As the area of the United States that is the most often discussed, written about, romanticized, demonized, idolized, and analyzed, we are sadly also generalized. Now, I'm not going to discuss all the serious issues that are factually airtight, according to the national media: the racism that just runs rampant in all Southern towns, our destitute education system, our failed dental hygiene, our requited love for our cousins, and our children's permanent Kool-Aid mustaches. They portray us in a light that suits them. They want to interview the fat lady in the mumu and hair curlers after a tornado. They want a Klan rally to occur in downtown Hoot n' Holler, Arkansas (population: 37) so they can say, "See? They are no different!" Just wait for a slow news day, the AP will run a story about the South that is less than flattering every time. Thank God for political disasters, the Occupy people, melting ozone, hurricanes, the Mayan calendar, Snooki and American Idol. If they did not exist, we'd be the topic of the national news every minute.
No, I'm not discussing serious stuff here. Why? I'm not that serious of a person. I happen to believe that God, in His infinite wisdom, made it feel good to laugh for a reason. I've never felt good after a rousing debate about gas prices, school board policy or whether Iraq has 28 WMD's stored under a used camel lot in downtown Basrah. Undoubtedly, I just end up more mad and even further divided from the people I was arguing with. I have my opinions, but I've never seen them directly affect anyone but me. However, I have seen a group of people laugh at something I've said, or get an email from somebody who tells me that I made their day with a Cassville story.....and that's what it's all about. It's the reason I never watch the news, but I watch every Comedy Central Roast. I don't catch the newest presidential debate, but if there's a Three Stooges marathon, I'm in. I'd rather have met Lewis Grizzard than John F. Kennedy. (unless he wanted to talk about Marilyn)
So, I'm here to clear up a few misconceptions about the South right here and now. These will be relevant to the modern day South, not the "Gone With the Wind" South. I've never stood in a pasture and screamed "As God as my witness, I'll never go hungry again!!" Sorry. We are just not that dramatic these days. I did scream it in the Waffle House parking lot on Cass-White Road once, but a triple order of hash browns (scattered, smothered, covered, and chunked) took care of that. Now the Waffle House has a "topped" option for hash browns...which means they cover all that goodness with a blanket of sausage gravy. For me, that's akin to walking through the Pearly Gates and my Granddads are both standing there bragging about a bass they just caught. It doesn't get better, really.
Misconceptions
#1 We All Think That Larry The Cable Guy is Funny
Nope. He's not, unless you like an hour of toilet humor mixed with a fake Southern accent. He's like the Kenny Chesney of comedy and people down here just go crazy for him. Call up "Larry Whitney" on Youtube and see for yourself. "Git-R-Done" needs to get the hell on. I watch the crowd when he says that tagline and they all let out a big "woooooooo" when he does this. Let it be known right now: only Ric Flair is allowed this response, not some fraudulent hick that put on some flannel, picked 3-4 stereotypes to play with, developed an accent and latched on to Jeff Foxworthy like a chigger on my leg after walking through our old pasture.
#2 Garth Brooks is the Best and Most Popular Country Singer Here
Garth had a ton of hits, of this there is no doubt. The man made millions of dollars singing of Low Places, Bar Associations, Rivers, Fires, and Calling the Old Man Out. However, I can say that he is not held in the same regard as Alan Jackson, George Strait or any of the old school singers. Why? He had a sissy factor. Yep, I said it. We were discussing it at the store once and one man said, "you know, I'd like to have a beer with George Jones. I mean, come on, it's George Jones. But Garth? Man, I don't know. He'd probably start talking about his feelings or how much starch he used in his shirt." Then, he pulled the Chris Gaines debacle that sealed his fate with true Southerners forever. Could you even imagine George Strait doing this? I could see his producers now...
(nervously kicking the dirt at his feet) "George, hey, look...um, we need you to connect with a new audience. This generation doesn't want Amarillo By Morning. They want songs about unrequited teenage love coupled with pill addictions, reality TV references, guitar distortion and at least one cameo by Kanye West in a music video. You are gonna need to highlight your hair and lose the hat. I think we will call you Tommy "44" Magnum. Deal?"
"Naw." George then spits Skoal on producer's Gucci loafer, choke slams an Angus Bull just to prove a point and drives off in his pickup, exuding masculinity and discounting any notions of tomfoolery in his countenance. (sorry, had to do the SAT word thing. It's that bad education down here, I'm tellin' you)
#3 Every Lawyer Down Here Wears Seersucker Suits
Speaking from personal experience, I look like a clown in seersucker and a bow tie. I might as well have a hand buzzer and a flower that squirts water pinned to my lapel. It works for some people, like old men with goatees, short guys, plaintiff's attorneys, or Bobby Lee Cook, who can wear whatever he wants. Every time I see somebody other than the aforementioned people in a seersucker suit, I want to say, "Hey, Captain Tryingtoohard, what's up?" Plus, seersucker is not exactly comfortable when its 90 degrees outside with 85% humidity. It's hard to convince a jury of anything with your shirt soaked and hair matted down like Norman Reedus on The Walking Dead.
#4 We Always Want to Hear "Freebird" in Bars or Any Live Music Situation
Undoubtedly, when somebody is playing live music in a bar, "Freebird!" is screamed to the top of somebody's Miller Lite soaked lungs when there is a quiet moment. If the singer asks if anybody has a request, "Freeeeeebiiiiird!!!" is without a doubt going to rattle the rafters. What people tend to forget is that the damn song is about 12 minutes long with no words for about six straight minutes. I know I'm not in the minority when I say that people lose interest in the song after about three or four minutes anyway. Don't get me wrong, I like Freebird, but it's not even close to being my favorite Southern rock song. In fact, it's not even the best song on the album it was recorded for. (Tuesday's Gone...much better if you ask me). So many people believe that Freebird is the quintessential Southern song simply because of the shouting phenomenon. They are wrong. That's like saying people in Cassville like Natural Light better than Budweiser because they buy it twice(d) as much. Nope. If a big bonus check comes in, they will walk out with two cases of Bud Heavy quicker than you can say "Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses is my life story."
Just once, I want somebody to shout "Green Grass and High Tides," "Mindbender," or "Blue Jeans Blues." One night, in a smoky bar somewhere in northwest Georgia, I want a guy to pull out his lighter, start swaying and scream "Highwaaaaaay Saaaaawwwwwwwngggg!!!! (Highway Song by Blackfoot. Download it, Southern people. Immediately.) Shoot, somebody let me bum a lighter, a Marlboro, a Camaro, and pending assault charge....and I'll have the band play the entire "Mullets Rock" compilation, beginning to end. Just ask the patrons of Wild Wing Cafe in Athens, Georgia, ca. August 2005. I had a live band from Savannah playing Allman Brothers, Marshall Tucker Band and Atlanta Rhythm Section all night long and I was wearing a tux. Imagine the damage I could do with an airbrushed "wolf howling over a canyon" t-shirt and a Schlitz 16 oz can.
#5 We Mispronounce the Word "Pen."
Nope. The rest of you are wrong. Get over it.
You are also wrong about other words too (these are two that I've been questioned/chastized about the most):
"Coke" or "Co-Cola" is acceptable for any soft drink. The whole country calls all tissues "Kleenexes" and all adhesive bandages "BandAids." We lay claim to soft drinks. Get over it.
"Fixing to" is an acceptable verb. We are basically informing you that we are arranging our schedules accordingly to effectuate the completion of the pending activity that you are inquiring about. See? That's a mouthful. We are just being efficient. Get over it.
Conclusion: We Ain't Perfect
There are so many more misconceptions about the South out there. It doesn't make us mad, quite frankly, we relish the difference and wallow in it, like a pig in slop. We know we are not perfect. We also misconceive things ourselves. For example, why are there so many girls down here named "Charity" and "Chastity," who are neither charitable nor chaste. Why do we insist on the continuation of the Huddle House? It's not an alternative, it's sacrilege. How do we look in the mirror at ourselves when we let Kenny Chesney continue to make music? And what's with the Panama City obsession? I love my people, but dang, if I wanted to hang around thousands of idiots, wait in line to for a club that will be shut down by the cops in the next hour and get overcharged for second hand food...I'd go to a Larry the Cable Guy show.
Have a great weekend. (lighter's up, swaying ensues, ".38 Special!!!" and the crowd at Starbucks goes out the door, thinking I have a gun.)
Friday, March 9, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Rules and Theories for Sports Fans in Georgia: Bunk Beds, Boston Coattails and Bandwagon Wheels going flat
Bill Simmons of ESPN is one of my favorite writers ever. Not just because we share a fanatical love of basketball, top ten lists and statistics, but because he goes outside the box with his writing. Bill often goes on tangents throughout his articles, complete with footnotes, that are not only hilarious, but informative. For example, he could be talking about the NBA Finals and then suddenly do two paragraphs about how "The Air Up There" may be the worst movie ever made (it's close.....Cabin Fever is my vote for worst movie ever) or how he saw David Lee Roth in Vegas and got hammered with him. He weaves pop culture, sarcasm, and some "this one time, at band camp" stories with sports and really keeps a reader intrigued. Check him out on ESPN.com or http://www.grantland.com/, his very own website. I promise, if you are a sports fanatic, you will not be disappointed.
One thing Bill has done in the past is create his own rules and theories about certain players and sports. The most famous one he has done is the "Ewing Theory." Seriously, type "Ewing" into Google and The "Ewing Theory" is the first entry to pop up. Essentially, the Ewing Theory applies to players who receive an inordinate amount of attention and fan love, yet their teams never really accomplish anything with them. Then, when said player leaves the team (trades, retirement, etc.) the team rises to even greater heights. Obviously, this is a dubious homage to the career of Patrick Ewing. If you review the Knicks history while he manned the paint in Madison Square Garden, you will notice two things. Number One...he had the largest knee pads in the history of basketball. Number Two...the Knicks seemed to play better without him in the lineup. Check out Bill's article, it's very interesting and thought provoking. http://proxy.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?id=1193711
Anyhow, Bill inspired me to create some sports rules and life theories for Southerners, mainly Georgians. These rules are going to be an absolution of Southern life and fandom forever, I can feel it. I want to be quoted years from now in an internet newpaper on Mars...."yep, ol Brad called it, the Chipper Jones-Hooters-Cold Sore Theory has held up all these years." Yep, that's what I want. These rules are brought to you by Herschel Walker's Sixth Personality, Left Hand Milk Stout Beer, RC Cola and Moon Pies, and Bear Bryant's accent. Why the Bear? Because I went to Tuscaloosa in 2002 when we played Bama and their pregame video started with the Bear saying "I ain't never been nuthin but a winner" in that Arkansas/Alabama accent that was thicker than a Chicago politician's wallet. I got a chill, and they were the dang enemy that day. That man is still powerful and he's been dead for nearly thirty years. Without further delay, here are some rules and theories for Southern fans:
1) The Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Compromise
All Southerners must cheer for Junior, even though we know he will never win a Winston/Sprint/Sega/TD Waterhouse/Whatever It Will Be Next Year Cup. It's never going to happen. However, pulling for Junior is a de facto cheer for his late father, the alpha and omega of NASCAR drivers. If and when Junior wins a race, Southerners must oblige the victory with a "well, this may be the year..." discussion, speak forlornly about Dale Senior's death, and then blame Junior's failures on his crew chief. The Son of the Man cannot be held accountable, no matter how many times he finishes 20th or worse. Other examples of this Compromise: Hank Williams III, Shooter Jennings, Derek Dooley, and Mike Shula.
2) The UGA/Alabama Eternal Bunk Bed Theory
Although we are close in proximity, share our entire western border with them, and sometimes fight over who gets to be on the top bunk, we just don't hate each other. We are like eternal dorm roommates that go out for beers on Friday and hate the other guys on the hall together. Yes, we've woken each other up the night before a test and yes, when Alabama passes out after too many drinks, we will draw on their face. We've had some knock-down drag-outs (the 1976 UGA victory to seal the SEC title, the 1985 Alabama last second win in Athens, the 2002 Man Enough Game, the 2008 Alabama victory that officially put them back on the map) but when the dust settles, we are opening each other's PBR's and toasting to the fall of the arrogant, self absorbed jerk (Florida), the obnoxious redneck (Tennessee) and the poser who drives a leased Hummer (Auburn). The Eternal Bunk Bed Theory applies to Earnhardt, Jr/Tony Stewart (Southerners like Tony, he's old school and hates the sissified NASCAR of today), UNC/South Carolina, and to an extent, Bill Dance/Jimmy Houston. (Don't ask. It's a Saturday morning Cass Grocery thing. We fought over which show to watch, but we all loved both of these guys. Don't even get me started on deer season. Dean Durham shooting a sixteen pointer in Texas vs. Denny Brauer catching snook off Marathon? Forgetaboutit.)
