I was paid the ultimate compliment this week. A friend of mine from Cassville sent a message to me on Facebook asking about how I enjoyed my legal career. After discusssing my daily duties, she replied, "I was shocked to know you became a lawyer. Not because it's hard, but because every lawyer I know is a whiny, whimpy, lying jerk, and none of those words describe you at all." Totally flattered, I thanked her. Sadly, I could not disagree with her indictment of my profession, as I see many lawyers every day that fit that bill. The chances of the average person running into a lawyer that is a "whiny, whimpy, lying jerk" increase every day, as law schools keep churning them out left and right to a world with limited jobs, where the premium shifts from service to the client over to "I gotta get mine." I've often asked myself, after meeting one of these types, "this guy passed the same Bar I did?" Yep, he sure as hell did. So, I see it as my duty to prove to the world that some of us still have decorum, still care about our fellow man, and understood our Oath to mean more than just a license to don silk stockings and ride the elevator of self-importance .
Frankly, every profession, every religion, race, and creed has extreme negative sides. Take this week for example. I had my first encounter with a Hare Krishna member. He started handing me trinkets and a card that said "Peace" with an illustration of Krishna, he blessed me over and over, telling me that he prayed for peace in my life, blah blah blah. I say "blah blah blah" because he immediately asked for a donation, and I replied that I only had a credit card, which was true. His smile disappeared, he jerked his trinkets out of my hand and darted away quickly, ready to con the next person. I tried to let it go, but I could not. In New York, I have learned that confrontation is warranted at a moment like this. You know why I was mad? I was listening to a live version of "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd, enjoying it immensely, when this little ripoff artist accosted me. I said, "Don't interrupt David Gilmour ever again." Like I said, some things just cannot be ignored. Plus, they wear Tennessee orange colored robes, so they automatically join my s**t list just by existing.
There are so many types of people here and I have become immune to the "different" folks that call New York home. A guy wearing an orange mohawk and a tattoo on his face? Not a second look. Yesterday, a woman was walking topless next to Grand Central wearing nothing but jeans and a cowboy hat. I paid her about as much attention as a pigeon pecking at the horse feed next to Central Park. She actually stopped next to a phone booth and adjusted her hat in her reflection off the glass. I guess if you are wearing half of a birthday suit, you want to look your best for your eventual jail visit. Two days ago, one block from my apartment, I watched a homeless man absolutely "dog cuss" (a great Southern term) the padlocked door on the UPS store. I actually stopped for this one, because he was using combinations of foul language that I had never heard in my life and I thought that maybe God actually could strike him dead. He would start walking away, then come back and rip into this padlocked door like it just stolen his Iphone. (Homeless people have Iphones here, no kidding) This procession continued for five minutes until he realized he had more pressing business uptown and walked off for good. As I walked by that door, I almost overheard it talking smack, I swear. You never know in this city.
Cassville has about 8.99 million less people than New York. If you wear an orange mohawk, people will probably stare at you. You will probably be accused of being an atheist, or worse, a Democrat. We have precisely five restaurants and only one that is not located in a truck stop. There are no cabs for hire riding around, you have to call them. Then they show up in a busted 1994 Ford Aerostar, looking half dead and telling you that they don't go past Fairmount. Pizza is not our thing and Papa John's refuses to go past Mac Johnson Road, cutting us off almost completely. Street vendors don't sell pashminas or knock off Louis Vuitton purses, they sell autographed Dale Earnhardt Jr. helmets out of their front yard. The closest version of Times Square? Exit 296 with its truck stops, three hotels (one condemned) and the adult book store. You can see the lights all the way from Adairsville. You want to run through our Central Park and get a taste of history? There's a patch of grass next to Cass Grocery that you could run around about 2,754 times, it has a monument to Lewis Cass for whom the town is named.
However, what we lack in nightlife and activity, we make up for with character. For example:
1) We know what WD-40 can do, it's value is second only to duct tape. How many door hinges, engine parts and bicycle chains did I grease back home? Countless. Plus, you can make an awesome flamethrower with it. God help any fire ants that built a nest in the parking lot at Cass Grocery. We are talking Hiroshima-like conditions for these poor insects while my brother and I danced around them like fools. Why burn just one with a magnifying glass? That's inefficient. People here probably think it's something you file with your taxes.
2) We know Briggs & Stratton, Smith & Wesson, and Allis-Chalmers. We know Dean Durham, Shaw Grigsby and Denny Brauer. People here probably think these are all law firms. I cannot count how many Briggs & Stratton spark plugs I sold at the store and I would run back to the TV because Bill Dance was coming on and I did not want to miss the bloopers.
3) We can talk about pouring concrete, installing drywall, working on a car or hanging shingles for hours. In fact, we can make it into a dramatization. Forget Broadway. Imagine one man in front of Cass Grocery talking to 6 other men drinking coffee.
"So, there's Lamar, he's got the manifold in his hand. He tells Bobby to put the air filter back in, but Bobby can't find it. They get to fightin.." ("get to fightin" is a great Southern term)
The group all looks at each other with an understanding glance, fighting over an air filter....totally worth it. Some of them grumble about the price of air filters, there's a sidebar discussion of Advance Auto, Autozone, and Cass Grocery prices. They all decide they would rather buy from us because they like us, take a sip of coffee and the story continues.
"So, Bobby goes to lookin. He can't find the air filter nowhere. Y'all know how dumb he is. All over the shop, he tears up everything, lookin for this air filter. Sure enough, the damn dog took it and it was tore up all over the yard. Lamar had to go all the way back to Cartersville (4 miles) to get another one."
During this riveting exchange, nobody takes their eyes off the storyteller. They laugh uncontrollably at Lamar's expense, then somebody tells a story about sheetrock falling off the wall at a job. Like old man river, it never stops. (side note: having to go to Cartersville for anything is equivalent to going to Spain. If you have to go outside the county, it might as well be Antartica.)
4) We don't have a homeless problem. Everybody lives somewhere, by God. Since we all claim 5th and 6th cousins and are all 1/32 Cherokee, it's like one big happy family...we just pile into a single wide on Cedar Creek Road, stick a mailbox in the dirt and call it home. I knew one family on Mostellar's Mill Road, on the Cassville/Adairsville/Folsom border, that must have had 56 people living in their house. How do I know? They all wrote me bad checks and had the same address.
5) We don't have a pile of newspapers influencing our political decisions in Cassville. In New York, there's the Daily News, The Times, The Post, The Wall Street Journal, and the AM Metro (and that's just off the top of my head). The Upper West Side is an undesignated area with no real boundaries, yet it has its own weekly newspaper. For you Bartow natives, that's like Rydal having a newspaper. Nobody knows how or when you get to Rydal, you just sort of materialize there. The only magazines that anyone ever asked for at Cass Gorcery were the latest Auto Trader or Georgia Outdoor News. I guess we cared more about the biggest buck taken in Early County and what it scored on the Pope & Young (also not a law firm) rather than what some politician felt about the latest SPLOST proposal.
So there you have it, the 30123 may not have the bright lights, it may not have any restaurants that can get higher than a 73 on the Health Inspection, and we may not be able to get pizza other than DiGiorno from Ingles, but we definitely have a way of life unique to us. I've told New Yorkers, who are in disbelief at the size and quiet nature of my hometown, that we were never bored. Seriously, who would not be entertained by a story about fence staples? Who would not want to watch me burn a cockroach with a WD-40 fueled flamethrower? Who does not want to see a picture of the biggest bream caught in Polk County? As for the homeless guy cussing the padlocked door, if he did that in Cassville, he would be dealt with as nonchalantly as he was on the streets of New York. I could hear them at the store now:
"I bet that sumbitch is from Fairmount."
