Solving the World's Problems...One Marlboro at a Time

If you drove by Cass Grocery in the 26 years that my Dad owned it, you know what it looked like on the front. Three gas pumps with areas on both sides to park your car, the ice machine, a Coke machine and the benches on either side of the front door. The benches have been there since anyone can remember, before my Dad took over, before my great uncle R.B. owned it, before the Bible was translated out of Hebrew, you get the idea. Every generation can recall a large group of local men who sat on those benches every morning, drinking coffee, smoking and telling stories or discussing world events. (by world events, I mean how many cops got called out to Cedar Creek Road last night or how much copper was stolen at a construction site in Kingston.)

As an innocent young bystander, I was not truly included in the group. Although I was welcome to stand and listen, I did not meet the qualifications set forth by the patriarchal society that ruled the roost that was the benches of Cass Grocery.

1) Age and Gender

You must be over 40. That's old enough to have worked a long time, had children that are "growed" and probably gone through a divorce or two. I was 13, all I cared about was White Water, NBA stats, and Georgia football.

No women. Ever. Absolutely not allowed. No exceptions.

2) The Look

You MUST
a) wear a John Deere hat; or
b) wear flannel regardless of temperature; or
c) smoke cigarettes; or
d) never wear shorts.

This is very important. The look. The John Deere hat is a badge of honor, to say the least. I'm talking the about the ones that sit tall on your head, not these low riders they make now. (You can see plenty of them on college campuses, worn by suburban kids whose fathers own a John Deere lawnmower.) This hat validates any statement you make on the benches, especially if you are referring to anything regarding construction, farming, car repair or tools. Don't ask these men where they bought their hat, however. This will give you away. John Deere gives away free hats with large purchases, so they'll laugh at you and say, "This damn hat cost me $58,000." Any man worth his salt knows this. You are then branded as "soft" and "don't work for a livin." Or even worse, "I'll bet he puts cream in his coffee."

Flannel is also a sign that you know a little something. Flannel indicates you probably are into construction, farming or car repair, can likely work with your hands, and may have killed a deer or two. These are big ticket items on the benches. You cannot work in an office, wear a tie all day, and watch Entourage or anything like that. You will be ousted before you can say "Dale Earnhardt, Seven Time Winston Cup Champion."

** A deer kill MAY get you included, but it depends on where, how, when and the circumstances. For example, if the pull on your compound bow is less than 80 pounds, then you are disqualified. You are a sissy.

Cigarettes. Almost as validating as the John Deere hat. Nothing puts an exclamation point behind a statement about installing sprinkler pipe in Pine Log quite like a huge drag off a Marlboro Red. You MUST be able to hold it in your mouth without squinting from the smoke. You MUST also have smoked long enough to "try and quit" (not try to quit) but fail miserably (usually due to the aforementioned "growed" kids or divorce). Having a Zippo is a plus. Soft pack or box is optional, there are no rules there. You can get away with 100's or Lights, but it better be a serious brand. No generic crap. The use of smokeless tobacco is also acceptable, if not welcomed.

Shorts. A sure sign that you are a sissy. If you do any kind of hard work, then shorts cannot be worn. There are no exceptions. You better be in jeans, coveralls, overalls, Dickie's work pants or Carhartts.

I had no John Deere hat and only wore flannel if it was below 40 degrees. I could not smoke because my Dad would have sacrificed me like an Aztec virgin, plus it's hard to run up and down a basketball court hacking up a lung. And I wore shorts all year long with high top Michael Jordan basketball shoes. (cue the Price is Right loser music)

3) The Talk

Numerous topics were touched upon out there, from construction and car repair, to politics, the weather, the Braves and women. Now, anybody from anywhere can talk about these topics. What differentiates the men on the benches from everyone else is HOW they talked about it. You must use colloquialisms,  hyperbole and swearing.

"Hell, if that damn Obama keeps raisin' taxes, I'm gonna be paddlin' my ass to Cuba!"

Everyone nods in agreement. Further discussion ensues. If you had said, "I'm very disappointed in the tax increase this admininstration is proposing, I fear that I may enter a new tax bracket. I need to call my accountant.," you would have gotten the bewildered look from everyone. Then they would all look at each other and grunt, sending the message to the others (almost like whales and raptors) that you are not to be included.