3) The 2004 Boston Coattail-Riding Rule (Metro Atlanta only)
When the Red Sox came back to beat the Yankees in the ALCS in 2004 and went on to win the World Series, a sudden transformation took place in metro Atlanta. Victory-starved Georgians, tired of waiting on the Braves, decided to infiltrate Dick's Sporting Goods and become Red Sox fans. Even in Athens, the fratmosphere was rife with navy blue, old English red "B" hats. People who have never been within 300 miles of Boston, have no clue who Carl Yazstremski was, or to whom I am referring when I say "Tony C," pretending to be Fenway faithful. Seriously, ask them anything about the Red Sox prior to 2004. You'll get the same blank stare you get from Florida "fans" about anything prior to 1990. When the Celtics won in 2008, the same rule applied. The last time the Hawks played Boston in Philips, the fan division was about 50/50. In this recession, I'm relatively certain that the upstanding residents of Boston and the surrounding areas did not fork over $1,500 in flights and tickets to come to Atlanta. I guess Atlanta sees itself as the Boston of the 1990's, when all of the major Boston teams were on the skids, just waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel. The difference is that Bostonians stood with their teams during those times, where Atlantans bail. Why didn't they get behind the Marlins after 1997? Why not become Yankees fans after the 1998-2000 dynasty years? Or why not the Buccaneers after 2003? It makes no sense, really. Other examples of the Coattail Rule: braindead west Georgians/Bama, illiterate north Georgia/Tennessee (1990's), frontrunning south Georgia/Florida/FSU(1990's).
4) The Auburn Conundrum of 2010
Notice how Auburn, even after winning the National Championship, did not take off in terms of gaining new fans and recognition? In 2010, I did not see the insanely drastic increase of Auburn gear on people's cars and heads like Alabama in the last year. Seriously, Alabama's fanbase quadrupled here in 2011, judging by the number of car tags, flags and brand, spanking new hats on people's heads. Are their colors too ugly? That cannot be the answer, as Florida and Tennessee gear permeated the land after their national championship years, and no color is more heinous and obnoxious as Cheetos Orange or worse, Cheetos Orange mixed with blue. Are they too far away? Nope. Auburn is 30 minutes from Columbus, Georgia. I think some of the west Georgia counties actually get to utilize in-state tuition at Auburn. Hell, they have a billboard in Atlanta, encouraging high school students to make a trip to the Plains.
I guess it's just not "sexy" to be on Auburn's bandwagon. I think the NCAA/Newton scandal so sullied the reputation of that team, that even the most frontrunning Atlantans just could not see themselves sporting Auburn gear. Maybe it was the "one and done" way it all went down. Recruits weren't falling all over themselves to go to Auburn after the 2010 season, but for some reason, they salivate like Pavlov's dogs to get to Tuscaloosa. The same principle applies to the Florida Marlins, the Chicago White Sox (if the Cubs win one, watch the influx of Cubs fans in ATL, it will be epic), and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
5) The Atlanta "Everybody Hates Chipper" Rule:
Have you ever seen a superstar so universally disliked by his own people than Chipper Jones? They complain about his contract. They complain about his Hooters waitress fetish. They complain about his numerous injuries (there's some credence there, I swear he went to the DL after Terry Pendleton "Indian rug burned" his throwing arm once) This Rule applies to superstars of teams who just can't quite win the big one on a regular basis. With fame comes responsibility and when you lose, it normally falls on guys like Chipper. Never mind he's the second best switch hitter of all time, the greatest Brave other than Hank, and helped them win their ONLY World Series....he has played his entire career in ATL without seriously considering leaving. Yet, he is still a pariah. Think about all the old stories about Mickey Mantle, Joe Namath, Muhammad Ali and Dimaggio or modern guys like Michael Jordan, Jeter, and Larry Bird? Hell, all of these guys had skeletons in their closets, big ones.....waaaaay bigger than "what's that sore on his lip?" The difference between these guys and Chipper? Winning on a consistent basis and not being in Atlanta.
Ponder this: Don Mattingly and Wade Boggs played for the Yankees and Red Sox, respectively, in the 1980's. Neither of them won a World Series title during their entire careers in New York and Boston, and for the the most part, the franchises were not successful when they played for them. However, these guys are universally revered by Yankees and Red Sox fans. Hell, Boggs finally won a ring playing for NY in the late 90's and Boston people were happy for him. Just think if Chipper defected to the Mets and won a World Series ring? Would Atlanta be happy for him? Yeah, about as happy as a Cassville native who won a free ride-along with Jeff Gordon.
Stay tuned for more Rules and Theories in the future. I'm currently working on a few theories for Cassville:
1) The "Empty 2 Cycle Oil Can" Rule
2) The "John Deere Lawnmower" Fallacy
3) The "I've Switched to Red Man Golden Blend" Theory
4) The "She Done Left Me" Syndrome
5) The "Workin' on Mah Car" Excuse
One thing Bill has done in the past is create his own rules and theories about certain players and sports. The most famous one he has done is the "Ewing Theory." Seriously, type "Ewing" into Google and The "Ewing Theory" is the first entry to pop up. Essentially, the Ewing Theory applies to players who receive an inordinate amount of attention and fan love, yet their teams never really accomplish anything with them. Then, when said player leaves the team (trades, retirement, etc.) the team rises to even greater heights. Obviously, this is a dubious homage to the career of Patrick Ewing. If you review the Knicks history while he manned the paint in Madison Square Garden, you will notice two things. Number One...he had the largest knee pads in the history of basketball. Number Two...the Knicks seemed to play better without him in the lineup. Check out Bill's article, it's very interesting and thought provoking. http://proxy.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?id=1193711
Anyhow, Bill inspired me to create some sports rules and life theories for Southerners, mainly Georgians. These rules are going to be an absolution of Southern life and fandom forever, I can feel it. I want to be quoted years from now in an internet newpaper on Mars...."yep, ol Brad called it, the Chipper Jones-Hooters-Cold Sore Theory has held up all these years." Yep, that's what I want. These rules are brought to you by Herschel Walker's Sixth Personality, Left Hand Milk Stout Beer, RC Cola and Moon Pies, and Bear Bryant's accent. Why the Bear? Because I went to Tuscaloosa in 2002 when we played Bama and their pregame video started with the Bear saying "I ain't never been nuthin but a winner" in that Arkansas/Alabama accent that was thicker than a Chicago politician's wallet. I got a chill, and they were the dang enemy that day. That man is still powerful and he's been dead for nearly thirty years. Without further delay, here are some rules and theories for Southern fans:
1) The Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Compromise
All Southerners must cheer for Junior, even though we know he will never win a Winston/Sprint/Sega/TD Waterhouse/Whatever It Will Be Next Year Cup. It's never going to happen. However, pulling for Junior is a de facto cheer for his late father, the alpha and omega of NASCAR drivers. If and when Junior wins a race, Southerners must oblige the victory with a "well, this may be the year..." discussion, speak forlornly about Dale Senior's death, and then blame Junior's failures on his crew chief. The Son of the Man cannot be held accountable, no matter how many times he finishes 20th or worse. Other examples of this Compromise: Hank Williams III, Shooter Jennings, Derek Dooley, and Mike Shula.
2) The UGA/Alabama Eternal Bunk Bed Theory
Although we are close in proximity, share our entire western border with them, and sometimes fight over who gets to be on the top bunk, we just don't hate each other. We are like eternal dorm roommates that go out for beers on Friday and hate the other guys on the hall together. Yes, we've woken each other up the night before a test and yes, when Alabama passes out after too many drinks, we will draw on their face. We've had some knock-down drag-outs (the 1976 UGA victory to seal the SEC title, the 1985 Alabama last second win in Athens, the 2002 Man Enough Game, the 2008 Alabama victory that officially put them back on the map) but when the dust settles, we are opening each other's PBR's and toasting to the fall of the arrogant, self absorbed jerk (Florida), the obnoxious redneck (Tennessee) and the poser who drives a leased Hummer (Auburn). The Eternal Bunk Bed Theory applies to Earnhardt, Jr/Tony Stewart (Southerners like Tony, he's old school and hates the sissified NASCAR of today), UNC/South Carolina, and to an extent, Bill Dance/Jimmy Houston. (Don't ask. It's a Saturday morning Cass Grocery thing. We fought over which show to watch, but we all loved both of these guys. Don't even get me started on deer season. Dean Durham shooting a sixteen pointer in Texas vs. Denny Brauer catching snook off Marathon? Forgetaboutit.)
3) The 2004 Boston Coattail-Riding Rule (Metro Atlanta only)
When the Red Sox came back to beat the Yankees in the ALCS in 2004 and went on to win the World Series, a sudden transformation took place in metro Atlanta. Victory-starved Georgians, tired of waiting on the Braves, decided to infiltrate Dick's Sporting Goods and become Red Sox fans. Even in Athens, the fratmosphere was rife with navy blue, old English red "B" hats. People who have never been within 300 miles of Boston, have no clue who Carl Yazstremski was, or to whom I am referring when I say "Tony C," pretending to be Fenway faithful. Seriously, ask them anything about the Red Sox prior to 2004. You'll get the same blank stare you get from Florida "fans" about anything prior to 1990. When the Celtics won in 2008, the same rule applied. The last time the Hawks played Boston in Philips, the fan division was about 50/50. In this recession, I'm relatively certain that the upstanding residents of Boston and the surrounding areas did not fork over $1,500 in flights and tickets to come to Atlanta. I guess Atlanta sees itself as the Boston of the 1990's, when all of the major Boston teams were on the skids, just waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel. The difference is that Bostonians stood with their teams during those times, where Atlantans bail. Why didn't they get behind the Marlins after 1997? Why not become Yankees fans after the 1998-2000 dynasty years? Or why not the Buccaneers after 2003? It makes no sense, really. Other examples of the Coattail Rule: braindead west Georgians/Bama, illiterate north Georgia/Tennessee (1990's), frontrunning south Georgia/Florida/FSU(1990's).
4) The Auburn Conundrum of 2010
Notice how Auburn, even after winning the National Championship, did not take off in terms of gaining new fans and recognition? In 2010, I did not see the insanely drastic increase of Auburn gear on people's cars and heads like Alabama in the last year. Seriously, Alabama's fanbase quadrupled here in 2011, judging by the number of car tags, flags and brand, spanking new hats on people's heads. Are their colors too ugly? That cannot be the answer, as Florida and Tennessee gear permeated the land after their national championship years, and no color is more heinous and obnoxious as Cheetos Orange or worse, Cheetos Orange mixed with blue. Are they too far away? Nope. Auburn is 30 minutes from Columbus, Georgia. I think some of the west Georgia counties actually get to utilize in-state tuition at Auburn. Hell, they have a billboard in Atlanta, encouraging high school students to make a trip to the Plains.
I guess it's just not "sexy" to be on Auburn's bandwagon. I think the NCAA/Newton scandal so sullied the reputation of that team, that even the most frontrunning Atlantans just could not see themselves sporting Auburn gear. Maybe it was the "one and done" way it all went down. Recruits weren't falling all over themselves to go to Auburn after the 2010 season, but for some reason, they salivate like Pavlov's dogs to get to Tuscaloosa. The same principle applies to the Florida Marlins, the Chicago White Sox (if the Cubs win one, watch the influx of Cubs fans in ATL, it will be epic), and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.
5) The Atlanta "Everybody Hates Chipper" Rule:
Have you ever seen a superstar so universally disliked by his own people than Chipper Jones? They complain about his contract. They complain about his Hooters waitress fetish. They complain about his numerous injuries (there's some credence there, I swear he went to the DL after Terry Pendleton "Indian rug burned" his throwing arm once) This Rule applies to superstars of teams who just can't quite win the big one on a regular basis. With fame comes responsibility and when you lose, it normally falls on guys like Chipper. Never mind he's the second best switch hitter of all time, the greatest Brave other than Hank, and helped them win their ONLY World Series....he has played his entire career in ATL without seriously considering leaving. Yet, he is still a pariah. Think about all the old stories about Mickey Mantle, Joe Namath, Muhammad Ali and Dimaggio or modern guys like Michael Jordan, Jeter, and Larry Bird? Hell, all of these guys had skeletons in their closets, big ones.....waaaaay bigger than "what's that sore on his lip?" The difference between these guys and Chipper? Winning on a consistent basis and not being in Atlanta.
Ponder this: Don Mattingly and Wade Boggs played for the Yankees and Red Sox, respectively, in the 1980's. Neither of them won a World Series title during their entire careers in New York and Boston, and for the the most part, the franchises were not successful when they played for them. However, these guys are universally revered by Yankees and Red Sox fans. Hell, Boggs finally won a ring playing for NY in the late 90's and Boston people were happy for him. Just think if Chipper defected to the Mets and won a World Series ring? Would Atlanta be happy for him? Yeah, about as happy as a Cassville native who won a free ride-along with Jeff Gordon.