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Recap of the Weekend: Don't Cry Over Spilled Bud Light, Cry Over Sloppy Second Quarters
Well, boys and girls, it's here. The air smells fresher, my coffee tastes just a little better and I walk around with extra pep in my step. I am just a little more patient with others, more forgiving and just in an all around better mood. After the long months of waiting, all the pregame talk, the rankings, the "what ifs" and the praying for no injuries, it is finally here. I'm talking about the US Open being played over in Queens. The alpha and omega of American tennis. The single greatest spectacle.....zzzzzzzz.
Sorry, my mind has been demolitioned and been renovated into a fort of college football knowledge. Some guy asked me, "what if you see Roger Federer?" I replied, "what's his 40 time?" Yes, it is that drastic. I swear, I ran a post pattern through Times Square dodging 35 Europeans taking pictures of a manhole cover. I am experiencing this season in a new light. Since I am in New York, I obviously cannot make the 795 mile trip to Athens, so I have to settle for a UGA alumni bar here in the city. In fact, on football Saturdays, the city is abuzz with alumni of every school imaginable taking the subway or a cab to "their" bar. I think Devry has a bar in New York City somewhere.
The UGA alumni bar here is called the "Village Pourhouse." It is located near NYU on 3rd Avenue and it is owned by Joba Chamberlain, the Yankee relief pitcher. This place gets packed on gamedays, full of ex-patriates from the South, coming to share our love for the Dawgs and Athens-like drink specials. People walk in a scream, "Go Dawgs!" and the crowd responds. You high five people you don't really know, but they recently became your friend because you came to the Pourhouse. I can almost transport myself back to 2001 and see myself standing at Boar's Head in Athens with the same people. If you cannot have a good time at the Pourhouse during a Georgia game, then you should head over to Queens, I hear there is a riveting match between Andre Retrieeenrvich and Jorge Breaiahsiudhnski going on.
The Pourhouse was especially crowded on this opening weekend. My folks came to visit so Dad and I wedged ourselves in the midst of NYC Dawgnation and ordered the biggest plate of nachos in the history of mankind. Kickoff was in twenty minutes and I needed a calorie fest to get me through the nervousness.....I know it was Buffalo but it does not matter who we play. My nerves are more frayed and frazzled than Auburn's O-line during a pop quiz in Advanced Toilet Scrubbing 102: Applying the Comet and Using the Brush. This recap is brought to you by Guinness, Starbucks coffee with nonfat milk (because I was too busy checking my phone for scores to notice my mistake), the Steve Miller Band (Abracadabra is a vastly underrated song) and veal papardelle, courtesy of Angelo's on Mulberry in Little Italy. Amo Questo Ristorante. (Translation: I love this restaurant....I'm learning Italian.)
We kicked off to Buffalo, who looked so much like Kentucky that I did a triple take. A perpetually unimpressive squad and a lamb to the slaughter, I thought. They did nothing with the ball and punted to us. I could not help but notice that our defense looked a step slow, however. Guys just seemed to be going through the motions and there were "hands on hips" really quickly in this game. The Dawgvent had been awash in a sea of anger earlier this week when players were "tweeting" at 2 AM from bars in Athens. While I do not subscribe to this incessant prying into the lives of people who were born when I was in middle school, I still wonder if those angry keyboard cops weren't on to something. We get the ball back and Murray is flinging the ball all over the field, some accurately and others looked as if he was throwing clay targets for a skeet shooting contest. He has not matured like I hoped he would, to be honest. He overthrew a wide open Tavarres King on a sixty yard post that was a sure touchdown. Not just out of his reach either. In fact, I think that ball actually landed in Brookhaven. Luckily, there was a man wearing a #3 jersey....a man from Tarboro, North Carolina.....a man who eats arm tackles for a light snack before slamming your soul into a blender and hitting "puree." That man is Todd Gurley.
The dreadlocked freshman phenom scored the first touchdown of the season on a ten yard run reminiscent of Richard Samuel against Florida last year. Futile Buffalo tackle attempts were stomped out like a Basic Light 100 cigarette in a Cassville trailer park. The Pourhouse went crazy, Dad and I high fived strangers, and the first of twenty pitchers of beer was spilled all over the floor when an overzealous Dawg's kneecap struck the underside of their table. We kick off to Buffalo and they start picking apart our defense, courtesy of Mike Zordich, their long haired quarterback. Dink and dunk, quarterback draw, tight end across the middle and they score in the corner on a twenty yard route where Shawn Williams looked like he was running in a pile of gravel. To be fair, there was a MAJOR hold on that play where the Buffalo left tackle brutally raped Jordan Jenkins, our true freshman defensive end. The referee was close enough to count Jordan's mustache hairs, but completely blew the call. Grumbles filled the air of the Pourhouse. Comments were made: "Man, Gilliard looks lost. Herrera is out of position." My drink went flat. The lack of intensity was palpable. Our defense looked like a hungover fraternity flag football team.
Buffalo boots one to the goal line and Todd Gurley receives it. He sprints to his left, shoots the gap and dashes 100 yards to the end zone, as the Pourhouse faithful erupts in ecstasy. Three customers vow to name their first child "Todd." His Heisman campaign was planned over another spilled Bud Light pitcher:
"Todd ain't no Gurley-man."
"Gurley is the new manly."
"The Smokin Marlboro from Tarboro." (canned for political incorrectness, references to tobacco and the fact that 99.9% of America has no clue where Tarboro is.)
The first quarter ended and we all started taking note of the Sanford Stadium crowd, which was less than capacity. First game of the season and the upper deck is as empty as the girl's dorm at Georgia Tech. I imagined Michael Adams, sitting in his Skybox sipping a Diet 7-Up, surveying his "Harvard in the Pines" vision coming true. Yes, you truly HAVE killed the gameday experience for so many people. Anyhow, the second quarter arrived and thus began one of the most painstaking quarters of Georgia football that I have surveyed in my entire life. Buffalo scored ten points and ran the ball right down our throats. Branden Oliver gashed our defensive line over and over. A team of nobodies with 1/4 of the talent, but ten times more heart. Murray finally connected on a long bomb to King for a touchdown. Marshall Morgan did make his first field goal on his second try. The first attempt was earlier in the game and it was so far to the right that I actually thought he was kidding. It was so far right that the Christian Coalition asked Marshall to be their next guest speaker. Halftime score was 24-16 and Dad and I said about three words at halftime....."another beer, please."
The halftime speech must have resembled the first fifteen minutes of Full Metal Jacket because the defense locked down tighter than a snare drum. Murray calmed down and threw two beautiful touchdowns to Rantavious Wooten and Michael Bennett. I am renaming Bennett, "Whitey Tightey" because that dude just makes plays in tough situations. Oliver and Zordich were contained and basically did nothing for the remainder of the game, scoring only when the game was no longer in doubt. To put an exclamation point on an already amazing day, Todd Gurley scored once again on a 55 yard sprint where he dipped and dodged through their secondary, causing the Pourhouse to implode and three more Bud Light pitchers to hit the floor. People from places like Blackshear, Tifton and Macon were embracing people from Brooklyn and the Bronx like old friends. The clock ticked away and everyone relaxed. The Buffalo faithful who joined us at the Pourhouse were complimentary and glad to get the $975,000 check for showing up in Athens. However, the angst from the earlier quarters had not been forgotten. Why was our defense so sluggish? Why is Murray continually overthrowing receivers as a third year starter? Why do we consistently open every season slowly with so many kinks in the hose?