4) The Ride

Another extremely important factor in your inclusion is your vehicle. A truck, American made, 4 wheel drive, covered in red clay with various tools in the bed is the ride of choice.  If you have a diesel, you are automatically elevated to a higher status. A 2007 F-250 with mud all over the tires, with a coondog cage and three Skilsaws in the bed? You're money. There are certain variations that are acceptable, like if you are driving a car instead of a truck, you need a weedeater to be in the backseat. If your truck is clean, you need to claim that it rained on your way back from south Georgia. (I say this because they know the weather within a 50 mile radius, so use south Georgia as your reference point, it throws the dogs off the scent. See? You gotta use your head.) If the vehicle is foreign, say it is your brother's and you had to fix it because he "don't know nothin' about fuel injection."   Also, as previously mentioned in this blog, you MUST back into your parking space. No self respecting man has to back out of his parking space when he leaves.

What It Meant

I watched this subculture for years and picked up on their habits. I listened to stories about bar fights, deer hunting, fishing, work, women, drinking, and stories about people from Cassville who had died years before. Just as with Elvis, these dearly departed citizens were held to a God-like status by those who remained.

"Hell, they weren't nobody tougher than ol' Jack. By God, that man could lay brick in 100 degrees and drink a fifth of whiskey the whole damn time. I wouldn't wanna meet that sumbitch in a dark alley, boy."

I could not question the truth of such statements (see earlier disqualifications), so I learned to accept them as part of life up there. I actually enjoyed the extremity of it all. In my mind, the toughest, meanest, hardest working people in the world all existed in Bartow County, Georgia. They never took a day off, never lost a fight and never said no to a drink. As I got older, I knew it was not ALL true, but it honestly gave me a ton of pride to call these guys my friends. They had their way of life, like it or not, and they did not ask the world if it was OK. When I passed the Bar, they couldn't have been prouder. When I would come up to the store afterwards, they would all say laughing, "oh hell, here he is! Hide your wallets, boys!" They all hated lawyers (a topic of discussion over the years) but I guess they made an exception with me. As I've said before, people in Cassville actually are happy for you when you do well.

So, if you are ever in Cassville, or any small town, and you see a group of men sitting in front of a store, stop by. Stand and listen. Observe them in all their glory. And if you get a chance, put a flannel shirt on and say,

"By God, it's hotter than two rabbits doing it in a wool sock out here. I was Bush Hoggin' my field and ran out of cigarettes, must've left my other pack at the VFW bar last night."

Solid gold.

Thank God for Football!

Get the picture....It's Saturday, September 4, 1999. I'm wearing a brand new "G" shirt with khaki shorts and New Balances. My trusty fifth pair of Ray-Bans affixed to my head with a visor to block the 98 degree sun beating down on us. I looked about 15 years old, I think. I stride into Sanford Stadium, as I had so many times before, with the Bulldog Nation in tow. We were playing Utah State and it was going to be a cakewalk. We had Seymour and Stroud. We had Charles Grant and Boss Bailey. I knew the roster like the back of my hand because I studied it much harder than anything I was forced to read in Psychology 1101. Seriously, what is more important....dopamine levels in your brain or that Terrence Edwards was born and raised in Tennille, Georgia? Tennille wins, hands down.

I went to the seat that my ticket instructed (section 308, row 12, seat 8) and sat down. I would find out later that this is NOT the cool thing to do. You are supposed to crowd into the student section twelve deep and pray there are no stampedes. The band fired up. The special teams players came out for warmups. We booed Utah State's kickers as they came onto the field. In all the pomp and circumstance, I took inventory. See, although this was probably my 20th game in Sanford, it was my very first as a student. My first without my parents. My first without tossing the football with my brother for three straight hours before kickoff. My first without going to our usual spot on Hull Street with Bojangles chicken, mashed potatoes, macaroni, and something sweet that Mom made for us. I felt a lump in my throat. It was one of sadness and extreme happiness at the same time. Sad for days gone by but completely ecstatic that this dream had come true. I had always wanted to be here, in this spot, since I could remember. I could see my dorm from my seat. My fellow freshmen, wide eyed (or not, depending on the night before), gathering all around me to enjoy their first game really moved me. I watched them for a few minutes, everybody was grinning from ear to ear. I wondered if any of them felt as I did?