Stay tuned for more Rules and Theories in the future. I'm currently working on a few theories for Cassville:
1) The "Empty 2 Cycle Oil Can" Rule
2) The "John Deere Lawnmower" Fallacy
3) The "I've Switched to Red Man Golden Blend" Theory
4) The "She Done Left Me" Syndrome
5) The "Workin' on Mah Car" Excuse
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Cultural Conversations in Georgia : Buckshot Jones, Goldman Sachs and Turbo Tax
"Don't you worry about it, boy; you my hoss, even if you don't ever win a race." -Duane Allman
I love this quote. It sounds like something from the benches at Cass Grocery. Duane would have fit right in up there, if you ask me. Disregard the long hair and drug abuse, this guy was as Southern as a fried chicken milkshake with a side of Moon Pie fries. Fellow Southerners ought to "Google" his name and read some of his quotes, there are some real classics there. I wish that somebody famous would suddenly appear up there one day and talk to those guys. I swear, if Dale Earnhardt, Waylon Jennings or George Jones made a cameo in Cassville, every single person on that bench would die a happy man.
It's really funny to compare the conversations of people from different cultures. Since I'm a snooty Cobb County resident now, I've had the dubious honor of frequenting enough Starbucks locations and rubbing elbows with the bluest of blue bloods to get a fair grasp on the important topics facing metro Atlantans today. Take yesterday for example. I was in the Marietta-Dallas Highway Starbucks, where I overheard the conversation of three regular customers sitting near the register. These guys are in this coffee shop every day, believe I know. They sit in the same spot, talking louder than Buckshot Jones's quarter panel smacking against the wall at Bristol after lap 33.
**Sidenote: The Buckshot Jones 32 Rule was invented in Cassville by myself and three other men. Buckshot was a NASCAR driver in the 90's. He hailed from Georgia, went to UGA and was massively popular amongst the citizenry of Cassville. Plus, his name was Buckshot. Anyone named after ammunition, a football coach, a country musician or farm equipment would attain God-like status at Cass Grocery. Poor Buckshot could NEVER finish a race. It always seemed that after Lap 32, Buckshot would just flush all of his racing knowledge, go "deer in the headlights" on us and total his car in a sharp turn. We would watch the races and once lap 32 ended, there would be a collective "oh s***, I hope Dale ain't near Buckshot" and we'd cringe, waiting for him to self destruct.
Anyhow, these men were discussing the pros and cons of Microsoft Word 7 and the efficiency of Turbo Tax:
"I tell ya, Bill, the new drop down menu on the Start icon is much easier to deal with. It combines...."
(interrupting him, 7 decibels louder): "I like the old menu better. I like having the "Format" menu separate."
(another interrruption, 12 decibels louder): "You guys don't know what you are talking about, when you point and click on the Page Tab....."
At this point, I wanted to pour my coffee in my ears. They rambled on and on, but luckily I had my head phones and Ipod, so I turned on Merle Haggard's "I Think I'll Just Stay Here and Drink" to drown out the drivel of some of the most bored individuals in the known universe. Give me a discussion about the latest copper wire theft on Peeples Valley Road. Give me a riveting diatribe about the virtues of using lag screws or laying sprinkler pipe in the mud up in Pine Log. Bring on the arguments about the best food plots for deer in north Bartow, how much PVC glue costs or the size of your fan belt. Microsoft Word? Turbo Tax? Enter Cassville....
"Microsoft? Is that the new tar (tire) that Michelin just put out? Them babies are expeeeensive....whooowee!"
"Turbo Tax. Heh. The IRS can kiss my ass. I'll send them some sawdust this year, they done stole enough from me. Turbo. They'll get my money when I'm gotdam good n ready!"
"They'll put a lien on you, Larry!"
"Lien? What they gonna lien? I own my tools and that Polaris right yonder (points to the back of the truck). They can't have it!" (nods head defiantly, takes a drag from a Marlboro Red)
Same topic. 30 miles apart. Vastly different result.
Let's meander further into the city. I was at Twist (restaurant at Phipps Plaza) eating lunch after Court and had the pleasure of sitting next to two men taking their lunch break at the same time. They were obviously in the insurance/sales business. You know how you can tell? They use large words for no apparent reason in their everyday conversations and name drop, all mixed with their former collegiate vocabulary. These are words they only learned a year ago during their training seminars.
"Dude, Jeff called me yesterday. He is developing a strategic partnership with this other dude in Miami. I think if we continually maximize our efforts and coordinate the synergistic aspects of this endeavor, we'll be so money.
"Word. This guy I know at Goldman-Sachs, he is the Director of Advanced Financial Directives, he can help us coagulate our knowledge with brand recognition. We're talking some serious fiscal implications in a positive direction. I'm so jacked right now. Hang on, gotta call coming in." (Bluetooth firmly entrenched in the ear)
After laughing/vomiting in my mouth a little, I remembered when they guys at the store tried to sound technical and do the name dropping.
"Hell, we was out there in Rome and Randy came out there...you know Randy, he's the head of the county department upair (up there) and he tol' us to get all the polybutylene off that property right then. I was working on the driveshaft and catalytic converter of that truck we got, so I didn't have to do it. Don't nobody mess with Randy. He makes biiiiig money too. Got him a twin engine Ranger boat up at Lake Weiss."
45 miles apart. Technical talk and name dropping. Goldman-Sachs and.....Randy. So different, yet so similar.
There's nothing wrong with Atlanta people. It's just a different culture. Quite frankly, some of the nicest and most interesting people I've ever met are city/suburban dwellers. I've never hidden my love for New York City and its citizens. Conversely, some of the most smug, back stabbing, self absorbed jerks I've ever known live in Bartow County, Georgia. They are another source of comedy altogether. If the entire world was a 10 mile radius from town square, they would be kings. Unfortunately for them, there are the rest of us.
So, if you are ever in Cassville and you are not privy to the intricacies of using toggle bolts vs. metric bolts or spark plug wire sizes, listen to the conversation closely. Absorb the vocabulary. Remember the big names. Introduce yourself as "Waylon Earnhardt Smith" and whatever you say after that will be OK by them. Just don't get carried away, or you'll be another Buckshot 32 victim.
I love this quote. It sounds like something from the benches at Cass Grocery. Duane would have fit right in up there, if you ask me. Disregard the long hair and drug abuse, this guy was as Southern as a fried chicken milkshake with a side of Moon Pie fries. Fellow Southerners ought to "Google" his name and read some of his quotes, there are some real classics there. I wish that somebody famous would suddenly appear up there one day and talk to those guys. I swear, if Dale Earnhardt, Waylon Jennings or George Jones made a cameo in Cassville, every single person on that bench would die a happy man.
It's really funny to compare the conversations of people from different cultures. Since I'm a snooty Cobb County resident now, I've had the dubious honor of frequenting enough Starbucks locations and rubbing elbows with the bluest of blue bloods to get a fair grasp on the important topics facing metro Atlantans today. Take yesterday for example. I was in the Marietta-Dallas Highway Starbucks, where I overheard the conversation of three regular customers sitting near the register. These guys are in this coffee shop every day, believe I know. They sit in the same spot, talking louder than Buckshot Jones's quarter panel smacking against the wall at Bristol after lap 33.
**Sidenote: The Buckshot Jones 32 Rule was invented in Cassville by myself and three other men. Buckshot was a NASCAR driver in the 90's. He hailed from Georgia, went to UGA and was massively popular amongst the citizenry of Cassville. Plus, his name was Buckshot. Anyone named after ammunition, a football coach, a country musician or farm equipment would attain God-like status at Cass Grocery. Poor Buckshot could NEVER finish a race. It always seemed that after Lap 32, Buckshot would just flush all of his racing knowledge, go "deer in the headlights" on us and total his car in a sharp turn. We would watch the races and once lap 32 ended, there would be a collective "oh s***, I hope Dale ain't near Buckshot" and we'd cringe, waiting for him to self destruct.
Anyhow, these men were discussing the pros and cons of Microsoft Word 7 and the efficiency of Turbo Tax:
"I tell ya, Bill, the new drop down menu on the Start icon is much easier to deal with. It combines...."
(interrupting him, 7 decibels louder): "I like the old menu better. I like having the "Format" menu separate."
(another interrruption, 12 decibels louder): "You guys don't know what you are talking about, when you point and click on the Page Tab....."
At this point, I wanted to pour my coffee in my ears. They rambled on and on, but luckily I had my head phones and Ipod, so I turned on Merle Haggard's "I Think I'll Just Stay Here and Drink" to drown out the drivel of some of the most bored individuals in the known universe. Give me a discussion about the latest copper wire theft on Peeples Valley Road. Give me a riveting diatribe about the virtues of using lag screws or laying sprinkler pipe in the mud up in Pine Log. Bring on the arguments about the best food plots for deer in north Bartow, how much PVC glue costs or the size of your fan belt. Microsoft Word? Turbo Tax? Enter Cassville....
"Microsoft? Is that the new tar (tire) that Michelin just put out? Them babies are expeeeensive....whooowee!"
"Turbo Tax. Heh. The IRS can kiss my ass. I'll send them some sawdust this year, they done stole enough from me. Turbo. They'll get my money when I'm gotdam good n ready!"
"They'll put a lien on you, Larry!"
"Lien? What they gonna lien? I own my tools and that Polaris right yonder (points to the back of the truck). They can't have it!" (nods head defiantly, takes a drag from a Marlboro Red)
Same topic. 30 miles apart. Vastly different result.
Let's meander further into the city. I was at Twist (restaurant at Phipps Plaza) eating lunch after Court and had the pleasure of sitting next to two men taking their lunch break at the same time. They were obviously in the insurance/sales business. You know how you can tell? They use large words for no apparent reason in their everyday conversations and name drop, all mixed with their former collegiate vocabulary. These are words they only learned a year ago during their training seminars.
"Dude, Jeff called me yesterday. He is developing a strategic partnership with this other dude in Miami. I think if we continually maximize our efforts and coordinate the synergistic aspects of this endeavor, we'll be so money.
"Word. This guy I know at Goldman-Sachs, he is the Director of Advanced Financial Directives, he can help us coagulate our knowledge with brand recognition. We're talking some serious fiscal implications in a positive direction. I'm so jacked right now. Hang on, gotta call coming in." (Bluetooth firmly entrenched in the ear)
After laughing/vomiting in my mouth a little, I remembered when they guys at the store tried to sound technical and do the name dropping.
"Hell, we was out there in Rome and Randy came out there...you know Randy, he's the head of the county department upair (up there) and he tol' us to get all the polybutylene off that property right then. I was working on the driveshaft and catalytic converter of that truck we got, so I didn't have to do it. Don't nobody mess with Randy. He makes biiiiig money too. Got him a twin engine Ranger boat up at Lake Weiss."
45 miles apart. Technical talk and name dropping. Goldman-Sachs and.....Randy. So different, yet so similar.
There's nothing wrong with Atlanta people. It's just a different culture. Quite frankly, some of the nicest and most interesting people I've ever met are city/suburban dwellers. I've never hidden my love for New York City and its citizens. Conversely, some of the most smug, back stabbing, self absorbed jerks I've ever known live in Bartow County, Georgia. They are another source of comedy altogether. If the entire world was a 10 mile radius from town square, they would be kings. Unfortunately for them, there are the rest of us.
So, if you are ever in Cassville and you are not privy to the intricacies of using toggle bolts vs. metric bolts or spark plug wire sizes, listen to the conversation closely. Absorb the vocabulary. Remember the big names. Introduce yourself as "Waylon Earnhardt Smith" and whatever you say after that will be OK by them. Just don't get carried away, or you'll be another Buckshot 32 victim.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Values in the 30123: Basic Truths for the Cassville in all of us
What a year 2012 has been so far. We are literally setting records at work, leaving me no time for fun/blogging/decompression. For that, I apologize, as I have had some complaints. I appreciate the complaints because it means y'all are actually reading these dang things! I promise to get back on schedule and fill your lives with Cassville appreciation, sarcasm and as always, love for the Dawgs and hate for our enemies.
Anyhow, as I was sitting at my desk this week, I thought about values. I know we are not born with values, we are only born with basic instincts. Our values are created by our environment and our interactions with each other. These interactions all crash together in our cerebral cortex like Dick Trickle in the third turn at Talladega, mix with what our parents told us, along with hormones and there you have it. I know we are told throughout our educated lives that we are all the same "deep down," but I'm here to tell you....that is a crock. That is the most preposterous statement I've heard since a Yankee once told me that "sugar makes grits taste better, buddy" Take your sacrilege back to Minnesota along with the "buddy" crap. We are not the same, nor will we ever be. Each culture has its own set of values and basic truths that they observe, without fail. That is the definition of "deep down" and I know from observing Cassville natives that we are not like anyone else.