Next week is at Missouri. Their first SEC game ever and you know their place will be rocking. Frankly, I do not know much about Missouri other than they are a typical Big 12 team, a high powered offense and almost no defense. They seem confident that they can beat us and honestly, they have nothing to lose by talking trash. One of their players said that we play "old man football." Here's my rendition of trash:
What in the hell has Missouri ever done? I'm not just talking about the football team. The state of Missouri, what has ever happened there? Being from Missouri is like coming in 93rd in a marathon. Being from Missouri is like being the backup waterboy on a minor league soccer team. We are going to show these midwestern corn hustlers how it's done in the red clay. We will wake up and massacre these mumbling morons from Missouri. (A little alliteration for y'all on this Labor Day.)
Other events taking place this weekend:
1) Alabama crushed Michigan in a violent and overpowering fashion, rendering ESPN speechless after their constant puffing of Michigan's abilities, and causing Denard Robinson to disappear faster than Joe Paterno's statue. Bama was exponentially better in every facet of the game, I think they even ran to the locker room at halftime faster than Michigan. Is SEC speed a myth? I think not.
2) Ohio beat Penn State in the first game since the Sandusky scandal. It's going to be a LONG year in Happy Valley. People in the Pourhouse cheered for Ohio and I thought this was poignant, it proved that Penn State will forever be linked to this disaster and it will take years to recover, if ever. They did not care that these players were in middle school when Sandusky was molesting these kids, all they see is the indifference of the institution. Sad.
3) USC began the year at #1 and mutilated Hawaii. They have the schedule where they could easily run the table and play for a national championship. Just four years ago, they were put on double secret probation, their coach bailed on them for the NFL and their best player in the last decade was stripped of his Heisman. This is like killing somebody and being put in prison......in Trump Tower. The NCAA proves once again that if you have enough money and enough history, probation, as Kenny Wayne Shepherd once said, is about like "blue on black."
Sorry, my mind has been demolitioned and been renovated into a fort of college football knowledge. Some guy asked me, "what if you see Roger Federer?" I replied, "what's his 40 time?" Yes, it is that drastic. I swear, I ran a post pattern through Times Square dodging 35 Europeans taking pictures of a manhole cover. I am experiencing this season in a new light. Since I am in New York, I obviously cannot make the 795 mile trip to Athens, so I have to settle for a UGA alumni bar here in the city. In fact, on football Saturdays, the city is abuzz with alumni of every school imaginable taking the subway or a cab to "their" bar. I think Devry has a bar in New York City somewhere.
The UGA alumni bar here is called the "Village Pourhouse." It is located near NYU on 3rd Avenue and it is owned by Joba Chamberlain, the Yankee relief pitcher. This place gets packed on gamedays, full of ex-patriates from the South, coming to share our love for the Dawgs and Athens-like drink specials. People walk in a scream, "Go Dawgs!" and the crowd responds. You high five people you don't really know, but they recently became your friend because you came to the Pourhouse. I can almost transport myself back to 2001 and see myself standing at Boar's Head in Athens with the same people. If you cannot have a good time at the Pourhouse during a Georgia game, then you should head over to Queens, I hear there is a riveting match between Andre Retrieeenrvich and Jorge Breaiahsiudhnski going on.
The Pourhouse was especially crowded on this opening weekend. My folks came to visit so Dad and I wedged ourselves in the midst of NYC Dawgnation and ordered the biggest plate of nachos in the history of mankind. Kickoff was in twenty minutes and I needed a calorie fest to get me through the nervousness.....I know it was Buffalo but it does not matter who we play. My nerves are more frayed and frazzled than Auburn's O-line during a pop quiz in Advanced Toilet Scrubbing 102: Applying the Comet and Using the Brush. This recap is brought to you by Guinness, Starbucks coffee with nonfat milk (because I was too busy checking my phone for scores to notice my mistake), the Steve Miller Band (Abracadabra is a vastly underrated song) and veal papardelle, courtesy of Angelo's on Mulberry in Little Italy. Amo Questo Ristorante. (Translation: I love this restaurant....I'm learning Italian.)
We kicked off to Buffalo, who looked so much like Kentucky that I did a triple take. A perpetually unimpressive squad and a lamb to the slaughter, I thought. They did nothing with the ball and punted to us. I could not help but notice that our defense looked a step slow, however. Guys just seemed to be going through the motions and there were "hands on hips" really quickly in this game. The Dawgvent had been awash in a sea of anger earlier this week when players were "tweeting" at 2 AM from bars in Athens. While I do not subscribe to this incessant prying into the lives of people who were born when I was in middle school, I still wonder if those angry keyboard cops weren't on to something. We get the ball back and Murray is flinging the ball all over the field, some accurately and others looked as if he was throwing clay targets for a skeet shooting contest. He has not matured like I hoped he would, to be honest. He overthrew a wide open Tavarres King on a sixty yard post that was a sure touchdown. Not just out of his reach either. In fact, I think that ball actually landed in Brookhaven. Luckily, there was a man wearing a #3 jersey....a man from Tarboro, North Carolina.....a man who eats arm tackles for a light snack before slamming your soul into a blender and hitting "puree." That man is Todd Gurley.
The dreadlocked freshman phenom scored the first touchdown of the season on a ten yard run reminiscent of Richard Samuel against Florida last year. Futile Buffalo tackle attempts were stomped out like a Basic Light 100 cigarette in a Cassville trailer park. The Pourhouse went crazy, Dad and I high fived strangers, and the first of twenty pitchers of beer was spilled all over the floor when an overzealous Dawg's kneecap struck the underside of their table. We kick off to Buffalo and they start picking apart our defense, courtesy of Mike Zordich, their long haired quarterback. Dink and dunk, quarterback draw, tight end across the middle and they score in the corner on a twenty yard route where Shawn Williams looked like he was running in a pile of gravel. To be fair, there was a MAJOR hold on that play where the Buffalo left tackle brutally raped Jordan Jenkins, our true freshman defensive end. The referee was close enough to count Jordan's mustache hairs, but completely blew the call. Grumbles filled the air of the Pourhouse. Comments were made: "Man, Gilliard looks lost. Herrera is out of position." My drink went flat. The lack of intensity was palpable. Our defense looked like a hungover fraternity flag football team.
Buffalo boots one to the goal line and Todd Gurley receives it. He sprints to his left, shoots the gap and dashes 100 yards to the end zone, as the Pourhouse faithful erupts in ecstasy. Three customers vow to name their first child "Todd." His Heisman campaign was planned over another spilled Bud Light pitcher:
"Todd ain't no Gurley-man."
"Gurley is the new manly."
"The Smokin Marlboro from Tarboro." (canned for political incorrectness, references to tobacco and the fact that 99.9% of America has no clue where Tarboro is.)
The first quarter ended and we all started taking note of the Sanford Stadium crowd, which was less than capacity. First game of the season and the upper deck is as empty as the girl's dorm at Georgia Tech. I imagined Michael Adams, sitting in his Skybox sipping a Diet 7-Up, surveying his "Harvard in the Pines" vision coming true. Yes, you truly HAVE killed the gameday experience for so many people. Anyhow, the second quarter arrived and thus began one of the most painstaking quarters of Georgia football that I have surveyed in my entire life. Buffalo scored ten points and ran the ball right down our throats. Branden Oliver gashed our defensive line over and over. A team of nobodies with 1/4 of the talent, but ten times more heart. Murray finally connected on a long bomb to King for a touchdown. Marshall Morgan did make his first field goal on his second try. The first attempt was earlier in the game and it was so far to the right that I actually thought he was kidding. It was so far right that the Christian Coalition asked Marshall to be their next guest speaker. Halftime score was 24-16 and Dad and I said about three words at halftime....."another beer, please."