We clobbered Utah State 38-7. We ended up going 8-4 that season and we beat Purdue in the Outback Bowl 28-25. It may not have been a magical season in terms of wins and losses, but it was beyond perfect in my eyes. I had three more great seasons and so many things happened during that time. We beat Tennessee for the first time in nine years. Then we had the Hobnail Boot game. We lost to Tech, and then got our revenge tenfold (51-7 was my favorite, I wish it had been 151-7). Mark Richt became our coach. We won the SEC and the Sugar Bowl in the same season, 2002. Pollack stealing the ball from Carolina's QB in the rain. Michael Johnson's catch at Auburn. The Man Enough game in Tuscaloosa. The road trips with the guys. It was an unbelievable year and to celebrate with my friends in New Orleans after whipping Florida State was just icing on the cake. Memories that are absolutely priceless.

That is why I do not truly "hate" another school in the SEC. There are some fanbases that I do not particularly care for, towns that are more fun than others and stadiums that I could do without, but there is no "hate" in the simplest definition of the word. We may give each other hell, talk smack for hours and be hostile from kickoff til the end of the game, but at the end of the day, we are all the same. I know there are people like me, who have great memories with their wives, their best friends and their families, at other schools all across the South. I bet it was a great year to be a student at Auburn last year or at Bama in 2009. What about Carolina? Finally getting to the SEC championship game after so long. Although they were soundly defeated, it had to be fun to be part of that season. Or Vandy a couple of years ago, getting to a bowl game and actually winning it? The people who were there will be talking about it for years to come. They'll call their friends and say, "remember that time...?"

Flash forward twelve years. It's 25 days until kickoff and I am as giddy as I was in September 1999. I have a beard now, so I don't look 15. I have gone back to sitting in my assigned seat because alumni tickets are slightly more than the $3.00 student tickets we used to get. I still get a lump in my throat every game, but it's from Munson highlights on the Jumbotron. Work production is grinding to a halt. My wife thinks I am nuts because I am so excited that one of our defensive backs runs the 40 in .2 seconds faster than last year. My dad calls me about it every day. I talk to my friends Vinny, Jeremy and Jemel constantly. We are like Pavlov's dogs, salivating with every day that passes until we meet Boise in the Dome. I am sure there are tens of thousands just like us, from Arkansas to Florida, gearing up for another great year.

Funny though, I still find myself looking up at section 308, row 12, seat 8 during the first home game every year. I can almost see an 18 year old kid with a visor and a brand new "G" shirt who is just happy to be there. I hope he gets to have the same great memories that I have. Good luck to everybody this year! See you in 25 days!

Disclaimer:      None of this applies to Georgia Tech, whatsoever. =)

Wrong Side of the Tracks....L-I-V-I-N

In every county, city and town in the USA, especially the South, has an area they call the "wrong side of the tracks." (WST) The WST can encompass an entire town or just one street, it just depends on who you are talking to and where they live in relation to the specific area. The definition of a WST also varies from person to person, what is one man's WST is another man's Martha's Vineyard. There is always a certain tone in the speaker's voice when this area is mentioned, or if somebody lives there, it's like a black eye on their life resume. You know what I mean...I use Bartow as an example:

(Imagine two guys, Ricky and Shane, who work at Georgia Power, talking about a new hire)

Ricky: "You know that new boy on the job? I think his name is Leon."

Shane: "Yeah, he's aight but he acts funny. Why?"

Ricky: "You know he's from Kingston, right?

Shane: "Oh lord, that explains it..." (insert sarcastic tone)

See? Anybody from any county can imagine a similar conversation about a WST in their county. Me personally, I don't have anything against Kingston. Kingston doesn't tax me. Kingston has not bedeviled me with speeding tickets. Actually, some of my best 10 and under basketball memories took place in their old gym. But some people I know always have that tone when referring to it. "I wouldn't go to Kingston if you paid me!" You get the picture.

You also better be careful not to accuse someone of being from a WST when they are not. Many people, especially in small towns, will differentiate and claim unincorporated areas as their home. If you look at an old map of your county, you may see some named areas that you have never heard of. Many of these were simply old voting districts, a crossroads or an old train stop that found their way into the topography. However, many of the residents of these places, while having an address of the nearest post office, will claim the area as their actual home. I once accused an old man of being from Cartersville and he retorted, "Sheeeeeyat, I'm from Rodgers, boy." Rodgers? I looked it up. It's a crossroads on Cassville Road that encompasses maybe half a mile inside the city limits of Cartersville. But, by God, he "ain't from no Cartersville." When I was at the store, I used to purposefully accuse old men of being from another place, just to get that reaction.

Me: "You're from Acworth, right?"

Old Man: "Boy, you better quit talkin that mess. You know I'm from White(s)."