Here are some basic truths that every Cassvillian must observe:
1) There is only God. Anything else is wrong and anyone who doesn't believe that should be taken "out back" and beaten. ("Out back" is a wonderful Southern colloquialism. "Out back" is a ubiquitous area where certain offenders are taken and physically manhandled by an individual or a group who disagrees with said offender. You won't find any kangaroos in this outback......only Darryl, Dwayne and all their uncles and cousins, ready to pummel you. Any non-Cassvillian needs to avoid "out back" as much as possible.)
2) Speaking of God, Dale Earnhardt sits at His right hand, espousing the virtues of Intimidation and putting sinners into the wall like Darrell Waltrip at Daytona. It is also Sterling Marlin's fault that Dale wrecked and died. Disagree with that, you'll be "out back" before you can say "I wonder if the far (fair) will be in the Big Lots parking lot this year?"
3) The Far (Fair). Everyone must go. No exceptions. You must also come back to Cass Grocery to discuss all prizes won at the bottle cap throwing station, any altercations with your ex-spouse who was there with his/her new squeeze and of course, how bad "them young'ns" were whilst waiting for the Ferris Wheel. At least one of them must receive a "whuppin'" in line, showing everybody runs the show in your house (or double wide).
4) "Whuppins" are an acceptable form of punishment, whether it be public or private. Public is preferred actually. FYI, the bathroom at Cass Grocery was the site of many whuppins. That room was like the Tower of London. All it took was a kid whining about not getting candy, and the kid's "Diddy" would look at me and say, "Can I borree (borrow) y'alls bathroom?" Nothing in the world can prepare you for a double negative infused, profanity laced tirade about Kit Kat bars: "Don't you NEVER gotdam whine at me like 'at (that) in this store. The damn race is on and we gotta git back. You ain't gettin nuthin! Shane! Cody! Y'all go get in the damn truck!" They storm out, buy their Natty Light and lay drag on their way home.
It will sometimes lead to a misdemeanor charge of "battery under the Family Violence Act," but if you go through life without an FVA charge, you haven't truly lived. Furthermore, you "done told him twiced (twice)" not to touch your Elvis commemorative plate collection.
5) Elvis is not dead. Moving along...
6) Every landlord is a jerk. Nobody has a nice landlord, it's not possible. "I done told him that my septic tank was backed up and he ain't doin' a dang thing about it, that icehoe (asshole)." Anyone who claims to have a nice landlord is a liar, and can be taken "out back" as such. (FYI, Dad was a landlord once. He made the incredible jerk move of demanding timely rent, so the tenant lit the place on fire. Another tenant beat his wife's face to a pulp in the front yard and another was busted growing an insane amount of marijuana in the basement. Rentals in Cassville: worth every penny.)
7) Gun ownership is encouraged, and it's even cooler if you have a "carry permit." You also must show this permit to others as much as possible, then pull up your pants leg to show them the brand new Glock strapped to your ankle, which caused your light bill to be paid late. Who cares? You gotta protect yourself. On the benches at Cass Grocery, I was witness to an arsenal of weaponry over the years, which lead me to believe two things: 1) We'd never be robbed in broad daylight and 2) if the Russians did invade us, I'm staying put. Those Commies would have been cut down in a hail of gunfire before you could say "The only good thing about Georgia Tech is that it's next to the Varsity." Wolverines!!!! (+1 for Red Dawn reference)
8) Trespassing is an offense punishable by death. We abide by Texas law here, "Texas East" so to speak. If your Justin Ropers touch a blade of grass in my pasture, it's the .30-06 for you. If you are not killed, you will certainly be taken "out back" and educated about the intricacies of Cassville property ownership. A couple of guys I went to school with learned the hard way about his rule. They weren't killed, but a Winchester rifle across the forehead will make you think twiced (twice) about roaming a pasture that doesn't belong to you.
9) All medical procedures must be done by emergency room doctors. No matter how large or small the problem may be, a hangnail all the way to the Ebola virus, you MUST go to the emergency room (via ambulance, of course. It's free, right? Oh wait...). All immediate family, uncles, aunts, cousins, co-workers, fellow church members and the guys from the Masons Lodge must show up to hold a vigil by your bedside. Of course, when you get a $2,500 hospital bill, you must go up to Cass Grocery and complain about it. There are no exceptions to this basic truth. Oh, and don't forget to wear your hospital bracelet for the next week...it's a great conversation starter.
"What happened to you, Leonard?
"Hell, me and Inez was at the Waffle House and I stepped in a oil slick and fell on my ice (ass). Rushed me to the emergency room. Cracked tailbone. I bet it caused my COPD to flare up too. I'm gonna call Ken Nugent. Hell, they even tol' me I got fibrmal-ga (fibromyalgia). I can't even work now. I am eating Klonopins left and right."
10) If you ever need to settle your differences and/or do something shady or illegal, the parking lot of the store is where it needs to occur. Once, a cheating boyfriend was caught with his other woman at his house. Instead of dealing with it at home, he and the woman sped off in his car and drove to the store. His longtime squeeze, we'll call her "Kristy," got in her car and followed them. They park next to the pay phone and of course, Kristy is right behind them. She removes a four foot piece of Re-Bar from her trunk and proceeds to demolish every piece of glass on the car, screaming obscenities that would make Chuck Norris shave his beard. After she finished, they drove away, covered in glass. She approaches Dad in tears and says, "are y'all gonna call the law?" Dad, trying not to laugh and living up to another Cassville code of honor, replies, "No way." She simply took them "out back" and this is totally acceptable behavior.
For shady or illegal activity, the pay phone at the store is your ticket. There is no telling how much meth, marijuana, prostitution, fraud, embezzlement, and the conspiracy to commit various and sundry crimes was discussed on this phone. Every time someone used that phone, they looked as if they'd just robbed a bank or burned somebody's house down. You know the look, constantly scanning the area for cops, pacing and chain smoking like Humphrey Bogart on Casablanca. Once, I was coming home from Athens with one of my friends and I passed by the store around 1 AM. There was an 80's model Mustang 5.0, a girl smoking a cigarette on the hood and a guy with a cutoff Def Leppard t-shirt, talking on the phone. "Nothing good happens after 1 AM," my parents always used to say. Well, all I know is that being on a pay phone at 1 AM in Cassville means that somebody is about to get high, die or get sold on the black market.
Values. Irreplaceable ideas and beliefs that are unique to a culture. Every community has them and this is why I say that "deep down," none of us are alike. It's like Billy used to say, "Every time I go to Fairmount, the music stops when I walk in a store." People know you are an outsider, it's obvious from the get-go. It's like the difference between a customer scratching lottery tickets when they are sober and when they are high on meth. Sober customers scan the tickets, buy them 1-2 at a time, and casually scratch them off in their car. People cranked up on meth buy 20 tickets at a time, scratch them at the counter furiously, taking breaks to pace and/or scratch their necks, contemplating whether they can afford 23 Snickers bars. That's the amount of difference between a Cassville native and people from elsewhere.
Oh.....and never, ever say that "sugar makes grits better" in Cassville (aka the 30123). You'll get taken out back, get "whupped"with Re-Bar and will likely end up in the emergency room.
Anyhow, as I was sitting at my desk this week, I thought about values. I know we are not born with values, we are only born with basic instincts. Our values are created by our environment and our interactions with each other. These interactions all crash together in our cerebral cortex like Dick Trickle in the third turn at Talladega, mix with what our parents told us, along with hormones and there you have it. I know we are told throughout our educated lives that we are all the same "deep down," but I'm here to tell you....that is a crock. That is the most preposterous statement I've heard since a Yankee once told me that "sugar makes grits taste better, buddy" Take your sacrilege back to Minnesota along with the "buddy" crap. We are not the same, nor will we ever be. Each culture has its own set of values and basic truths that they observe, without fail. That is the definition of "deep down" and I know from observing Cassville natives that we are not like anyone else.
Here are some basic truths that every Cassvillian must observe:
1) There is only God. Anything else is wrong and anyone who doesn't believe that should be taken "out back" and beaten. ("Out back" is a wonderful Southern colloquialism. "Out back" is a ubiquitous area where certain offenders are taken and physically manhandled by an individual or a group who disagrees with said offender. You won't find any kangaroos in this outback......only Darryl, Dwayne and all their uncles and cousins, ready to pummel you. Any non-Cassvillian needs to avoid "out back" as much as possible.)
2) Speaking of God, Dale Earnhardt sits at His right hand, espousing the virtues of Intimidation and putting sinners into the wall like Darrell Waltrip at Daytona. It is also Sterling Marlin's fault that Dale wrecked and died. Disagree with that, you'll be "out back" before you can say "I wonder if the far (fair) will be in the Big Lots parking lot this year?"
3) The Far (Fair). Everyone must go. No exceptions. You must also come back to Cass Grocery to discuss all prizes won at the bottle cap throwing station, any altercations with your ex-spouse who was there with his/her new squeeze and of course, how bad "them young'ns" were whilst waiting for the Ferris Wheel. At least one of them must receive a "whuppin'" in line, showing everybody runs the show in your house (or double wide).
4) "Whuppins" are an acceptable form of punishment, whether it be public or private. Public is preferred actually. FYI, the bathroom at Cass Grocery was the site of many whuppins. That room was like the Tower of London. All it took was a kid whining about not getting candy, and the kid's "Diddy" would look at me and say, "Can I borree (borrow) y'alls bathroom?" Nothing in the world can prepare you for a double negative infused, profanity laced tirade about Kit Kat bars: "Don't you NEVER gotdam whine at me like 'at (that) in this store. The damn race is on and we gotta git back. You ain't gettin nuthin! Shane! Cody! Y'all go get in the damn truck!" They storm out, buy their Natty Light and lay drag on their way home.
It will sometimes lead to a misdemeanor charge of "battery under the Family Violence Act," but if you go through life without an FVA charge, you haven't truly lived. Furthermore, you "done told him twiced (twice)" not to touch your Elvis commemorative plate collection.
5) Elvis is not dead. Moving along...
6) Every landlord is a jerk. Nobody has a nice landlord, it's not possible. "I done told him that my septic tank was backed up and he ain't doin' a dang thing about it, that icehoe (asshole)." Anyone who claims to have a nice landlord is a liar, and can be taken "out back" as such. (FYI, Dad was a landlord once. He made the incredible jerk move of demanding timely rent, so the tenant lit the place on fire. Another tenant beat his wife's face to a pulp in the front yard and another was busted growing an insane amount of marijuana in the basement. Rentals in Cassville: worth every penny.)
7) Gun ownership is encouraged, and it's even cooler if you have a "carry permit." You also must show this permit to others as much as possible, then pull up your pants leg to show them the brand new Glock strapped to your ankle, which caused your light bill to be paid late. Who cares? You gotta protect yourself. On the benches at Cass Grocery, I was witness to an arsenal of weaponry over the years, which lead me to believe two things: 1) We'd never be robbed in broad daylight and 2) if the Russians did invade us, I'm staying put. Those Commies would have been cut down in a hail of gunfire before you could say "The only good thing about Georgia Tech is that it's next to the Varsity." Wolverines!!!! (+1 for Red Dawn reference)
8) Trespassing is an offense punishable by death. We abide by Texas law here, "Texas East" so to speak. If your Justin Ropers touch a blade of grass in my pasture, it's the .30-06 for you. If you are not killed, you will certainly be taken "out back" and educated about the intricacies of Cassville property ownership. A couple of guys I went to school with learned the hard way about his rule. They weren't killed, but a Winchester rifle across the forehead will make you think twiced (twice) about roaming a pasture that doesn't belong to you.
9) All medical procedures must be done by emergency room doctors. No matter how large or small the problem may be, a hangnail all the way to the Ebola virus, you MUST go to the emergency room (via ambulance, of course. It's free, right? Oh wait...). All immediate family, uncles, aunts, cousins, co-workers, fellow church members and the guys from the Masons Lodge must show up to hold a vigil by your bedside. Of course, when you get a $2,500 hospital bill, you must go up to Cass Grocery and complain about it. There are no exceptions to this basic truth. Oh, and don't forget to wear your hospital bracelet for the next week...it's a great conversation starter.
"What happened to you, Leonard?
"Hell, me and Inez was at the Waffle House and I stepped in a oil slick and fell on my ice (ass). Rushed me to the emergency room. Cracked tailbone. I bet it caused my COPD to flare up too. I'm gonna call Ken Nugent. Hell, they even tol' me I got fibrmal-ga (fibromyalgia). I can't even work now. I am eating Klonopins left and right."
10) If you ever need to settle your differences and/or do something shady or illegal, the parking lot of the store is where it needs to occur. Once, a cheating boyfriend was caught with his other woman at his house. Instead of dealing with it at home, he and the woman sped off in his car and drove to the store. His longtime squeeze, we'll call her "Kristy," got in her car and followed them. They park next to the pay phone and of course, Kristy is right behind them. She removes a four foot piece of Re-Bar from her trunk and proceeds to demolish every piece of glass on the car, screaming obscenities that would make Chuck Norris shave his beard. After she finished, they drove away, covered in glass. She approaches Dad in tears and says, "are y'all gonna call the law?" Dad, trying not to laugh and living up to another Cassville code of honor, replies, "No way." She simply took them "out back" and this is totally acceptable behavior.