The halftime speech must have resembled the first fifteen minutes of Full Metal Jacket because the defense locked down tighter than a snare drum. Murray calmed down and threw two beautiful touchdowns to Rantavious Wooten and Michael Bennett. I am renaming Bennett, "Whitey Tightey" because that dude just makes plays in tough situations. Oliver and Zordich were contained and basically did nothing for the remainder of the game, scoring only when the game was no longer in doubt. To put an exclamation point on an already amazing day, Todd Gurley scored once again on a 55 yard sprint where he dipped and dodged through their secondary, causing the Pourhouse to implode and three more Bud Light pitchers to hit the floor. People from places like Blackshear, Tifton and Macon were embracing people from Brooklyn and the Bronx like old friends. The clock ticked away and everyone relaxed. The Buffalo faithful who joined us at the Pourhouse were complimentary and glad to get the $975,000 check for showing up in Athens. However, the angst from the earlier quarters had not been forgotten. Why was our defense so sluggish? Why is Murray continually overthrowing receivers as a third year starter? Why do we consistently open every season slowly with so many kinks in the hose?
Next week is at Missouri. Their first SEC game ever and you know their place will be rocking. Frankly, I do not know much about Missouri other than they are a typical Big 12 team, a high powered offense and almost no defense. They seem confident that they can beat us and honestly, they have nothing to lose by talking trash. One of their players said that we play "old man football." Here's my rendition of trash:
What in the hell has Missouri ever done? I'm not just talking about the football team. The state of Missouri, what has ever happened there? Being from Missouri is like coming in 93rd in a marathon. Being from Missouri is like being the backup waterboy on a minor league soccer team. We are going to show these midwestern corn hustlers how it's done in the red clay. We will wake up and massacre these mumbling morons from Missouri. (A little alliteration for y'all on this Labor Day.)
Other events taking place this weekend:
1) Alabama crushed Michigan in a violent and overpowering fashion, rendering ESPN speechless after their constant puffing of Michigan's abilities, and causing Denard Robinson to disappear faster than Joe Paterno's statue. Bama was exponentially better in every facet of the game, I think they even ran to the locker room at halftime faster than Michigan. Is SEC speed a myth? I think not.
2) Ohio beat Penn State in the first game since the Sandusky scandal. It's going to be a LONG year in Happy Valley. People in the Pourhouse cheered for Ohio and I thought this was poignant, it proved that Penn State will forever be linked to this disaster and it will take years to recover, if ever. They did not care that these players were in middle school when Sandusky was molesting these kids, all they see is the indifference of the institution. Sad.
3) USC began the year at #1 and mutilated Hawaii. They have the schedule where they could easily run the table and play for a national championship. Just four years ago, they were put on double secret probation, their coach bailed on them for the NFL and their best player in the last decade was stripped of his Heisman. This is like killing somebody and being put in prison......in Trump Tower. The NCAA proves once again that if you have enough money and enough history, probation, as Kenny Wayne Shepherd once said, is about like "blue on black."
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Top O the Morning to Ya and Cheers.....Back from Across the Pond, Boyo
New York is a town full of tourists. It is something that I have gotten used to over the last couple of months. They are a major source of income for this city and Mayor Bloomberg has gone out of his way to make the city a welcome place for travelers. There are a few absolutions you can count on in this town when it comes to tourists:
1) They all WILL be in Times Square. As sure as I'm sitting here, as sure as Georgia Tech is going to suck this season, as sure as the Waffle House has the best hash browns in the universe. (God, how I miss them.)
2) Eastern Europeans WILL stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of nothing. All natives grumble as they try not to sideswipe Helga, Ernst and their three kids, Bjorn, Maria and Gunther as they stand there snapping an Iphone picture of a street vendor. They will also have a ridiculous amount of gear accompanying them that takes up at least a square mile when they stop.
3) Asians WILL eat at the Hard Rock. I guess Hard Rock Cafe is seen as an American institution, which baffles me. You are in New York City. We have the best food selection ON THE PLANET.....and you eat at a chain store where the best selling item is a t-shirt.
4) American tourists WILL also eat at Hard Rock and/or Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Now, they have an Olive Garden in Times Square. This place is packed every night. Again, you are in New York City, yet you choose to eat chain ITALIAN food in a city with two sections called "Little Italy." Amazing. That is like going to Beijing and eating at Panda Express. That is like going to Cassville and looking for a Huddle House. It's borderline sacrilege.
5) At least one family member WILL buy an "I Love NY" or an "FDNY/NYPD" t-shirt. This is the badge of honor that proves that you indeed were in the Concrete Jungle. Any trip is incomplete without such and nobody will believe that you were here.....unless you have a Hard Rock shirt or a picture of a street hustler selling knock off Louis Vuitton bags on Broadway.
Speaking of tourism, in a fit of spontaneity and with the whim of a UGA freshman going to Boar's Head for the first time, I took my talents to England and Ireland for a week. (+1 for comparing myself to Lebron James. We have a lot in common.) This was my first excursion across the pond, so I really had not the first clue what to expect. I knew only what I heard and the stories from friends who had ventured to the Old World before. I used a travel agency that was very helpful and booked my flights and hotels for me.
My first flight was from LaGuardia to Charlotte, North Carolina, which was my first visit back to Dixie since I left two months ago. This was going to be a quick flight and connection to London, where it would take 8 hours across the Atlantic. However, it was not to be on this day. The US Airways staff, lead by Mikesha, who only spoke in grunts and hand motions, caused an hour delay. Mikesha climbed my personal hate ladder with the dexterity of a three-toed sloth on fire. By the time I arrived in Charlotte, my London flight was over Bermuda. Since there is only one flight per day to the UK, it was a lost day in Charlotte...or so I thought.
My hotel in Charlotte was three blocks from the NASCAR Hall of Fame. What self-respecting, tire-squealin, dirt road navigatin' Cassvillian would be that close and not go? It was three hours of tributes to moonshiners, Junior Johnson/Richard Petty/Dale Earnhardt/Bill France, and rife with actual race cars, paraphernalia and videos of great races and finishes. While it glorified the globalization of the brand, it paid more attention to its roots......the Southern United States and the men from the South who made the sport what it is. We need to take this sport back because it is not the same. We need more Davey Allisons (Greatest mullet ever, possibly. They also had his deer hunting bow on display, does it get any better than that?) and less Jimmie Johnsons. We need more Neil Bonnetts, Harry Gants, and Dale Jarretts, guys who wore their 1983 Daytona 500 Champion belt buckle with pride and were sponsored by at least three vices (Alcohol, Cigarettes and Chewing Tobacco).
"I'd like to thank my crew and my sponsors: Marlboro, Levi Garrett, and Old Milwaukee. Kids, nothing makes me feel better after a race than a good chew on pit road."
