, but completely blew the call. Grumbles filled the air of the Pourhouse. Comments were made: "Man, Gilliard looks lost. Herrera is out of position." My drink went flat. The lack of intensity was palpable. Our defense looked like a hungover fraternity flag football team.

Buffalo boots one to the goal line and Todd Gurley receives it. He sprints to his left, shoots the gap and dashes 100 yards to the end zone, as the Pourhouse faithful erupts in ecstasy. Three customers vow to name their first child "Todd." His Heisman campaign was planned over another spilled Bud Light pitcher:

"Todd ain't no Gurley-man."

"Gurley is the new manly."

"The Smokin Marlboro from Tarboro." (canned for political incorrectness, references to tobacco and the fact that 99.9% of America has no clue where Tarboro is.)

The first quarter ended and we all started taking note of the Sanford Stadium crowd, which was less than capacity. First game of the season and the upper deck is as empty as the girl's dorm at Georgia Tech. I imagined Michael Adams, sitting in his Skybox sipping a Diet 7-Up, surveying his "Harvard in the Pines" vision coming true. Yes, you truly HAVE killed the gameday experience for so many people. Anyhow, the second quarter arrived and thus began one of the most painstaking quarters of Georgia football that I have surveyed in my entire life. Buffalo scored ten points and ran the ball right down our throats. Branden Oliver gashed our defensive line over and over. A team of nobodies with 1/4 of the talent, but ten times more heart. Murray finally connected on a long bomb to King for a touchdown. Marshall Morgan did make his first field goal on his second try. The first attempt was earlier in the game and it was so far to the right that I actually thought he was kidding. It was so far right that the Christian Coalition asked Marshall to be their next guest speaker. Halftime score was 24-16 and Dad and I said about three words at halftime....."another beer, please."

The halftime speech must have resembled the first fifteen minutes of Full Metal Jacket because the defense locked down tighter than a snare drum. Murray calmed down and threw two beautiful touchdowns to Rantavious Wooten and Michael Bennett. I am renaming Bennett, "Whitey Tightey" because that dude just makes plays in tough situations. Oliver and Zordich were contained and basically did nothing for the remainder of the game, scoring only when the game was no longer in doubt. To put an exclamation point on an already amazing day, Todd Gurley scored once again on a 55 yard sprint where he dipped and dodged through their secondary, causing the Pourhouse to implode and three more Bud Light pitchers to hit the floor. People from places like Blackshear, Tifton and Macon were embracing people from Brooklyn and the Bronx like old friends. The clock ticked away and everyone relaxed. The Buffalo faithful who joined us at the Pourhouse were complimentary and glad to get the $975,000 check for showing up in Athens. However, the angst from the earlier quarters had not been forgotten. Why was our defense so sluggish? Why is Murray continually overthrowing receivers as a third year starter? Why do we consistently open every season slowly with so many kinks in the hose?

Next week is at Missouri. Their first SEC game ever and you know their place will be rocking. Frankly, I do not know much about Missouri other than they are a typical Big 12 team, a high powered offense and almost no defense. They seem confident that they can beat us and honestly, they have nothing to lose by talking trash. One of their players said that we play "old man football." Here's my rendition of trash:

What in the hell has Missouri ever done? I'm not just talking about the football team. The state of Missouri, what has ever happened there? Being from Missouri is like coming in 93rd in a marathon. Being from Missouri is like being the backup waterboy on a minor league soccer team. We are going to show these midwestern corn hustlers how it's done in the red clay. We will wake up and massacre these mumbling morons from Missouri. (A little alliteration for y'all on this Labor Day.)

Other events taking place this weekend:

1) Alabama crushed Michigan in a violent and overpowering fashion, rendering ESPN speechless after their constant puffing of Michigan's abilities, and causing Denard Robinson to disappear faster than Joe Paterno's statue. Bama was exponentially better in every facet of the game, I think they even ran to the locker room at halftime faster than Michigan. Is SEC speed a myth? I think not.

2) Ohio beat Penn State in the first game since the Sandusky scandal. It's going to be a LONG year in Happy Valley. People in the Pourhouse cheered for Ohio and I thought this was poignant, it proved that Penn State will forever be linked to this disaster and it will take years to recover, if ever. They did not care that these players were in middle school when Sandusky was molesting these kids, all they see is the indifference of the institution. Sad.

3) USC began the year at #1 and mutilated Hawaii. They have the schedule where they could easily run the table and play for a national championship. Just four years ago, they were put on double secret probation, their coach bailed on them for the NFL and their best player in the last decade was stripped of his Heisman. This is like killing somebody and being put in prison......in Trump Tower. The NCAA proves once again that if you have enough money and enough history, probation, as Kenny Wayne Shepherd once said, is about like "blue on black."