For shady or illegal activity, the pay phone at the store is your ticket. There is no telling how much meth, marijuana, prostitution, fraud, embezzlement, and the conspiracy to commit various and sundry crimes was discussed on this phone. Every time someone used that phone, they looked as if they'd just robbed a bank or burned somebody's house down. You know the look, constantly scanning the area for cops, pacing and chain smoking like Humphrey Bogart on Casablanca. Once, I was coming home from Athens with one of my friends and I passed by the store around 1 AM. There was an 80's model Mustang 5.0, a girl smoking a cigarette on the hood and a guy with a cutoff Def Leppard t-shirt, talking on the phone. "Nothing good happens after 1 AM," my parents always used to say. Well, all I know is that being on a pay phone at 1 AM in Cassville means that somebody is about to get high, die or get sold on the black market.
Values. Irreplaceable ideas and beliefs that are unique to a culture. Every community has them and this is why I say that "deep down," none of us are alike. It's like Billy used to say, "Every time I go to Fairmount, the music stops when I walk in a store." People know you are an outsider, it's obvious from the get-go. It's like the difference between a customer scratching lottery tickets when they are sober and when they are high on meth. Sober customers scan the tickets, buy them 1-2 at a time, and casually scratch them off in their car. People cranked up on meth buy 20 tickets at a time, scratch them at the counter furiously, taking breaks to pace and/or scratch their necks, contemplating whether they can afford 23 Snickers bars. That's the amount of difference between a Cassville native and people from elsewhere.
Oh.....and never, ever say that "sugar makes grits better" in Cassville (aka the 30123). You'll get taken out back, get "whupped"with Re-Bar and will likely end up in the emergency room.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Signing Day Disgustingness and Miller Lite Showers...I miss football already
Well, another Signing Day has come and gone. It was a typical Signing Day for me: no work was accomplished, I hit F5 on my computer about 4,584 times, texted at least that many times to my friends, and spent the evening scouring our rival's rosters to see who will be trotting out of the tunnel when we face them in 2012. Laura asked at one point if I was going to actually speak to her before bedtime. I think I did, but I don't remember. In any event, I was happy with the recruits the Dawgs signed. Our second opponent in 2012, the vaunted Missouri Tigers, signed the #1 recruit in the nation. Florida has the #3 class in the nation. Auburn was in the top 15, South Carolina and Tennessee were in the top 25. Luckily, our schedule rotation worked out where we don't have to play Bama, who signed the #1 class in the nation. The rich definitely got richer on this February 1st. The SEC looks to be the premier conference in the nation for years to come.
Then....there's Tech. I don't know who they signed. As a matter of fact, nobody does. No one actually knows who plays for Tech until you line up across from them. I know Paul Johnson pulled the scholarship of a recruit from Lanier County, Georgia, who ultimately signed with North Carolina. His first question was, "when do we play Georgia Tech?" Good for you, young man. You are realizing a very important fact of life....Georgia Tech sucks. They suck in all forms and fashions. They lie, cheat, steal, inhale, kill kittens and know the identity of the second gunman on the Grassy Knoll. (+1 for Ace Ventura reference) If Tech was real estate, it wouldn't perk. If Tech was cheese, it would be fat free Velveeta. If Tech was a car, it would be a Honda Element riding on a donut. You get the picture.
Quite frankly though, this year's recruiting cycle was one of the most disheartening I've ever seen. Maybe it's been going on like this for years, I don't know. Maybe we are all too "plugged in" to what is going on now and we are shocked at how dirty, underhanded and disconcerting the entire process has become. Honestly, the NCAA, the conferences, coaches and ultimately, the fans are to blame for this debacle. We facilitate this "fifteen minutes of fame" gone awry by subscribing to websites, reading Twitter feeds, and calling in to talk shows. We pay the money to see the games. The coaches want to keep their jobs, so they will do anything short of murder to sign the best recruits. (there is no proof of this, maybe somebody has been whacked in Alabama, I wouldn't be shocked) The NCAA and the conferences rely on the money made by these guys, so they don't monitor anything in the present, they wait 3-4 years after they're gone and then investigate. The most egregious offenders get a "don't do that anymore" speech, a huge fine, a few schollys pulled and it's over.
Think about it. Alabama was on double secret probation for a good chunk of the 2000's, mostly for recruiting violations. They experienced a couple of bad seasons. They still sold out their games, then signed a top notch coach in 2007 and have won two national titles since. USC is currently on double secret probation (recruiting violations) yet they signed a top ten class (with Lane Kiffin, who left Tennessee in shambles, and on probation) and look to be in the Top 5 when the 2012 season starts. They are still on TV. They are still in Los Angeles. More importantly, they still have money. Same with Ohio State. Top Ten class, top notch new coach.....the future is so bright, they gotta wear shades. Lesson learned, right? Yeah, they seem real concerned. It's like a bug getting smashed on the windshield of a Bentley, it's annoying to look at the guts smeared all over the place, but it's still a Bentley and the guts will wash off eventually. Nothing will change the machine that is college football unless the money runs out. The same people stay on top. When was the last time ANYBODY came out of nowhere in major college football? (Boise State does not count. Sorry. If 10 of your 11 games are over by halftime, you are not major college football.)
Then you have the players, the families, street agents and the giant pool of hangers-on that make this circus complete. They all know the score and play the part of the innocent, wide-eyed recruit who wasn't aware that getting a brand new Navigator was a NCAA violation. However, if somebody gave me a free car, cash, and gifts, you better believe I'd rip their arm off taking every last bit of it. They know this is their one shot in the spotlight as a college recruit, that tomorrow is not promised and every single one of them is an ACL injury away from reality. I guess this may justify the constant "I'm committed, but I'm still looking, so I guess you can say I'm 90% but I guess I'll just leave it up to God" routine that permeates the recruiting machine. I don't remember a Signing Day with more de-commitments and last minute mind changes. If I was a coach, it would be so maddening to spend all the time and effort on a kid who blows you off at the 11th hour, thereby ruining your chances of getting another player to take his place. At the same time, the disgusting way that Nick Saban dropped Justin Taylor illustrates that this mentality swings both ways. Ugh. I'm getting annoyed just typing this sentence.
Then, I think about all the good times that college football has produced. Not just my times in Athens, but my entire college football watching life. I saw the greatest team in history (2001 Miami) play an unforgettable season. I was able to see Reggie Bush dominate Pac-10 defenses, running around like Bo Jackson on Tecmo Bowl. (Seriously, Bo was MONEY on that game). I saw the greatest single game performance on live television (Vince Young singlehandedly defeating Southern Cal in the National Championship in 2006). I've seen guys come back from impossible injuries, people cry over victories and destroy property in defeat. All the amazing upsets.....I will NEVER forget when Appalachian State beat Michigan in 2007. I got emotional over it, I won't lie. A small school from the South with a quarter of the budget and a tenth of the facilities vs. a symbol of Northern blue-bloodedness. For anyone who was tailgating with me at that moment, I am so sorry for the Miller Lite shower, but that celebration was about more than football.
So, I will press on as a fan, regardless of the nonsensical quagmire that Signing Day has become. I will hang on until August....six long, agonizing months, until they tee it up again. In the meantime, I will watch the Hawks squander their early Southeast Division lead, Linsanity continue to overtake New York, early PGA events named after yet another corporation I've never heard of, and listen to another excuse as to why the Pacquiao-Mayweather fight will not take place. (They haven't used a tropical disease as an excuse yet...maybe Manny will get beriberi or scurvy this spring.) The Braves have already launched a "this may be the year" campaign, so we shall see. I'm betting Chipper will be out the entire month of March with a nagging ear lobe injury.
Then....there's Tech. I don't know who they signed. As a matter of fact, nobody does. No one actually knows who plays for Tech until you line up across from them. I know Paul Johnson pulled the scholarship of a recruit from Lanier County, Georgia, who ultimately signed with North Carolina. His first question was, "when do we play Georgia Tech?" Good for you, young man. You are realizing a very important fact of life....Georgia Tech sucks. They suck in all forms and fashions. They lie, cheat, steal, inhale, kill kittens and know the identity of the second gunman on the Grassy Knoll. (+1 for Ace Ventura reference) If Tech was real estate, it wouldn't perk. If Tech was cheese, it would be fat free Velveeta. If Tech was a car, it would be a Honda Element riding on a donut. You get the picture.
Quite frankly though, this year's recruiting cycle was one of the most disheartening I've ever seen. Maybe it's been going on like this for years, I don't know. Maybe we are all too "plugged in" to what is going on now and we are shocked at how dirty, underhanded and disconcerting the entire process has become. Honestly, the NCAA, the conferences, coaches and ultimately, the fans are to blame for this debacle. We facilitate this "fifteen minutes of fame" gone awry by subscribing to websites, reading Twitter feeds, and calling in to talk shows. We pay the money to see the games. The coaches want to keep their jobs, so they will do anything short of murder to sign the best recruits. (there is no proof of this, maybe somebody has been whacked in Alabama, I wouldn't be shocked) The NCAA and the conferences rely on the money made by these guys, so they don't monitor anything in the present, they wait 3-4 years after they're gone and then investigate. The most egregious offenders get a "don't do that anymore" speech, a huge fine, a few schollys pulled and it's over.
Think about it. Alabama was on double secret probation for a good chunk of the 2000's, mostly for recruiting violations. They experienced a couple of bad seasons. They still sold out their games, then signed a top notch coach in 2007 and have won two national titles since. USC is currently on double secret probation (recruiting violations) yet they signed a top ten class (with Lane Kiffin, who left Tennessee in shambles, and on probation) and look to be in the Top 5 when the 2012 season starts. They are still on TV. They are still in Los Angeles. More importantly, they still have money. Same with Ohio State. Top Ten class, top notch new coach.....the future is so bright, they gotta wear shades. Lesson learned, right? Yeah, they seem real concerned. It's like a bug getting smashed on the windshield of a Bentley, it's annoying to look at the guts smeared all over the place, but it's still a Bentley and the guts will wash off eventually. Nothing will change the machine that is college football unless the money runs out. The same people stay on top. When was the last time ANYBODY came out of nowhere in major college football? (Boise State does not count. Sorry. If 10 of your 11 games are over by halftime, you are not major college football.)
Then you have the players, the families, street agents and the giant pool of hangers-on that make this circus complete. They all know the score and play the part of the innocent, wide-eyed recruit who wasn't aware that getting a brand new Navigator was a NCAA violation. However, if somebody gave me a free car, cash, and gifts, you better believe I'd rip their arm off taking every last bit of it. They know this is their one shot in the spotlight as a college recruit, that tomorrow is not promised and every single one of them is an ACL injury away from reality. I guess this may justify the constant "I'm committed, but I'm still looking, so I guess you can say I'm 90% but I guess I'll just leave it up to God" routine that permeates the recruiting machine. I don't remember a Signing Day with more de-commitments and last minute mind changes. If I was a coach, it would be so maddening to spend all the time and effort on a kid who blows you off at the 11th hour, thereby ruining your chances of getting another player to take his place. At the same time, the disgusting way that Nick Saban dropped Justin Taylor illustrates that this mentality swings both ways. Ugh. I'm getting annoyed just typing this sentence.
Then, I think about all the good times that college football has produced. Not just my times in Athens, but my entire college football watching life. I saw the greatest team in history (2001 Miami) play an unforgettable season. I was able to see Reggie Bush dominate Pac-10 defenses, running around like Bo Jackson on Tecmo Bowl. (Seriously, Bo was MONEY on that game). I saw the greatest single game performance on live television (Vince Young singlehandedly defeating Southern Cal in the National Championship in 2006). I've seen guys come back from impossible injuries, people cry over victories and destroy property in defeat. All the amazing upsets.....I will NEVER forget when Appalachian State beat Michigan in 2007. I got emotional over it, I won't lie. A small school from the South with a quarter of the budget and a tenth of the facilities vs. a symbol of Northern blue-bloodedness. For anyone who was tailgating with me at that moment, I am so sorry for the Miller Lite shower, but that celebration was about more than football.