Much merriment for yours truly.

In Cassville, we didn't have a ton of square mileage, but we had a couple of WSTs just the same. Honestly, our WSTs were not crime ridden,  moreso it was just full of characters that may commit petty crimes from time to time. The main one was a trailer park that was situated about half a mile from the store. It had about thirty trailers with a paved road running between them, with their mailboxes at the entrance. Two things in Cassville were a sure bet: 1) if you checked the police blotter, somebody from this address went to jail the night before and 2) they were probably drunk from the last twelve pack they bought from me. These people certainly came by the store every single day and I got to know them very well. I knew their habits, their mannerisms, their families, and their life stories. They weren't all "wrong" or "bad" so to speak, they just had a peculiar way about them, and it defined everyone who called it home.

Like George, who drank more than anyone I have ever seen and still managed to hold a job. Every morning, he would meet us at the door when we opened at 6AM, shaking violently with DTs (unfortunately you can't drink beer in your sleep). He would say "hey big guy!" as he blew past us to the beer cooler. He would be shaking so badly, he would have to go to the bathroom, chug a 22 ounce Budweiser and come back out to pay for it. He literally could not reach in his pocket to get his wallet.

Or Randy, who used to abuse morphine and meth at the same time. He somehow pulled off being completely relaxed and wound tighter than a snare drum at the same time, which I thought to be impossible. But accomplishing the impossible happened every day in Cassville. This man once brought his electric guitar to the store, plugged in an old amp, and unleashed a methed out version of "Crossfire" by Stevie Ray Vaughan in the parking lot. You know what? It didn't suck. He would pace the floor, sweating like a hamster running in a wool sock, order an ice cream, forget that he ordered it, buy a Mountain Dew and ask who's ice cream I was holding. He once tried to steal about 20 Dixie Outfitters t-shirts, got caught by my brother, and proceeded to cry on his knees in the parking lot. "I love y'all, man, I'm sorry. I love y'all!" He died during a party in the trailer park sometime in the early 2000s. The coroner said he had been dead for four hours but nobody noticed. He was stranded, caught in a crossfire. RIP Randy.

My grandmother lived near this trailer park and she noticed the comings and goings of its citizens. One day, she was working in her garden and young man walked by and asked to borrow $2.00. She wanted to know what it was for..."milk for my baby," he said. She gave him the $2.00. Unfortunately for him, he was walking and she had a lot of work to do. So, when he came walking back by with an obvious Olde English 800 malt liquor bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag, she confronted him. You know the Southern woman confrontation.....hand on the hip, one eyebrow raised, pointing with her tiny shovel. "Don't you ever ask me for money again, you heathen!" ("Heathern" is also acceptable). The kid actually apologized. Nothing like a guilt trip from 75 year old woman standing amongst her cala lilies and 150 birdhouses. I love you Neen and miss you every day.

The population of this trailer park was fairly transient over the years. However, their transience did not seem to affect the WST cloud that blanketed the modular metropolis. I remember one family that lived there for years, until one day they pulled up in the man's pickup truck with what seemed to be all their wordly possessions. Clothes, shoes, toys, food, lamps, a recliner, and various NASCAR memorabilia stacked in the bed of the truck, with their three children sitting on top to hold it down.

"What the hell? Where y'all goin'?" I said.

The man replied, "Hell, her damn car backfired last night and burnt the house up. This is all I could get out, we're movin to Kingston. Thank God I was able to save that Earnhardt helmet, huh?"

I didn't see them for years. Although Kingston is 4 miles away, that's light years in small town Georgia. It's like a black hole sucks them up and they are sent to another galaxy. I remember one guy moved out of the trailer park and I asked where he went. His old neighbor said, "Hell, he moved to Rome," in a tone that would be more appropriate if he had moved to Sri Lanka. Rome is apparently unattainable from our particular location, that 24 miles might as well be 24,000.

A new trailer was installed and a new family moved in. A guy named Junior, who could not read, his wife and son. Junior would come in and hand me a list that his wife had written and I would get the groceries for him. He drank like a fish, smelled like an old gym bag and had zero teeth. He once peed his pants while I was getting yet another twelve pack of Natural Light for him. As I watched the stain expand across his pants and his boots get wet, he just stood there with an expressionless face, open mouth breathing. It was about 2:00 in the afternoon. Just another day in Cassville. A year later, they were gone too.