Anyhow, I finally made the voyage to jolly old England the next day. The land of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, fish n chips, and the Queen (in order of importance). I climbed off the plane and instantly the song "Norwegian Wood" popped into my head:
"Iiiiiiiii once hahd a guhl..." ("I once had a girl" for you Beatles illiterates)
The rest of my stay in England was littered with random extremely British songs: "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter," "Daydream Believer," and "Bloody Well Right" pretty much dominated my internal jukebox. The subway took me to the West End and with each stop, the train conductor tells you to "mind the gap," which means to be careful of the gap between the train and the platform. Apparently, if you fall in the gap, you will disappear like Artax the horse in the Swamp of Sadness. (+1 for Neverending Story reference. 90's kids, you know you cried when Artax died. )
From there, I trekked to Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. I saw the grave of King Edward I, who passed away in 1296. In Cassville, Georgia, when somebody says, "Man, that's old" they are usually referring to the following:
1) A 1971 Dodge Charger
2) A two week old can of Skoal
3) A rusty bandsaw
4) Yet another minie ball from the Civil War found in Kingston
5) A vinyl Charley Pride record
From there, I went to Soho and Mayfair. (Insert Werewolves of London line right here) I walked down Savile Row, where the Beatles held their final live concert in 1969. I saw the awesome St. Paul's Cathedral and the Tate Modern Art Museum. I've tried to understand "modern" art and glean some inspiration from the paintings and sculptures, but it eludes me. It's kind of like Tennessee football, a cacophony of randomness that only speaks to the severely intoxicated or falsely enlightened. As I passed through Southwark (pronounced Suth-ick), a small pub caught my eye. This place, called Tipperary, had stood since 1605 and survived the fire that nearly destroyed London years ago. The tattooed female bartender, noticing my accent, says, "And just what tree did you fall out of, love?" Hook, line and sinker. I stayed for an hour. She told me of the other old bars in Southwark and the City, so I completed a mini pub crawl at institutions such as Lyceum Tavern, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and Ye Olde Cock Tavern (complete with a huge rooster sign). Englishmen love to drink cider, of which I am not a fan. I tried one called "Sweet Rosie" that tasted like Mountain Dew with a handle of butterscotch schnapps dumped in it. I left after I recovered from my diabetic coma in the bathroom. I settled for a hamburger for dinner.
I cannot discuss England without mentioning the food, or lack thereof. Traditional English food is interesting. I think the guy who decided what food is "English" is the same guy who invented grammar rules, white noise for TVs and back-up warning beepers for large trucks. Horrendous. Thank God for hamburgers and the huge Italian presence in London. There was one day where I only ate one meal, and for those of you who know me well, this is almost impossible. The next day, I walked five miles along the Thames to the Imperial War Museum, where I saw the actual tank that Montgomery used in North Africa during WWII and a shell from the biggest cannon ever constructed in the history of the earth. I thought of Cassville: "Shoot, I'd kill my three year limit with that damn thing." I stopped for a hamburger near the Globe Theater. The coolest part of the day was the "Jack the Ripper" tour at night in East London, where I was taken to where the still at-large criminal killed and mutilated five prostitutes in three months....or they would say back home, "he done kilt five whores down nar and cut them girls all to pieces." I went back to the hotel, ate ANOTHER hamburger and called it a night.
The early morning flight to Dublin was a treat. You get on an Aer Lingus (Irish airline) plane and U2 is blaring over the speakers, seriously. I smiled, masking my eternal utter disdain for that group and their lead singer. Cliches abound, as the flight attendant, named Brendan, offered an Irish coffee to me at 8:00 AM. I took the bus from the airport into Dublin, known to the Gaelic population as "Baile Atha Cliath." One thing that overtakes you in Dublin is the overt "Irishness" of the people. They are damn proud to be Irish. I asked one Irishman how to get to Finglas Road or "Bothar Fhionnghlaise." He replied with, "Tiyien%4&& YIOWJENMS NMIDIkdsi17627." So, I nodded a few times and I just got on the first bus to Finglas or Albuquerque, whichever one came first.
Dublin is old, y'all. The tallest building is only seven stories high, I think. That is the Guinness Storehouse, where I imbibed in the finest non-craft beer I have ever tasted. Irishmen are proud of this accomplishment and they should be. The only drawback was that I had to share my experience with a tour group from Michigan, whose accents nearly turned my beer back into yeast before I could drink it. "Bahb, Bahb, take my picture next to this freakin beer glee-ass right here. Bahb! Bahb!" I saw the original St. Patrick's Cathedral, Christchurch and St. Aldouen's Church, which has stood since 1193. I did not go into St. Patrick's because they charge you to enter the grounds. Whoever heard of that? If I wanted to pay to go to church, I'd just call Jimmy Swaggart and tell him set up a tent in Acworth. The Irish Archaeology Museum was the biggest pleasant surprise of the trip. They had Viking relics, medieval swords, early Christian art and five actual bodies of men who had lived in 800-900 BC. They had been found in mineral rich bogs, which cover rural Ireland and operate as a preservative if something is buried within it. I also saw the Irish National Gallery, complete with original Rembrandts, Van Goghs, Monets and an actual Michelangelo. Now, THAT is inspiring.
If you want the original pub experience, then Dublin is your place. Stereotypes are alive and well here, but it is worth it. Places like Kehoe's, The Dawson Lounge, The Temple Bar, Bruxelle's and The Palace Bar keep the spirit alive, when they are not covered up with tourists. Then, I encountered the bar called Sin E, pronounced "Shin-Ay." Nothing compared to Sin E. (Yes, I went there, sue me.) It was operated by an Italian who told me to called him "Jump" and served the cheapest Guinness in Dublin. I sat next to a Jewish Frenchman from Normandy, whose grandfather was a member of the French Resistance and assisted the Americans with information and sabotaged Nazi supply lines during WWII. His great grandfather was murdered at Auschwitz. We talked for a long time. I told him of my grandfather and his landing on Omaha Beach, and he replies in broken English, "we are eternally grateful for men like him," and raised his glass. I raised mine to his grandfather as well. As some stereotypes lived on in Ireland, others died with the clinking of two glasses in memory of two heroes.
Overall, I am extremely pleased with my decision to go on this trip. Most of my fellow Americans flying back from Ireland, donned in loud, green sweatshirts from The Blarney Inn or their new tam 'o-shanter caps, would agree. Americans love Irish culture. They want to be Irish so bad, they can taste it. As for me, I only bought two Guinness glasses. I'm not a souvenir collector, I'm more of a memory maker. I'm glad to be back in the States because football season is around the corner, and I don't mean soccer. UGA vs. Buffalo in 9 days, y'all. Jarvis Jones is going to have 32 sacks in this game. A word to the Buffalo QB, as only Warren Zevon can put it:
"You better stay away from him,
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim."
Go Dawgs.
1) They all WILL be in Times Square. As sure as I'm sitting here, as sure as Georgia Tech is going to suck this season, as sure as the Waffle House has the best hash browns in the universe. (God, how I miss them.)
2) Eastern Europeans WILL stop in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures of nothing. All natives grumble as they try not to sideswipe Helga, Ernst and their three kids, Bjorn, Maria and Gunther as they stand there snapping an Iphone picture of a street vendor. They will also have a ridiculous amount of gear accompanying them that takes up at least a square mile when they stop.
3) Asians WILL eat at the Hard Rock. I guess Hard Rock Cafe is seen as an American institution, which baffles me. You are in New York City. We have the best food selection ON THE PLANET.....and you eat at a chain store where the best selling item is a t-shirt.
4) American tourists WILL also eat at Hard Rock and/or Bubba Gump Shrimp Company. Now, they have an Olive Garden in Times Square. This place is packed every night. Again, you are in New York City, yet you choose to eat chain ITALIAN food in a city with two sections called "Little Italy." Amazing. That is like going to Beijing and eating at Panda Express. That is like going to Cassville and looking for a Huddle House. It's borderline sacrilege.
5) At least one family member WILL buy an "I Love NY" or an "FDNY/NYPD" t-shirt. This is the badge of honor that proves that you indeed were in the Concrete Jungle. Any trip is incomplete without such and nobody will believe that you were here.....unless you have a Hard Rock shirt or a picture of a street hustler selling knock off Louis Vuitton bags on Broadway.