So, I will press on as a fan, regardless of the nonsensical quagmire that Signing Day has become. I will hang on until August....six long, agonizing months, until they tee it up again. In the meantime, I will watch the Hawks squander their early Southeast Division lead, Linsanity continue to overtake New York, early PGA events named after yet another corporation I've never heard of, and listen to another excuse as to why the Pacquiao-Mayweather fight will not take place. (They haven't used a tropical disease as an excuse yet...maybe Manny will get beriberi or scurvy this spring.) The Braves have already launched a "this may be the year" campaign, so we shall see. I'm betting Chipper will be out the entire month of March with a nagging ear lobe injury.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Cassville Tour Guide: Abridged Version
When you think of touring the state of Georgia, for sightseeing, historical or vacation purposes, you always think of the obvious: Savannah and the barrier islands, Atlanta, Ellijay and the mountains, a rafting trip down a river in north or south Georgia, Warm Springs, Andersonville...you know, the classics. Get a t-shirt from Six Flags, take a picture at Stone Mountain, buy a green Masters visor (the alpha and omega of originality), get a caramel apple from a man in overalls at the Apple Festival and break your arm rafting down the Ogeechee River.....and you are golden. You've done Georgia in a nutshell.
Unfortunately, Cassville was not part of that nutshell. Other than a few Civil War monuments and a cemetery, we don't have a ton to offer. In fact, we were not on a state map for years until somebody designated us a "historical area" and boom....we're back on there, with such illustrious places as Pine Log, Kingston, and Acworth. I remember Billy saying, "Aw, hell, now Atlanter is gonna swallow us whole...here we go." Nope. We did get an influx of visitors after we appeared on the map again. Whether it be a weary I-75 traveler, a wayward biker, sightseers or just curiosity...all of them ended up at Cass Grocery at some point. It was always entertaining to watch them approach us, as if any minute we would snap and Ned Beatty one of them behind the store. (+1 for Deliverance reference) That dang movie damaged the reputation of small town Southerners everywhere, especially those of us at Cass Grocery. The gas station in Deliverance was full service, like us. We often had someone with a physical deformity hanging around (usually missing fingers from chainsaws, or in the case of one man, a bull that sawed his fingers off with a tight rope during a rodeo). We had old men with funny hats standing around scowling at them. Matt played a banjo. (just playin'....or am I?) In any event, looking back, maybe they were justified.
When they realized we were not into such things, and we had encountered modern humanity before, they would relax. Most wanted to know the age of the store, how long we owned it, who caught the giant bass over the beer cooler (my Granddad) and whether my Dad would be interested in selling any of his Coke signs (H-E-double hockey sticks, no). Of course, they would get a God-forsaken ice cream during this line of questioning. The women would remark at how "cute" the store was. After laboring over the frozen spawn of Lucifer himself, I would be asked the inevitable question: "so, what else is there to do around here?" Answering them honestly, I would tell them about the cemetery, the old post office and the hill where the old colleges were located before Sherman burned them. Not very riveting if you ask me, maybe a fifteen minute total tour. Cassville has so much more to offer than fifteen minutes of monument reading and silent reverence over 150 year old gravestones.
So, in the interest of promoting the endless possibilities that exist in Cassville, I have devised a driving tour for the novice Cassville visitor. The tour would start and end at the store, be conducted in a caravan of 1986 T-Top Camaros (primer gray, of course and no mufflers) and before it would begin, the following recording would be played:
"Greetings and welcome to Cassville, Georgia: home of laying drag, toothless hags, limp dishrags and illegally purchased deer tags. We are proud to call this home and we ask you not to litter or otherwise sully the pristine condition of our pot-holed roads, trailer parks, and especially, our beloved store. There are a few things you need to remember along the way. Number One: You must not interact with the natives, especially those beyond the Cedar Creek dumpsters. If they choose to interact with you, ask them for a cigarette and then run. Number Two: Please keep your hands in the vehicle at all times. Feet are optional, as most female residents prop their bare right foot on the sideview mirror anyway. Number Three: Do not, under any circumstances, mention the following names: Jeff Gordon, Honda, Toyo, Komatsu, or Barack Obama. You will bring possible harm to the entire group. If you can remember those rules, and deal with massive exhaust inhalation, you will enjoy our tour. Now, take your respective "Dale Earnhardt 1951-2001" t-shirts, your John Deere hat, your Justin Ropers and light up that complimentary Marlboro. Thank You and Get On it!!!"
With that, the drivers (only those of Cassville birth are allowed) will lay a serious drag and take off down Cassville Road into this...
1) On your right....you will see the vacant house with plywood windows. That house was the site of many a Cassville legend. It holds the record for the most times raided by SWAT teams and the only recorded instance that someone was awakened by a wharf rat biting their lower lip. A bastion for meth use, it was responsible for more Fudge Round/Yoohoo purchases than little league baseball. To top it all off, two of its former residents fought off twelve would-be attackers with baseball bats after refusing to allow one of the attackers to date his sister, who was pregnant with another man's child.
2) Another legendary household stands on the right. If you will look past the red Chevy on blocks, you will see on outbuilding where one resident tried to kill his son with a hatchet. The son holds a Cassville record for most cigarettes smoked before the age of ten and is the only person who has had a .38 Special pointed at his head in the store parking lot. Currently serving a prison sentence for burglary, sadly, he is unavailable for pictures.
3) As we make our way south, you will see the first of many trailer parks. It's been renamed several times over the years, but I like the name bestowed upon it by a sheriff's deputy in the early 90's......"the cess pool of Cassville." This illustrious neighborhood requires a felony conviction, an illegitimate child, a drug problem and unemployment to live here. Upwardly mobile citizens need not apply.
4) The trip back up Highway 41 would be highlighted by a stop by the old middle/high school (where we had a dirt track, not a paved one), a stop by the house of one of my old classmates who punched a teacher in the face on a field trip, ran into the woods and wasn't found for six hours, and the Cedar Creek dumpsters. Everyone needs to get a picture next to the "No Dumpster Diving" sign and witness the trash compactor break down after yet another person threw a car battery in it. This is where it can get a little rough. Some of the biggest characters and morally casual people that I have ever known inhabit this area. You know, the kind of people who still smoke with an iron lung, may have spent time in prison, have nicknames that nobody can explain, and tattooes they don't remember getting. (For those of you who remember....Yoda lived down this road)
5) Moving onward, we stop by the Eternal Light Baptist Holiness Temple of Judah Mount Zion Antioch Ebenezer Bread of Life Messianic Church. (12 members strong, plus 3 water moccasins) An abandoned house that once had $425,000 worth of marijuana growing behind it. (Big day in Cassville, two helicopters landed in a pasture and 30 GBI agents swarmed this place like a TI-83 calculator giveaway at Georgia Tech.) Go down the road where I grew up. (Everyone must pay homage to the old homeplace. Nowhere in the world means more to me.) Take pictures of the porch where the Cassville Skateboard Club began. (2 members: Matt and yours truly) And another picture of the field where my Dad shot a Chow running full speed, after it killed one of my grandmother's ducks. (with an AR-15 no less)
6) No visit to Cassville is complete without a stop by the most notorious of trailer parks, which was behind my grandmother's house. The Sheriff's Office might as well have had a precinct in there. If the other place is a cess pool, then this one is the trash ring out in the South Pacific. This place provided us with such characters as Junior (never knew his last name), who once peed his pants at the counter because he was so hammered. One family that seemed to always have a money jar on the counter with a sick child's name/picture on it, although we had never actually seen this child. Of course, somebody would end up "stealing" the jar after it got full. Another family, who apparently must have at least one member housed in the Georgia Department of Corrections at all times. You also had the man who shot his wife in the head with a .25 pistol, but she survived and they stay married for several more years. Another man, whose entire tricep was torn off when he punched out the window of his wife's boyfriend's car. Of course, the boyfriend caught his arm and drove about half a mile with him hanging out of the window.
7) Coming back toward the store, I'll show you were my good friend got drunk and chainsawed a giant oak tree down across Cassville Road, knocking our power out for hours and resulting in his arrest. Another guy who sells beer out of his house on Sundays, the spot where my brother chased BRAG (Bike Ride Across Georgia) members with a garden hoe (barefoot of course), and the house of the man who did ten years in prison for cutting another man's throat during a card game. The same man also had the words "sweet" and "sour" tattooed over his nipples (he never wore a shirt) and his ex-wife's name "x'ed" out and his girlfriend's name tattooed under it.
See? Much more interesting than Union troop movements, empty home foundations and a quiet graveyard. Of course, airbrushed T-shirts would be sold at the end of the tour. Your options:
1) A Chow barking over a canyon with Dale Earnhardt's car driving through it; or
2) A John Deere Gator laying drag with "I Got On it in Cassville!" in cursive beneath it.
Disclaimer: This was only meant for laughter. I am in no way condemning my neighbors or trying to cast a negative light on them. They were and still are good people (for the most part) and never failed to make me laugh or teach me a life lesson, most importantly, never get a woman's name tattooed on your body and move out of your house if a wharf rat bites you on the face.
Unfortunately, Cassville was not part of that nutshell. Other than a few Civil War monuments and a cemetery, we don't have a ton to offer. In fact, we were not on a state map for years until somebody designated us a "historical area" and boom....we're back on there, with such illustrious places as Pine Log, Kingston, and Acworth. I remember Billy saying, "Aw, hell, now Atlanter is gonna swallow us whole...here we go." Nope. We did get an influx of visitors after we appeared on the map again. Whether it be a weary I-75 traveler, a wayward biker, sightseers or just curiosity...all of them ended up at Cass Grocery at some point. It was always entertaining to watch them approach us, as if any minute we would snap and Ned Beatty one of them behind the store. (+1 for Deliverance reference) That dang movie damaged the reputation of small town Southerners everywhere, especially those of us at Cass Grocery. The gas station in Deliverance was full service, like us. We often had someone with a physical deformity hanging around (usually missing fingers from chainsaws, or in the case of one man, a bull that sawed his fingers off with a tight rope during a rodeo). We had old men with funny hats standing around scowling at them. Matt played a banjo. (just playin'....or am I?) In any event, looking back, maybe they were justified.
When they realized we were not into such things, and we had encountered modern humanity before, they would relax. Most wanted to know the age of the store, how long we owned it, who caught the giant bass over the beer cooler (my Granddad) and whether my Dad would be interested in selling any of his Coke signs (H-E-double hockey sticks, no). Of course, they would get a God-forsaken ice cream during this line of questioning. The women would remark at how "cute" the store was. After laboring over the frozen spawn of Lucifer himself, I would be asked the inevitable question: "so, what else is there to do around here?" Answering them honestly, I would tell them about the cemetery, the old post office and the hill where the old colleges were located before Sherman burned them. Not very riveting if you ask me, maybe a fifteen minute total tour. Cassville has so much more to offer than fifteen minutes of monument reading and silent reverence over 150 year old gravestones.
So, in the interest of promoting the endless possibilities that exist in Cassville, I have devised a driving tour for the novice Cassville visitor. The tour would start and end at the store, be conducted in a caravan of 1986 T-Top Camaros (primer gray, of course and no mufflers) and before it would begin, the following recording would be played:
"Greetings and welcome to Cassville, Georgia: home of laying drag, toothless hags, limp dishrags and illegally purchased deer tags. We are proud to call this home and we ask you not to litter or otherwise sully the pristine condition of our pot-holed roads, trailer parks, and especially, our beloved store. There are a few things you need to remember along the way. Number One: You must not interact with the natives, especially those beyond the Cedar Creek dumpsters. If they choose to interact with you, ask them for a cigarette and then run. Number Two: Please keep your hands in the vehicle at all times. Feet are optional, as most female residents prop their bare right foot on the sideview mirror anyway. Number Three: Do not, under any circumstances, mention the following names: Jeff Gordon, Honda, Toyo, Komatsu, or Barack Obama. You will bring possible harm to the entire group. If you can remember those rules, and deal with massive exhaust inhalation, you will enjoy our tour. Now, take your respective "Dale Earnhardt 1951-2001" t-shirts, your John Deere hat, your Justin Ropers and light up that complimentary Marlboro. Thank You and Get On it!!!"
With that, the drivers (only those of Cassville birth are allowed) will lay a serious drag and take off down Cassville Road into this...
1) On your right....you will see the vacant house with plywood windows. That house was the site of many a Cassville legend. It holds the record for the most times raided by SWAT teams and the only recorded instance that someone was awakened by a wharf rat biting their lower lip. A bastion for meth use, it was responsible for more Fudge Round/Yoohoo purchases than little league baseball. To top it all off, two of its former residents fought off twelve would-be attackers with baseball bats after refusing to allow one of the attackers to date his sister, who was pregnant with another man's child.
2) Another legendary household stands on the right. If you will look past the red Chevy on blocks, you will see on outbuilding where one resident tried to kill his son with a hatchet. The son holds a Cassville record for most cigarettes smoked before the age of ten and is the only person who has had a .38 Special pointed at his head in the store parking lot. Currently serving a prison sentence for burglary, sadly, he is unavailable for pictures.
3) As we make our way south, you will see the first of many trailer parks. It's been renamed several times over the years, but I like the name bestowed upon it by a sheriff's deputy in the early 90's......"the cess pool of Cassville." This illustrious neighborhood requires a felony conviction, an illegitimate child, a drug problem and unemployment to live here. Upwardly mobile citizens need not apply.