Then you had the guy who had a "new" car every week. By "new" I don't mean late model, I mean simply a different car than last week. He pulled up one day in a '86 Chevy Van with an airbrushed wolf on the side. Apparently, the airbrushing doesn't just apply to Gatlinburg t-shirts. This wolf was snarling over a canyon with lightning striking in the background. Forget "Starry Night." This is artwork. It was about 37 shades of brown, only half of the windows were tinted and there was a bullethole in the back glass. The week before he had a Firebird.

"Yep, traded that, three shotguns and a fly wheel for this baby. Sweet deal, huh?" Sweet. That's the word.

There are a million stories from this tiny map dot. One may call the entire town of Cassville a "WST." That's alright with me. If it gets me stories of missing appendages from fights over catching your woman with another man (another story, another day); Fudge Rounds and Yoohoo for breakfast for your kids and blowing your paycheck on Jumbo Bucks while you are geeking on meth.....bring it on. God bless em all.

Just Sayin and Bless Their Heart....Part One

This is a new segment that I am going to do sporadically, where I will point out something and then attach the aforementioned phrases to justify/not apologize for feeling the way that I do.

Just Sayin' Defined

UrbanDictionary.com defines "just sayin" as a "term coined to be used at the end of something insulting or offensive to take the heat off you when you say it." For example...

Man: "Honey, you look like you've put on a few pounds."

Woman: "What the hell?! What is your problem?"

Man: "Just sayin."

Woman: "Oh ok."

See? No explanation, no apology. I love it. It's extremely versatile as well, I can apply to people, places and things. It usually applies to something that is obviously bad and the listener knows it to be true, but just won't admit it.

Bless Their Heart Defined

"Bless Their Heart" is a Southern term that is used to excuse insults and offensive statements. It's exclusively used down here, as I have never heard anybody say it above the Mason-Dixon Line. It is often used prior to the offensive statement or directly thereafter, to soften the blow of the offensiveness. For example...

"Bless her heart, but Tammy is dumber than a bag of hammers."

This is more of an apology that "just sayin." It's also not quite as versatile as "just sayin," as it only applies to people, but that makes it no less useful. It's telling the listener, "look, I'm going to say this, it may not be very nice, but here goes...." You can hear this anywhere and anytime because people don't feel as guilty when they attach "Bless Their Heart." You don't believe me? Go to a Baptist church at 12:05 when everybody is standing outside talking before hitting the lunch buffet. You'll hear more "bless their hearts" than "ummms" in a George W. Bush speech. (I'm a Baptist.....just sayin')

I've always wanted a day where I could say what I feel without consequences. I know that day will never actually come, but with "just sayin" and "bless their heart," it's the next best thing. So, here are five examples for your reading pleasure:

1) When are people in large metro areas, specifically Atlanta, going to "believe" that a murder took place in their neighborhood? Undoubtedly, when somebody is gunned down in Atlanta, the news teams sprint to the scene and interview the neighbors. Every single time, the interviewee will say something like "I just can't believe this happened here." You can set your watch by it, just like the "train" comments in a tornado aftermath interview. White or black, young or old, man or woman, it's always the same. Never do you hear, "yeah, it was 2:30 AM, what do you expect? This place is dangerous, my neighbors suck and I wish I could move." Nope. Shock and disbelief, like it was snowing in Death Valley in June.

Atlanta is consistently in the Top Ten of every major violent crime category that exists. These murders happen everywhere, every day. Buckhead, Downtown, Midtown, Fulton, Dekalb, it doesn't make a difference. This is no secret. Get a clue, this is a reality in this city and has been for quite some time, so "believe" it. Just sayin.

2) Bless her heart, but Adele's "Rolling In The Deep" is quickly joining my "God, how many times CAN they play this song" list. It's not a bad song, but my goodness, I feel like the faculty in "PCU" when Jeremy Piven locks them in a ballroom for 3 hours and puts "Afternoon Delight" on repeat at max volume. (If you haven't seen PCU, you are missing out). Madness ensues and the faculty basically destroys the entire ballroom trying to get out. That's me, except I'm in the Jetta and contemplating either driving into the Chattahoochee River or going the wrong way down West Peachtree.

3) The recent obesity figures were released and it was not good news for most states in the South. Apparently, we gorge ourselves on bad foods, live sedentary lives, and partake in vices that increase our waistline and decrease our life expectancy. I was at Starbucks last week and a woman was in line in front of me. She probably field dressed at 285. She was wearing house shoes and sweat pants, with a cell phone glued to her ear. It was 3:30 in the afternoon and it was painfully obvious she had just gotten out of bed. You might think, “well, you jerk, it may be her day off.” Stay tuned.