Speaking of tourism, in a fit of spontaneity and with the whim of a UGA freshman going to Boar's Head for the first time, I took my talents to England and Ireland for a week. (+1 for comparing myself to Lebron James. We have a lot in common.) This was my first excursion across the pond, so I really had not the first clue what to expect. I knew only what I heard and the stories from friends who had ventured to the Old World before. I used a travel agency that was very helpful and booked my flights and hotels for me.
My first flight was from LaGuardia to Charlotte, North Carolina, which was my first visit back to Dixie since I left two months ago. This was going to be a quick flight and connection to London, where it would take 8 hours across the Atlantic. However, it was not to be on this day. The US Airways staff, lead by Mikesha, who only spoke in grunts and hand motions, caused an hour delay. Mikesha climbed my personal hate ladder with the dexterity of a three-toed sloth on fire. By the time I arrived in Charlotte, my London flight was over Bermuda. Since there is only one flight per day to the UK, it was a lost day in Charlotte...or so I thought.
My hotel in Charlotte was three blocks from the NASCAR Hall of Fame. What self-respecting, tire-squealin, dirt road navigatin' Cassvillian would be that close and not go? It was three hours of tributes to moonshiners, Junior Johnson/Richard Petty/Dale Earnhardt/Bill France, and rife with actual race cars, paraphernalia and videos of great races and finishes. While it glorified the globalization of the brand, it paid more attention to its roots......the Southern United States and the men from the South who made the sport what it is. We need to take this sport back because it is not the same. We need more Davey Allisons (Greatest mullet ever, possibly. They also had his deer hunting bow on display, does it get any better than that?) and less Jimmie Johnsons. We need more Neil Bonnetts, Harry Gants, and Dale Jarretts, guys who wore their 1983 Daytona 500 Champion belt buckle with pride and were sponsored by at least three vices (Alcohol, Cigarettes and Chewing Tobacco).
"I'd like to thank my crew and my sponsors: Marlboro, Levi Garrett, and Old Milwaukee. Kids, nothing makes me feel better after a race than a good chew on pit road."
Anyhow, I finally made the voyage to jolly old England the next day. The land of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, fish n chips, and the Queen (in order of importance). I climbed off the plane and instantly the song "Norwegian Wood" popped into my head:
"Iiiiiiiii once hahd a guhl..." ("I once had a girl" for you Beatles illiterates)
The rest of my stay in England was littered with random extremely British songs: "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter," "Daydream Believer," and "Bloody Well Right" pretty much dominated my internal jukebox. The subway took me to the West End and with each stop, the train conductor tells you to "mind the gap," which means to be careful of the gap between the train and the platform. Apparently, if you fall in the gap, you will disappear like Artax the horse in the Swamp of Sadness. (+1 for Neverending Story reference. 90's kids, you know you cried when Artax died. )
From there, I trekked to Big Ben, Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. I saw the grave of King Edward I, who passed away in 1296. In Cassville, Georgia, when somebody says, "Man, that's old" they are usually referring to the following:
1) A 1971 Dodge Charger
2) A two week old can of Skoal
3) A rusty bandsaw
4) Yet another minie ball from the Civil War found in Kingston
5) A vinyl Charley Pride record
From there, I went to Soho and Mayfair. (Insert Werewolves of London line right here) I walked down Savile Row, where the Beatles held their final live concert in 1969. I saw the awesome St. Paul's Cathedral and the Tate Modern Art Museum. I've tried to understand "modern" art and glean some inspiration from the paintings and sculptures, but it eludes me. It's kind of like Tennessee football, a cacophony of randomness that only speaks to the severely intoxicated or falsely enlightened. As I passed through Southwark (pronounced Suth-ick), a small pub caught my eye. This place, called Tipperary, had stood since 1605 and survived the fire that nearly destroyed London years ago. The tattooed female bartender, noticing my accent, says, "And just what tree did you fall out of, love?" Hook, line and sinker. I stayed for an hour. She told me of the other old bars in Southwark and the City, so I completed a mini pub crawl at institutions such as Lyceum Tavern, Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and Ye Olde Cock Tavern (complete with a huge rooster sign). Englishmen love to drink cider, of which I am not a fan. I tried one called "Sweet Rosie" that tasted like Mountain Dew with a handle of butterscotch schnapps dumped in it. I left after I recovered from my diabetic coma in the bathroom. I settled for a hamburger for dinner.
I cannot discuss England without mentioning the food, or lack thereof. Traditional English food is interesting. I think the guy who decided what food is "English" is the same guy who invented grammar rules, white noise for TVs and back-up warning beepers for large trucks. Horrendous. Thank God for hamburgers and the huge Italian presence in London. There was one day where I only ate one meal, and for those of you who know me well, this is almost impossible. The next day, I walked five miles along the Thames to the Imperial War Museum, where I saw the actual tank that Montgomery used in North Africa during WWII and a shell from the biggest cannon ever constructed in the history of the earth. I thought of Cassville: "Shoot, I'd kill my three year limit with that damn thing." I stopped for a hamburger near the Globe Theater. The coolest part of the day was the "Jack the Ripper" tour at night in East London, where I was taken to where the still at-large criminal killed and mutilated five prostitutes in three months....or they would say back home, "he done kilt five whores down nar and cut them girls all to pieces." I went back to the hotel, ate ANOTHER hamburger and called it a night.
The early morning flight to Dublin was a treat. You get on an Aer Lingus (Irish airline) plane and U2 is blaring over the speakers, seriously. I smiled, masking my eternal utter disdain for that group and their lead singer. Cliches abound, as the flight attendant, named Brendan, offered an Irish coffee to me at 8:00 AM. I took the bus from the airport into Dublin, known to the Gaelic population as "Baile Atha Cliath." One thing that overtakes you in Dublin is the overt "Irishness" of the people. They are damn proud to be Irish. I asked one Irishman how to get to Finglas Road or "Bothar Fhionnghlaise." He replied with, "Tiyien%4&& YIOWJENMS NMIDIkdsi17627." So, I nodded a few times and I just got on the first bus to Finglas or Albuquerque, whichever one came first.
Dublin is old, y'all. The tallest building is only seven stories high, I think. That is the Guinness Storehouse, where I imbibed in the finest non-craft beer I have ever tasted. Irishmen are proud of this accomplishment and they should be. The only drawback was that I had to share my experience with a tour group from Michigan, whose accents nearly turned my beer back into yeast before I could drink it. "Bahb, Bahb, take my picture next to this freakin beer glee-ass right here. Bahb! Bahb!" I saw the original St. Patrick's Cathedral, Christchurch and St. Aldouen's Church, which has stood since 1193. I did not go into St. Patrick's because they charge you to enter the grounds. Whoever heard of that? If I wanted to pay to go to church, I'd just call Jimmy Swaggart and tell him set up a tent in Acworth. The Irish Archaeology Museum was the biggest pleasant surprise of the trip. They had Viking relics, medieval swords, early Christian art and five actual bodies of men who had lived in 800-900 BC. They had been found in mineral rich bogs, which cover rural Ireland and operate as a preservative if something is buried within it. I also saw the Irish National Gallery, complete with original Rembrandts, Van Goghs, Monets and an actual Michelangelo. Now, THAT is inspiring.