4) The trip back up Highway 41 would be highlighted by a stop by the old middle/high school (where we had a dirt track, not a paved one), a stop by the house of one of my old classmates who punched a teacher in the face on a field trip, ran into the woods and wasn't found for six hours, and the Cedar Creek dumpsters. Everyone needs to get a picture next to the "No Dumpster Diving" sign and witness the trash compactor break down after yet another person threw a car battery in it. This is where it can get a little rough. Some of the biggest characters and morally casual people that I have ever known inhabit this area. You know, the kind of people who still smoke with an iron lung, may have spent time in prison, have nicknames that nobody can explain, and tattooes they don't remember getting. (For those of you who remember....Yoda lived down this road)
5) Moving onward, we stop by the Eternal Light Baptist Holiness Temple of Judah Mount Zion Antioch Ebenezer Bread of Life Messianic Church. (12 members strong, plus 3 water moccasins) An abandoned house that once had $425,000 worth of marijuana growing behind it. (Big day in Cassville, two helicopters landed in a pasture and 30 GBI agents swarmed this place like a TI-83 calculator giveaway at Georgia Tech.) Go down the road where I grew up. (Everyone must pay homage to the old homeplace. Nowhere in the world means more to me.) Take pictures of the porch where the Cassville Skateboard Club began. (2 members: Matt and yours truly) And another picture of the field where my Dad shot a Chow running full speed, after it killed one of my grandmother's ducks. (with an AR-15 no less)
6) No visit to Cassville is complete without a stop by the most notorious of trailer parks, which was behind my grandmother's house. The Sheriff's Office might as well have had a precinct in there. If the other place is a cess pool, then this one is the trash ring out in the South Pacific. This place provided us with such characters as Junior (never knew his last name), who once peed his pants at the counter because he was so hammered. One family that seemed to always have a money jar on the counter with a sick child's name/picture on it, although we had never actually seen this child. Of course, somebody would end up "stealing" the jar after it got full. Another family, who apparently must have at least one member housed in the Georgia Department of Corrections at all times. You also had the man who shot his wife in the head with a .25 pistol, but she survived and they stay married for several more years. Another man, whose entire tricep was torn off when he punched out the window of his wife's boyfriend's car. Of course, the boyfriend caught his arm and drove about half a mile with him hanging out of the window.
7) Coming back toward the store, I'll show you were my good friend got drunk and chainsawed a giant oak tree down across Cassville Road, knocking our power out for hours and resulting in his arrest. Another guy who sells beer out of his house on Sundays, the spot where my brother chased BRAG (Bike Ride Across Georgia) members with a garden hoe (barefoot of course), and the house of the man who did ten years in prison for cutting another man's throat during a card game. The same man also had the words "sweet" and "sour" tattooed over his nipples (he never wore a shirt) and his ex-wife's name "x'ed" out and his girlfriend's name tattooed under it.
See? Much more interesting than Union troop movements, empty home foundations and a quiet graveyard. Of course, airbrushed T-shirts would be sold at the end of the tour. Your options:
1) A Chow barking over a canyon with Dale Earnhardt's car driving through it; or
2) A John Deere Gator laying drag with "I Got On it in Cassville!" in cursive beneath it.
Disclaimer: This was only meant for laughter. I am in no way condemning my neighbors or trying to cast a negative light on them. They were and still are good people (for the most part) and never failed to make me laugh or teach me a life lesson, most importantly, never get a woman's name tattooed on your body and move out of your house if a wharf rat bites you on the face.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Auld Lang Syne Your Name Across My Heart....
(+3 for a Terence Trent D'Arby reference, and welding two classic songs together..that's huge in my book)
I love those songs. One ushers in a New Year, the other ushers in reminscence of tightrolled Jordache jeans, British Knights high tops and Bugle Boy (or maybe even Ocean Pacific). I wish Bugle Boy would make a comeback, along with acid washed jeans. I would "Zack Morris" this town quicker than you can say "B-b-b-b-beat....Go Bayside!" (90's kids....search your heart, you know I'm right.) I am not afraid to jam out to "Wishing Well" while sporting a slap bracelet, and you should not be either.
Anyhow, I spent another New Year in the hustle and bustle of New York City. Once again, the City that Never Sleeps (or eats Paleo) did not let me down. This time, the family came along and I was able to show my folks how it's done in NYC. Laura and I are seasoned veterans of the subways, cabs, avenues and streets, so as a pseudo tour guide, I think I did a pretty good job. The weather was great, except for high wind from the South (for which I blame the Dawgs, they "sucked" in every possible way...more on that later). The food was beyond excellent and the nightlife was livelier than a free Dale Earnardt t-shirt giveaway at Cass Grocery in 1987. (which is consequently the same year "Sign Your Name" and "Wishing Well" debuted...see? A comeback is needed.)
This recap is brought to you by Milk Stout beer, the intersection of Broome Street and Watts Street in Soho, Joe Bonamassa, Kangol hats and the 7 Train. (Hey, John Rocker, I'm still alive...amazing, huh?)
So, we get up at the crack of dawn and head to Hartsfield. My Dad elects to drive, so we are as sure to be on time as Mike Bobo will call a sprint draw on a 3rd and long. That GMC Sierra melted the 85 South sign as we merged off the connector, or as the great Charlie Daniels put it, "Mario Andretti would have sure been proud." We get to the airport and board with no consequence, which is a first for me. We usually fly Delta, which means numerous delays, cancellations, gate changes and unfriendly service. All capped off with the ever-so-maddening "I'm sorry, sir, we are doing all we can." That statement has about as much usefulness as pay phones, the SciFi channel, border grass, the continued toll at Georgia 400 and water towers not used for graffiti. It means nothing. They have no competition in Atlanta to speak of, so they can treat people like yesterday's trash. We used AirTran this time and I have to say that the staff was nicer, the plane was cleaner and the boarding process was faster. However, once the plane left the jetway, we circled the runway twelve times before we took off. It was like NASCAR, only we turned right every time and nobody asked me if I needed any wedge taken out. (+1 for Days of Thunder reference) I got to see College Park, a dead opossum, and a graffiti covered wall that said "Big Diddy" twelve times each. However, I did finish four levels on Angry Birds before we took off, so I got that going for me, which is nice. (+1 for Caddyshack reference)
When we finally landed at LaGuardia, we cabbed it into Manhattan. I was all ready to say "Take us to Queens at once" but I didn't figure Rahjeesh would get the joke, so I kept my mouth shut. (+1 for Coming to America reference) I always notice the cab driver's name for some reason, I guess to make sure I didn't see him on Unsolved Mysteries or worse, "The Real Housewives of New Jersey." Since we had circled the runway in Atlanta so many times, we were going to be late to lunch, so I told Rahjeesh to step on it. That was like telling a Cassville native that Greg "The Hammer" Valentine was signing autographs with Jake "The Snake" Roberts at the Waffle House on Highway 411. We blew through Queens faster than Charlie Weis blows through a Krispy Kreme when the "Hot n Now" sign comes on. After hitting 88 miles per hour, going back to 1955 and back to 2011 again, we arrived at Park Avenue (+1 for Back to the Future reference).
Our first stop was a French restaurant called Artisanal. To merely say I was hungry is like saying the Red Sox pitching staff likes to drink alcohol occasionally. Four bottles of wine, a seafood tower, fondue and a steak with fries later and the owner wants to rename the restaurant after us. They also sold gourmet cheese with mile-long names that nobody can pronounce. With the French language, I've learned to just say the first syllable and then make a noise like you are gagging yourself after drinking too much hunch punch at a party during freshman year and it seems to work. The manager was a peculiarly dressed Frenchman, but that man absolutely would not let your wine glass go empty. Seriously, he saw my glass go down to one sip and he wedge-busted three waiters to get to my table. It was an awesome lunch to say the least, and I was full for at least two hours.
After showing my folks a few sights and walking around Midtown, we got ready for dinner, or as I called it "Experiment #1." The place we picked is called "Sushi Samba." It is a Peruvian-Japanese fusion restaurant that mixes sushi rolls with traditional Peruvian food/spices. Unique does not do justice to this menu, since Japan and Peru go together like Vandy and winning, skinny jeans and Kirstie Alley or Kenny Chesney and anything resembling manhood. I had been there before but I was worried my folks would not like the food. Lucky for me, this experiment went as well as the introduction of Natural Light to the beer cooler at Cass Grocery. They annihilated the jalapeno/sea bass sashimi. They even tried sake. They served us a lobster taco dish that made me get up and slap the couple at the table next to us. Our waiter was from Mobile, Alabama originally and was more than happy to accomodate some fellow Southerners. It was an excellent dinner and if anybody gets a chance to eat Japanese/Peruvian fusion, do it. I would lobby for such a restaurant in Cassville, however, it would probably go over like Jeff Gordon Appreciation Day. Not gonna happen and it would probably just lead to a few fistfights.
We meandered to the Upper West Side the next day. The Beacon Theater was the destination, where so many great artists have darkened the doors, including an annual month long tour by the Allman Brothers. This was the site of one of the most boneheaded moves of my life back in 2009, where I was being cheap and did not buy tickets online and tried to scalp. I waited until the show started and went to the nearest scalper and he said "$750 a piece." Dumbfounded, I said, "you gotta be kidding." The man looked me in the eye and said, "Eric Clapton just walked on stage, he's playing with them all night." I could have had them for $200 a piece on Ticketmaster. A Clapton/ABB collaboration has not happened before or since. Now, excuse me while I slam my forehead through this plate glass window. For a true rock fan, it does not get any better, unless Duane suddenly rose from the dead along with Jimi and Jim Morrison and they played a 47 minute combination of "Riders on the Storm/Hey Joe/Whipping Post." If that happened, the Dawgs could lose every game from now until the end of time and I would still die happy.
One of the best times ever was had on this night. By recommendation, we went to a bar called "Beauty and Essex." Strange name and even stranger facade, however, it was one of the classiest and most fun bars I've ever seen. First and foremost, to enter the bar, you walk into a pawn shop first. My first thought was, "oh damn, the cab driver drove us to Acworth." Nope. It was still New York. Still, I thought any minute now a gaggle of Glade Road citizens would come in and rob the place. You tell the cashier that you are there to eat and drink and she opens this huge door behind the desk. It's two stories of tables, chandeliers, bartenders and one of the best DJ's in NYC. I impressed my mom with my verbatim (almost) rap of "Electric Relaxation" as it blared over the speakers, mixed with "Off the Wall" by Michael Jackson and "Girls and Boys" by Prince. He even played some jams by De La Soul. You would've thought some Cassville people would stick out like a sore thumb but we didn't. Nobody does in New York. That's the beauty of it, nobody is concerned with what you look like, where you are from or who your daddy is. We left the bar, had dinner (Inoteca - an Italian place that is awesome, serves Nutella toast as a dessert....needless to say, I slapped my second couple of the trip there), got a second wind and went back to Beauty and Essex.
The Brooklyn Bridge is usually a fun sightseeing tour but not on New Year's Eve. European tourists are right above hicks on Nextels and the fat lady who walks slow on the moving sidewalk in the airport as being the most annoying people ever. They literally stop in the middle of everything and take group pictures, without regard for anybody or anything around them. I'm not sure of the origin of any of them, but they weren't Spanish, English, Scottish, Irish or Italian. Needless to say, if you want to bump into 3,478 people and listen to incessant blabbering in a foreign language, the Brooklyn Bridge is your place.
It was still a great day though. The Broome Street Bar and Grill is a dive bar that had an internet jukebox to end all internet jukeboxes. My parents and I livened the place up with Marshall Tucker, the Outlaws, Little Feat, Earth, Wind & Fire, Lynyrd Skynyrd and I just had to play "Flirtin With Disaster" by Molly Hatchet. Every time I hear that song, I want to jump into an orange 1986 Camaro T-top, light a Marlboro Red and lay drag until the fire alarm goes off. Unfortunately, Camaros are not plentiful in Manhattan (go figure), I can't smoke and I would probably crash the car into a pole anyway. In any event, we spent the evening at the 21 Club, sitting next to the table where Humphrey Bogart proposed to Lauren Bacall and another where the Rat Pack used to party back in the 40's. All the old New York Yankees, Giants, the Brooklyn Dodgers, you name it, they used to hang at the 21. Very nostalgic and it made for an awesome ending to the trip. I love New York.
Oh yeah......Terence Trent D'Arby...born and raised in Manhattan. Booyah. I'm bushhogging his comeback trail as we speak.
Highlights/Lowlights of the rest of the holiday:
1) The Dawgs absolutely freaking blew it. I have no words. We were like Billy Madison in high school and MSU came by our table, poured soup on our head and said "O'Doyle rules." Other than Brandon Boykin and Alec Ogletree/most of the defense, the team should be forced to walk the Brooklyn Bridge in full pads for 48 straight hours and take every European group picture standing on their head. I saw guys laughing on the sideline at the 7:30 mark in the 3rd quarter. We lost a clean sweep for the SEC, lost to a Big Ten team and looked like hell on national TV....at least Tech lost.