She orders a venti (extra large in snooty coffee speak) caramel frapuccino with whipped cream with extra caramel on top. This is about 600 calories of pure sugar, carbs and saturated fat. She never gets off the cell phone. She pays with a credit card, of course. Why carry $4.00 in cash anyway? She then waddles her enormous backside out to her late model SUV with a handicapped tag affixed to the rear view mirror. (thus destroying the day off theory mentioned before). This person is as handicapped as I am. There was no knee brace, no cane, no walker. Maybe you should order a water to go and walk a few miles instead of sucking down pure sugar, live off my tax money and then take advantage of free medical services when you have a massive heart attack….just sayin.

4) Bless his heart, but Will Ferrell’s humor is playing out in my opinion. Honestly, I found “Talladega Nights” boring (I still don’t get the humor from the baby Jesus prayer thing) and “Step Brothers” was simply not funny, with the exception of the drum set scene. I’m not even going to talk about “Semi Pro.” I enjoy slapstick comedy as much as anyone, but it just seems he is forcing his act now. He has resorted to phrases that are just silly toilet humor or make no sense, it sounds like something I came up with in 4^th grade. I think his current writers are screwing him up because he was beyond hilarious on SNL.

5) The sports networks need to get rid of halftime interviews with football coaches. Have you ever experienced the awkwardness of watching one of these things? I was watching Alabama and Ole Miss last year and one of ESPN's female reporters approached Nick Saban as soon as the 2nd quarter clock hit 0:00. Bama had played poorly in the first half and Saban was clearly unhappy. The man wears his disdain on his sleeve, you don't have to wonder if Nick Saban is pissed off. She asks a pointed question like...

"Coach, your defense gave up 150 yards rushing in the first half and the offense couldn't score and turned it over twice, how are you going to fix this for the second half?" Then she jams the mike right in his face.

Saban cuts his eyes at her. His mouth starts moving, "we will have to get our act together, re-evaluate our defense, blah blah, coachspeak, blah, blah." His eyes tell another story....

"What kind of dumb question is that? What am I going to do? I don't know, dumbass! I'm so pissed off right now, I'm about to bite through the damn goalpost. I didn't know how many yards they had until you just told me, so I'm going to ream the hell out of my line when I get back in the locker room. I'm so glad that you are here, appeasing the networks and sponsors, asking me these questions with the innate football knowledge you acquired at journalism school at Northwestern. Now get outta the way before I eat your mike."

Then he tersely says "thanks" and runs into the locker room. This is repeated by hundreds of other coaches across the country, especially in the SEC, where a single losing season can send you to the unemployment line. The coaches never tell these people anything of value, never appear to be happy about being interviewed and frankly, it makes me uncomfortable to watch somebody who knows nothing of football strategy ram a mike in a coach's face right after his team sucked for an entire half. It would be like me going to Paula Deen and saying, "hey, Paula, put some salt on that casserole, it will make it taste better." I know diddly about cooking, I just know how to eat. Just sayin.

The Legend of Yoda: Cassville's finest

Got One on the Front!

The sun beat down on the pavement on a hot summer day in 1994. It was one of those days where the birds weren’t even flying around, it was so hot. I was back in the hardware arranging the cracked corn and scratch feed, pricing the bags and separating them according to their size. I didn’t mind that kind of work, honestly. I always felt like I accomplished something when I put up 200 bags of feed, soil, peat moss and fertilizer. Not to mention 25 blocks of salt for deer season, which weighed 50 pounds, but I swear to everything holy that they weighed 200 pounds a piece. You ever tried to carry one? It’s more awkward than watching “Wild Things” with your parents.

Anyhow, I was tossing bags left and right when Russell yelled, “Got one on the front!” I put down my price gun and sprinted down the first aisle, past the cereal, the paper towels and the medicine. The heat wave just blasted my 13 year old face. There was not a breeze within 100 miles of us. The vehicle parked beside the gas pumps was a common sight for my eyes. A mid 80’s Camaro with a hatch, primer gray, missing muffler, leaking oil, and shaking to a stop next to the regular unleaded pump. The hood is being held down with a twisted coat hanger. There are dead wasps (waw-st-es, remember?) under the glass in the hatch. The driver door opens with a creak and this man gets out. At least I think it was a man. It weighed about 100 lbs soaking wet with a sunken face and missing teeth. It’s arms were down to it’s knees, it was wearing a tattered old flannel shirt, pants, boots and a cap that read, “This cap is mine. Everything else is hers.” He muttered in English, “Gimme two dollars worf.” ($2.00 worth of gas). Back then, $2.00 could get you to Marietta and back. Now, you might be able to get from the store to Firetower Road
before you have to use your finger. (Alan Jackson reference +1).