If you want the original pub experience, then Dublin is your place. Stereotypes are alive and well here, but it is worth it. Places like Kehoe's, The Dawson Lounge, The Temple Bar, Bruxelle's and The Palace Bar keep the spirit alive, when they are not covered up with tourists. Then, I encountered the bar called Sin E, pronounced "Shin-Ay." Nothing compared to Sin E. (Yes, I went there, sue me.) It was operated by an Italian who told me to called him "Jump" and served the cheapest Guinness in Dublin. I sat next to a Jewish Frenchman from Normandy, whose grandfather was a member of the French Resistance and assisted the Americans with information and sabotaged Nazi supply lines during WWII. His great grandfather was murdered at Auschwitz. We talked for a long time. I told him of my grandfather and his landing on Omaha Beach, and he replies in broken English, "we are eternally grateful for men like him," and raised his glass. I raised mine to his grandfather as well. As some stereotypes lived on in Ireland, others died with the clinking of two glasses in memory of two heroes.
Overall, I am extremely pleased with my decision to go on this trip. Most of my fellow Americans flying back from Ireland, donned in loud, green sweatshirts from The Blarney Inn or their new tam 'o-shanter caps, would agree. Americans love Irish culture. They want to be Irish so bad, they can taste it. As for me, I only bought two Guinness glasses. I'm not a souvenir collector, I'm more of a memory maker. I'm glad to be back in the States because football season is around the corner, and I don't mean soccer. UGA vs. Buffalo in 9 days, y'all. Jarvis Jones is going to have 32 sacks in this game. A word to the Buffalo QB, as only Warren Zevon can put it:
"You better stay away from him,
He'll rip your lungs out, Jim."
Go Dawgs.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Kudzu Hill, Applied Studies & Subway Trains: Connected, consequently.
I had a great memory come to mind about a week ago. Back in 2000-2001, UGA baseball was playing very well and my fraternity brothers and I made it a point to go to every game we could. Baseball did not have the following of the football team, but there was a small, very dedicated student fanbase. We were not hard to find at game time. We never sat in the stadium of Foley Field, not once. There was a hill behind right field, covered in kudzu (affectionately called "Kudzu Hill"), and at the base of the hill was a 1.5 acre flat piece of dirt where we parked our posteriors for nine innings. Donned in our best un-ironed, Febrezed Polo and New Balances that looked like they had been thrown into a hay bailer, we would fire up our grills and start the harassment of the opposing team's right fielder and first baseman.
It would start with simple barbs, "hey, number 4, you suck!" "Hey Nineteen! Sharpton gonna get you with three straight fastballs!" (+1 for unintentional Steely Dan reference). Bill Sharpton was our ace back then. He was from Vidalia, Georgia and when it was Bill's turn to pitch, the PA would blast "Vidalia" by Sammy Kershaw before the game. As the game progressed and our friends, Anheuser-Busch and Miller High Life joined the fracas, the words would become more pointed and creative. "Hey! 4! Your girlfriend is up here! Damn, they grow em big at Bama don't they?!" We absolutely killed the first baseman from Georgia Tech. We mercilessly assaulted this man on everything from his throwing style, "you look like my sister throwing left handed with a broken arm!" to the way he walked, "Yep! I guess Tech is like prison, no chicks allowed!" Hot dog flavored smoke wafted onto Foley Field. Don Henley's "Boys of Summer," The Romantic's "What I Like About You," and Tom Petty's "Runnin Down a Dream" blasted over the PA between innings. We would discuss if we were going to "go out" after the game. Somebody would remark, "it's Tuesday."
Mack Williams, the cartoonist for the Red and Black would decide to break out his megaphone and proceed to destroy everyone on the opposing team. You could hear this megaphone in South Carolina. In his infinite wisdom, he would get on the Internet and research their roster, print it out and bring it to right field. He knew their middle names. He knew their majors. He knew their parents names. A strikeout? An error? Better run and hide, especially if you had questionable middle name or an inexplicable major. "Hey, 4! Good thing you are majoring in....(pause to read the printout)....Tourism Management. Really? Tourism Management?? My God. Well, I guess you gotta major in something." You could hear people laughing in the stadium. Auburn and LSU had some really creative majors. I swear one guy from Auburn majored in Birdhouse Construction. Oh well, whatever you gotta do to get the talent to finish third in the SEC West, you do it.
Riding the 1 Train yesterday, listening to "Policy of Truth" by Depeche Mode, I began to notice the advertisements that adorn the inside of the cars.
"1-800-BANKRUPTCY"
"Dr. So and So can rid your face of pimples in two weeks, guaranteed!"
"Don't surf the train or you will be wiped out forever."
"The LIRR will be going to SI ASAP, with transfers to the N, Q, R, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."
Ok, I made that last one up. However, there was another advertisement that caught my eye. It was one of the many advocating the matriculation of subway riders at a local college that offered majors in "applied studies." Without researching what this means, I instantly became amused. Remember in school when a classmate would have to give a presentation and it was clear he/she did not prepare? They would begin to use SAT words and three syllable adverbs to try to cover up the complete bulls**t they were sputtering. "Applied Studies" harkened back to those times. I imagined the class schedule for Applied Studies in my head:
8:00-8:50: Waking Up 101: The Movement of the Body Out of the Rest Area and the Ambulation of Your Leg Appendages to the Restroom
9:00-9:50: Laptop Skills 302 (Honors): Extinguishing the Power Source to the Laptop During a Computer Freeze
10:00 - 10:50: Mailing Letters 508 (Seniors Only): Envelopes Exceed Minimum Weight Requirements for the Forty-Four Cent Stamp: Procedures, Postulations and Theories
11:00 - 2:00: Lunch: State mandated four hour lunch break
2:30 - 3:20: Cash Register 701 (Advanced): The Reciprocation of Currency in the Event of a Malfunction in which the Register Cannot Calculate the Correct Return Currency Automatically. (Dropped mid-semester due to difficulty)
3:30 - 4:20: Student Loan Repayment 102: How to Whine to Your Congressman Effectively When You Get Fired and Can No Longer Afford to Pay Back Your Loans
I looked up Applied Studies when I got home. You should do the same. It makes me realize a couple of things: 1) now, I know where state "customer service" employees come from and 2) I am in the wrong business. It makes for some interesting reading while you light your degree on fire, realizing that it was just cheapened a little more. I thought about the Auburn player majoring in Birdhouse Construction. I hope it all worked out for him and he is building sweet pigeon condos in Dothan, Alabama.
It is funny how things come full circle in your life. I ran into Mack Williams last week in Brooklyn. Apparently, he lives here now too. We had a good laugh about the right field days, the megaphone and all the fun we used to have. The crowd at the NCAA regionals against Florida State in 2001 was epic. The right field crazies were in full regalia that Saturday and when the Dawgs pulled it out, we felt like a part of it as they celebrated in a Dawgpile on the infield. The team actually tipped their hats to us after the game ended. Alas, it is no more. President Adams incited his "No Fun of Any Kind" policy to the UGA campus after we left and the right field area is now fenced off, charges admission and does not allow grills or alcohol. Another great tradition blown away with the stroke of a pen and a few bow tie wearing cronies with nothing better to do. Luckily, Adams is gone after this year. I hope his next job is teaching "Water Filter Replacement" in an Applied Studies program.
Oh yeah....the Georgia Tech first baseman that we lambasted mercilessly......Mark Teixeira, currently starting at first base for the New York Yankees. Who knew?