2) Florida pulverized THE Ohio State Urban Meyers. If there is a team I could pick as my "most disliked beside Tech," then Ohio State is it. Nothing against their fans, it's ESPN and their lovefest with them. Since Notre Dame is less relevant than a Walkman now, I guess they needed a Northern school to pick up their slack. One thing of note, Deonte Thompson played his last game as a Gator. I swear Deonte Thompson has been on Florida's team since 1976. Every team has one of those guys....Wes Byrum played at Auburn for 30 years, I'm sure of it. Shaun Chapas was our fullback when Herschel ran over Bill Bates, just ask Casey Clausen, because he was holding a clipboard on Tennessee's sideline that day. (with one arm tied behind his back, of course)
3) I saw the movie War Horse, with all hopes and aspirations that it would be a good one. Wrong. Other than the camera work, this movie was so Disney that I wanted to vomit. It made the Lion King look like "Requiem for a Dream" or "Apocalypse Now." It made the "Blind Side" look like "Boyz in the Hood." Sometimes, a movie can take inspirational scenes to the extreme and cross over to the dreaded "jumping the shark" zone. Well, this War Horse movie jumped the shark, rode the refrigerator (+1 for Indiana Jones and the Kingdon of the Crystal Skull reference) and Ripleyed me (sorry, the Alien franchise died after the second one) into sarcastic laughter and a sprint to the door when the credits rolled. Laura lost movie selection privileges for a month over this one and will be forced to watch Predator, Platoon, Rocky and Rambo to make up for it.
I love those songs. One ushers in a New Year, the other ushers in reminscence of tightrolled Jordache jeans, British Knights high tops and Bugle Boy (or maybe even Ocean Pacific). I wish Bugle Boy would make a comeback, along with acid washed jeans. I would "Zack Morris" this town quicker than you can say "B-b-b-b-beat....Go Bayside!" (90's kids....search your heart, you know I'm right.) I am not afraid to jam out to "Wishing Well" while sporting a slap bracelet, and you should not be either.
Anyhow, I spent another New Year in the hustle and bustle of New York City. Once again, the City that Never Sleeps (or eats Paleo) did not let me down. This time, the family came along and I was able to show my folks how it's done in NYC. Laura and I are seasoned veterans of the subways, cabs, avenues and streets, so as a pseudo tour guide, I think I did a pretty good job. The weather was great, except for high wind from the South (for which I blame the Dawgs, they "sucked" in every possible way...more on that later). The food was beyond excellent and the nightlife was livelier than a free Dale Earnardt t-shirt giveaway at Cass Grocery in 1987. (which is consequently the same year "Sign Your Name" and "Wishing Well" debuted...see? A comeback is needed.)
This recap is brought to you by Milk Stout beer, the intersection of Broome Street and Watts Street in Soho, Joe Bonamassa, Kangol hats and the 7 Train. (Hey, John Rocker, I'm still alive...amazing, huh?)
So, we get up at the crack of dawn and head to Hartsfield. My Dad elects to drive, so we are as sure to be on time as Mike Bobo will call a sprint draw on a 3rd and long. That GMC Sierra melted the 85 South sign as we merged off the connector, or as the great Charlie Daniels put it, "Mario Andretti would have sure been proud." We get to the airport and board with no consequence, which is a first for me. We usually fly Delta, which means numerous delays, cancellations, gate changes and unfriendly service. All capped off with the ever-so-maddening "I'm sorry, sir, we are doing all we can." That statement has about as much usefulness as pay phones, the SciFi channel, border grass, the continued toll at Georgia 400 and water towers not used for graffiti. It means nothing. They have no competition in Atlanta to speak of, so they can treat people like yesterday's trash. We used AirTran this time and I have to say that the staff was nicer, the plane was cleaner and the boarding process was faster. However, once the plane left the jetway, we circled the runway twelve times before we took off. It was like NASCAR, only we turned right every time and nobody asked me if I needed any wedge taken out. (+1 for Days of Thunder reference) I got to see College Park, a dead opossum, and a graffiti covered wall that said "Big Diddy" twelve times each. However, I did finish four levels on Angry Birds before we took off, so I got that going for me, which is nice. (+1 for Caddyshack reference)
When we finally landed at LaGuardia, we cabbed it into Manhattan. I was all ready to say "Take us to Queens at once" but I didn't figure Rahjeesh would get the joke, so I kept my mouth shut. (+1 for Coming to America reference) I always notice the cab driver's name for some reason, I guess to make sure I didn't see him on Unsolved Mysteries or worse, "The Real Housewives of New Jersey." Since we had circled the runway in Atlanta so many times, we were going to be late to lunch, so I told Rahjeesh to step on it. That was like telling a Cassville native that Greg "The Hammer" Valentine was signing autographs with Jake "The Snake" Roberts at the Waffle House on Highway 411. We blew through Queens faster than Charlie Weis blows through a Krispy Kreme when the "Hot n Now" sign comes on. After hitting 88 miles per hour, going back to 1955 and back to 2011 again, we arrived at Park Avenue (+1 for Back to the Future reference).
Our first stop was a French restaurant called Artisanal. To merely say I was hungry is like saying the Red Sox pitching staff likes to drink alcohol occasionally. Four bottles of wine, a seafood tower, fondue and a steak with fries later and the owner wants to rename the restaurant after us. They also sold gourmet cheese with mile-long names that nobody can pronounce. With the French language, I've learned to just say the first syllable and then make a noise like you are gagging yourself after drinking too much hunch punch at a party during freshman year and it seems to work. The manager was a peculiarly dressed Frenchman, but that man absolutely would not let your wine glass go empty. Seriously, he saw my glass go down to one sip and he wedge-busted three waiters to get to my table. It was an awesome lunch to say the least, and I was full for at least two hours.
After showing my folks a few sights and walking around Midtown, we got ready for dinner, or as I called it "Experiment #1." The place we picked is called "Sushi Samba." It is a Peruvian-Japanese fusion restaurant that mixes sushi rolls with traditional Peruvian food/spices. Unique does not do justice to this menu, since Japan and Peru go together like Vandy and winning, skinny jeans and Kirstie Alley or Kenny Chesney and anything resembling manhood. I had been there before but I was worried my folks would not like the food. Lucky for me, this experiment went as well as the introduction of Natural Light to the beer cooler at Cass Grocery. They annihilated the jalapeno/sea bass sashimi. They even tried sake. They served us a lobster taco dish that made me get up and slap the couple at the table next to us. Our waiter was from Mobile, Alabama originally and was more than happy to accomodate some fellow Southerners. It was an excellent dinner and if anybody gets a chance to eat Japanese/Peruvian fusion, do it. I would lobby for such a restaurant in Cassville, however, it would probably go over like Jeff Gordon Appreciation Day. Not gonna happen and it would probably just lead to a few fistfights.
We meandered to the Upper West Side the next day. The Beacon Theater was the destination, where so many great artists have darkened the doors, including an annual month long tour by the Allman Brothers. This was the site of one of the most boneheaded moves of my life back in 2009, where I was being cheap and did not buy tickets online and tried to scalp. I waited until the show started and went to the nearest scalper and he said "$750 a piece." Dumbfounded, I said, "you gotta be kidding." The man looked me in the eye and said, "Eric Clapton just walked on stage, he's playing with them all night." I could have had them for $200 a piece on Ticketmaster. A Clapton/ABB collaboration has not happened before or since. Now, excuse me while I slam my forehead through this plate glass window. For a true rock fan, it does not get any better, unless Duane suddenly rose from the dead along with Jimi and Jim Morrison and they played a 47 minute combination of "Riders on the Storm/Hey Joe/Whipping Post." If that happened, the Dawgs could lose every game from now until the end of time and I would still die happy.
One of the best times ever was had on this night. By recommendation, we went to a bar called "Beauty and Essex." Strange name and even stranger facade, however, it was one of the classiest and most fun bars I've ever seen. First and foremost, to enter the bar, you walk into a pawn shop first. My first thought was, "oh damn, the cab driver drove us to Acworth." Nope. It was still New York. Still, I thought any minute now a gaggle of Glade Road citizens would come in and rob the place. You tell the cashier that you are there to eat and drink and she opens this huge door behind the desk. It's two stories of tables, chandeliers, bartenders and one of the best DJ's in NYC. I impressed my mom with my verbatim (almost) rap of "Electric Relaxation" as it blared over the speakers, mixed with "Off the Wall" by Michael Jackson and "Girls and Boys" by Prince. He even played some jams by De La Soul. You would've thought some Cassville people would stick out like a sore thumb but we didn't. Nobody does in New York. That's the beauty of it, nobody is concerned with what you look like, where you are from or who your daddy is. We left the bar, had dinner (Inoteca - an Italian place that is awesome, serves Nutella toast as a dessert....needless to say, I slapped my second couple of the trip there), got a second wind and went back to Beauty and Essex.
The Brooklyn Bridge is usually a fun sightseeing tour but not on New Year's Eve. European tourists are right above hicks on Nextels and the fat lady who walks slow on the moving sidewalk in the airport as being the most annoying people ever. They literally stop in the middle of everything and take group pictures, without regard for anybody or anything around them. I'm not sure of the origin of any of them, but they weren't Spanish, English, Scottish, Irish or Italian. Needless to say, if you want to bump into 3,478 people and listen to incessant blabbering in a foreign language, the Brooklyn Bridge is your place.
It was still a great day though. The Broome Street Bar and Grill is a dive bar that had an internet jukebox to end all internet jukeboxes. My parents and I livened the place up with Marshall Tucker, the Outlaws, Little Feat, Earth, Wind & Fire, Lynyrd Skynyrd and I just had to play "Flirtin With Disaster" by Molly Hatchet. Every time I hear that song, I want to jump into an orange 1986 Camaro T-top, light a Marlboro Red and lay drag until the fire alarm goes off. Unfortunately, Camaros are not plentiful in Manhattan (go figure), I can't smoke and I would probably crash the car into a pole anyway. In any event, we spent the evening at the 21 Club, sitting next to the table where Humphrey Bogart proposed to Lauren Bacall and another where the Rat Pack used to party back in the 40's. All the old New York Yankees, Giants, the Brooklyn Dodgers, you name it, they used to hang at the 21. Very nostalgic and it made for an awesome ending to the trip. I love New York.
Oh yeah......Terence Trent D'Arby...born and raised in Manhattan. Booyah. I'm bushhogging his comeback trail as we speak.
Highlights/Lowlights of the rest of the holiday:
1) The Dawgs absolutely freaking blew it. I have no words. We were like Billy Madison in high school and MSU came by our table, poured soup on our head and said "O'Doyle rules." Other than Brandon Boykin and Alec Ogletree/most of the defense, the team should be forced to walk the Brooklyn Bridge in full pads for 48 straight hours and take every European group picture standing on their head. I saw guys laughing on the sideline at the 7:30 mark in the 3rd quarter. We lost a clean sweep for the SEC, lost to a Big Ten team and looked like hell on national TV....at least Tech lost.
2) Florida pulverized THE Ohio State Urban Meyers. If there is a team I could pick as my "most disliked beside Tech," then Ohio State is it. Nothing against their fans, it's ESPN and their lovefest with them. Since Notre Dame is less relevant than a Walkman now, I guess they needed a Northern school to pick up their slack. One thing of note, Deonte Thompson played his last game as a Gator. I swear Deonte Thompson has been on Florida's team since 1976. Every team has one of those guys....Wes Byrum played at Auburn for 30 years, I'm sure of it. Shaun Chapas was our fullback when Herschel ran over Bill Bates, just ask Casey Clausen, because he was holding a clipboard on Tennessee's sideline that day. (with one arm tied behind his back, of course)
3) I saw the movie War Horse, with all hopes and aspirations that it would be a good one. Wrong. Other than the camera work, this movie was so Disney that I wanted to vomit. It made the Lion King look like "Requiem for a Dream" or "Apocalypse Now." It made the "Blind Side" look like "Boyz in the Hood." Sometimes, a movie can take inspirational scenes to the extreme and cross over to the dreaded "jumping the shark" zone. Well, this War Horse movie jumped the shark, rode the refrigerator (+1 for Indiana Jones and the Kingdon of the Crystal Skull reference) and Ripleyed me (sorry, the Alien franchise died after the second one) into sarcastic laughter and a sprint to the door when the credits rolled. Laura lost movie selection privileges for a month over this one and will be forced to watch Predator, Platoon, Rocky and Rambo to make up for it.
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About Me
- Brad
- I'm good at people watching and the memorization of useless facts. I'm voracious eater, reader, Crossfitter and Dawg fan. Shamelessly devoted to the cause of making 9-5 not suck so bad.