The man strides into the store. I unhook the pump and turn the knob to clear the machine for pumping. We didn’t have the computerized pumps with credit card capability. Those pumps were older than me, my brother, and Russell combined. That was part of the charm to be honest, their simplicity. Plus, it was funny to watch people from Atlanta try to figure out how they work.

Genius #1:“My gosh, Bill, where does the card go?” “I can’t turn this on!”

Genius #2: “I don’t know! Excuse me, young man!” (addressing me)

Me(turning the knob for them): “Y’all gotta pay inside, and we don’t take Discover.”

I open the gas tank door. There is a napkin in the place of a cap. I’m sure the cap was stolen when the last person siphoned gas out of their tank. That was a common occurrence back then, strangely. I start the pump and watch the cents tick by on the meter. I stare down at my Air Jordans, covered in dirt and 10-10-10 fertilizer. Neen (my grandmother) is gonna kill me for working in my new shoes, I just know it. Suddenly, the passenger door pops open, startling me. The vehicle rocks, like somebody is getting momentum to throw themselves out of the seat and into the parking lot. A figure materializes.

Close Encounters of the Bartow Kind

It was much shorter than the man, probably 5’0 and hunched over. It had dirty yellow/white/gray hair matted down on its head. It was wearing a housecoat that appeared to have been pink at some point. Now, it was brown/yellow/gray with pink spots. Waddling around the car, it glanced over at me. Making eye contact with it, I was taken aback. Now, we have been subject to many strange looking people, servicing the area that we did. However, this one was especially heinous. One eye was closed, the other was opened, staring at me. The face was wrinkled beyond belief, the chin had stringy white hairs growing out of it. The mouth was slightly opened, revealing brown tobacco stained teeth. The brown tobacco juice had made its way onto the chin and the cheeks. The sight of this figure made me forget how much I wanted a hot dog for lunch.

The figure I assumed was a woman, since the man’s cap said “everything else is hers.” I guess this was “her.” I was so busy staring at her that I messed up and pumped $3.25 in their tank. Sweet. That’s a $1.25 out of my pay and a free trip to Chattanooga for them. I am about to stop the pump and grab the napkin (cap). For some reason, I keep hearing this clicking noise. I look around for the source. I look under the car. I put my ear up to the pump, maybe the belt is loose. Nope. My ears finally zone in on what it was. I cast my eyes toward it. There are a few regrets in my life…..I never studied abroad, I never saw Michael Jordan play live, and I once accused a friend of stealing my wallet before I found it in my shorts in the laundry. None of these unfortunate events compare to what my eyes saw that day. The woman was barefoot. The clicking was a long black toenail on her left foot striking the pavement with each step. It had to be two inches long. I closed my eyes, nauseated. God, please don’t let me hurl.

No Joy in Mudville

Into the store I go, following behind her. The smell hits my nose. A combination of body odor, urine, feces and tobacco. That explains the coloration on the housecoat. I clench my jaws, resisting the Waffle House hash browns that were itching to escape my stomach. Russell mouths to me, “Holy shit.” He grabs the Lysol under the cabinet. She waddles past the candy rack, click click click. The smell is permeating the air, destroying the sweet BBQ scent that was wafting amongst the aisles. She comes to a stop at the ice cream cooler. This indicates that she wants one of us to dip an ice cream for her. Russell looks at me, looks back at the hardware and shouts to no one, “Be right there, sir!” He runs away laughing. I’m stuck. There is no joy in Mudville. I open the door and in the best tone I could muster, “What would you like?” The woman looks up at me, one eye still closed, chin whiskers waving in the air conditioning and says, “Gimme a dip a niller.” (A dip of vanilla).

That was the fastest ice cream ever dipped. That vanilla was frozen solid and I had skinny arms but I could have smashed clear to the bottom of that 3 gallon Mayfield tub. I wanted her gone. I hand her the cone. With the tobacco still in her mouth, she begins to lick the ice cream. It gets in her chin whiskers. I see Russell watching from the back, aghast. My gag reflex is working overtime. The man is standing at the counter, ready to pay me. He gets a pack of cigarettes, a can of Bruton snuff for his woman and hands me the cash. Click, click, click. She exits the building. He leaves with a “preciate it” and out to the chariot he goes. Russell is weaving through the aisles, uttering every four letter word in the book, dousing the air with “Country Flowers” or “Summer Rain” or whatever scent we could find to annihilate the foulness left behind. I hear the Camaro rev up and leave in a cloud of smoke and dust.

Aftershocks

For years, when we saw that Camaro pull up, a collective groan would arise. Out would come the Lysol and our eyes would avert to the ceiling because the woman never wore shoes, so the “click click click” happened each and every time she came in. So did the housecoat, the closed eye, the smell and the chin whiskers. She got an ice cream every time, always vanilla. Even now, the thought of that incomparable disgustingness destroys my appetite. We never knew her name, but we bestowed “Yoda” upon her because it was the closest related creature we could think of to describe her. The legend of Yoda grew every time she entered the store, kind of like a big fish that gets bigger every time the story is told. We did figure out a couple of things about her. She lived with about 12 other people in a shack up in Adairsville. Her supposed granddaughters, who were 2 of the 12, worked at a local restaurant, so any trips to that particular establishment were absolutely out of the question. I wouldn’t buy a cup of ice from that place, even now.

I think Yoda died in 1999 (or flew back to the Dagobah System). She was 137 years old. =) (Coming to America reference +1)

Obscure Song You Should Download

Steely Dan is one of the most underrated bands of all time, in my opinion. How many times do you ever hear them mentioned in any "greatest ever" lineups? Never. I love Steely Dan because they cross so many borders with their music, like an American version of Traffic. They have numerous hits that are very radio friendly, like "Reelin in the Years," "Peg," "Old School" and "Deacon Blues." Everyone knows the sound that Steely Dan has, it's almost jazz, almost rock, and almost blues....but not quite. They just own their sound, plain and simple. Any band that can do that can call themselves a success (with the exception of some 80's new wave acts who sucked beyond belief).

From Steely Dan's  1972 album "Can't Buy a Thrill," I bring you "Dirty Work."

Xboxes and Embolisms: A cynic's take

So, a story comes out of Britain last week where 20 year old student Chris Staniforth literally played Xbox for so long that his body formed a blood clot that went to his heart and killed him. Doctors theorize that a deep vein thrombosis occurred, which triggers the pooling of blood and the formation of the clot. When the clot travels to the heart, it stops beating and the victim suffers from a fatal pulmonary embolism. Hours of inactivity, with the exception of the thumbs, took this kid's life. Apparently, this kid spent up to 12 hours a day staring at his TV screen in a fantasy world of computerized soldiers and cheat codes. Now the parents are creating an awareness campaign to help others save their children from a similar death.

Give me a damn break. An awareness campaign? Aware of what? That sitting on your ass for half a day, every day, is not particularly beneficial? That being completely devoid of social skills, physical prowess or any motivation to contribute to society should not be the goal of this generation? I feel sorry for these parents for losing their son. I could not imagine the sadness of burying a 20 year old. But let's be real, for one minute at least. This kid is the product of a generation that wants for nothing. He had the time to play games for 12 hours a day. In that 12 hours, he could have been working, playing a sport, or studying. Instead, he chose to live in a fantasy world....and stay in it all day. It's a world that means absolutely nothing, warrants no merit whatsoever, and I cannot think of one positive thing about playing a video game for longer than an hour.

What separates us from our furry and scaled counterparts on this earth is free will. We have the ability to decide what we want to do, unlike the other animals on this earth. This was a 20 year old man (according to the world's definition of a man) who freely decided to sit on his keyster until he died. They call him an "addict," I'm calling it apathy. This is not a drug that alters the chemical structures in your brain. It's a piece of plastic with microchips. Microsoft, the manufacturer of Xbox, released a statement encouraging gamers to "take breaks to exercise as well as make time for other pursuits." Duh. I don't blame Microsoft though, they just make the product. All this kid had to do was hit the "off" button and walk away. Grab a basketball and shoot it. Jog a mile. Go fishing. His body decided to hold him accountable for his inactivity, plain and simple. You want awareness? Go outside and get aware of the Earth in all it's glory. Meet new people. Go on a road trip with your closest friends and take a 1,000 pictures. Take the Xbox and punt kick it into the nearest body of water while you're at it, I promise you won't miss a thing.