It would start with simple barbs, "hey, number 4, you suck!" "Hey Nineteen! Sharpton gonna get you with three straight fastballs!" (+1 for unintentional Steely Dan reference). Bill Sharpton was our ace back then. He was from Vidalia, Georgia and when it was Bill's turn to pitch, the PA would blast "Vidalia" by Sammy Kershaw before the game. As the game progressed and our friends, Anheuser-Busch and Miller High Life joined the fracas, the words would become more pointed and creative. "Hey! 4! Your girlfriend is up here! Damn, they grow em big at Bama don't they?!" We absolutely killed the first baseman from Georgia Tech. We mercilessly assaulted this man on everything from his throwing style, "you look like my sister throwing left handed with a broken arm!" to the way he walked, "Yep! I guess Tech is like prison, no chicks allowed!" Hot dog flavored smoke wafted onto Foley Field. Don Henley's "Boys of Summer," The Romantic's "What I Like About You," and Tom Petty's "Runnin Down a Dream" blasted over the PA between innings. We would discuss if we were going to "go out" after the game. Somebody would remark, "it's Tuesday."
Mack Williams, the cartoonist for the Red and Black would decide to break out his megaphone and proceed to destroy everyone on the opposing team. You could hear this megaphone in South Carolina. In his infinite wisdom, he would get on the Internet and research their roster, print it out and bring it to right field. He knew their middle names. He knew their majors. He knew their parents names. A strikeout? An error? Better run and hide, especially if you had questionable middle name or an inexplicable major. "Hey, 4! Good thing you are majoring in....(pause to read the printout)....Tourism Management. Really? Tourism Management?? My God. Well, I guess you gotta major in something." You could hear people laughing in the stadium. Auburn and LSU had some really creative majors. I swear one guy from Auburn majored in Birdhouse Construction. Oh well, whatever you gotta do to get the talent to finish third in the SEC West, you do it.
Riding the 1 Train yesterday, listening to "Policy of Truth" by Depeche Mode, I began to notice the advertisements that adorn the inside of the cars.
"1-800-BANKRUPTCY"
"Dr. So and So can rid your face of pimples in two weeks, guaranteed!"
"Don't surf the train or you will be wiped out forever."
"The LIRR will be going to SI ASAP, with transfers to the N, Q, R, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6."
Ok, I made that last one up. However, there was another advertisement that caught my eye. It was one of the many advocating the matriculation of subway riders at a local college that offered majors in "applied studies." Without researching what this means, I instantly became amused. Remember in school when a classmate would have to give a presentation and it was clear he/she did not prepare? They would begin to use SAT words and three syllable adverbs to try to cover up the complete bulls**t they were sputtering. "Applied Studies" harkened back to those times. I imagined the class schedule for Applied Studies in my head:
8:00-8:50: Waking Up 101: The Movement of the Body Out of the Rest Area and the Ambulation of Your Leg Appendages to the Restroom
9:00-9:50: Laptop Skills 302 (Honors): Extinguishing the Power Source to the Laptop During a Computer Freeze
10:00 - 10:50: Mailing Letters 508 (Seniors Only): Envelopes Exceed Minimum Weight Requirements for the Forty-Four Cent Stamp: Procedures, Postulations and Theories
11:00 - 2:00: Lunch: State mandated four hour lunch break
2:30 - 3:20: Cash Register 701 (Advanced): The Reciprocation of Currency in the Event of a Malfunction in which the Register Cannot Calculate the Correct Return Currency Automatically. (Dropped mid-semester due to difficulty)
3:30 - 4:20: Student Loan Repayment 102: How to Whine to Your Congressman Effectively When You Get Fired and Can No Longer Afford to Pay Back Your Loans
I looked up Applied Studies when I got home. You should do the same. It makes me realize a couple of things: 1) now, I know where state "customer service" employees come from and 2) I am in the wrong business. It makes for some interesting reading while you light your degree on fire, realizing that it was just cheapened a little more. I thought about the Auburn player majoring in Birdhouse Construction. I hope it all worked out for him and he is building sweet pigeon condos in Dothan, Alabama.
It is funny how things come full circle in your life. I ran into Mack Williams last week in Brooklyn. Apparently, he lives here now too. We had a good laugh about the right field days, the megaphone and all the fun we used to have. The crowd at the NCAA regionals against Florida State in 2001 was epic. The right field crazies were in full regalia that Saturday and when the Dawgs pulled it out, we felt like a part of it as they celebrated in a Dawgpile on the infield. The team actually tipped their hats to us after the game ended. Alas, it is no more. President Adams incited his "No Fun of Any Kind" policy to the UGA campus after we left and the right field area is now fenced off, charges admission and does not allow grills or alcohol. Another great tradition blown away with the stroke of a pen and a few bow tie wearing cronies with nothing better to do. Luckily, Adams is gone after this year. I hope his next job is teaching "Water Filter Replacement" in an Applied Studies program.
Oh yeah....the Georgia Tech first baseman that we lambasted mercilessly......Mark Teixeira, currently starting at first base for the New York Yankees. Who knew?
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
City At Night....but this ain't LA Woman.
One of the proudest moments I have had in New York City happened yesterday. I was strolling down Amsterdam Avenue on the Upper West Side, listening to "Hello Stranger" by Barbara Lewis (a great forgotten hit, by the way) and wearing my old Georgia basketball t-shirt ca. 1999. The shirt has seen better days. It is faded, the shoulder has a hole about the size of a penny, and the stitching in the sleeves unravels more and more each time I wear. But, by God, it is one of my favorite shirts and I will wear it until it falls apart, then I will use it for a kitchen rag.
Anyhow, I ambled past St. James Gate, an Irish pub near my apartment. An elderly man was outside taking a cigarette break. It was about 7:30 PM and he had clearly been a patron of the bar since lunch time. He drags on the cigarette and studies my shirt closely. His head moves up and he makes eye contact, and in an Irish brogue assisted by no telling how many pints of Guinness, he says, "Georgia Bulldogs?" I remove the headphones, now playing "Crossroader" by Mountain, and say, "Yes sir. Born and bred." The Irishman smiles and "Go Dawgs. And to HELL with Georgia Tech." He grins and goes back to his stool at the bar. See? Even Irishmen hate Tech. It warms the heart, it really does. Erin Go Bragh.
I love Irish pubs in this city. You know why? Because most of them are actually Irish, rather than a gimmick. That was always my complaint with Atlanta, nothing was authentic to me. It was like a group got together, formed a bullcrap LLC, and decided to open a bar. One day, they had a meeting and one guy said, "so, what kind of bar we gonna have?" After 2.7 seconds of thought, one guy throws out the original suggestion, "Irish?" So they go out, buy every Guinness, Smithwick's and Bass bar sign they can find, splatter them all over the walls and call it "O'Shaughnessy's." It would be just like Dublin, except you are in a strip mall next to a tanning salon and Chinese take-out. I'm not saying these places are a bad idea, they just have no allure to me. In this city, if you found a bar called "O'Shaughnessy's," it is probably because some guy named O'Shaughnessy opened it in 1934 because Prohibition ended and he needed to make money.
I think that is what people enjoyed about Cass Grocery: our authenticity. It kept the place novel, rather than run of the mill. When was the last time you heard the following statement in your life?
"Man, I love the new Pilot truck stop on I-75. There's nothing like fighting 63 tourists from Michigan to get a Diet Sierra Mist from the fountain."
Never. Nobody gives a damn about that place. Nobody darkening the doors of that place remembers a thing about it. They might brag that the fountain has 76 flavors or that gas is fifty cents cheaper than everyone else, but that is the extent of their discussion. They had nowhere for locals to drink coffee, no fruit for sale purchased from Henry Stephens (no relation), they could not tell you how much a post hole digger costs, nor could they offer to show you how many Nightcrawlers were in the newest delivery of live worms. Nobody could remember the time the cat pooped on my uncle's arm on the front. Or the time that the Stanley brothers, after witnessing a rude customer threaten yours truly, inform him, "you touch that boy and you won't walk outta here." You won't hear me and Gary Gray singing "After the Thrill is Gone" by The Eagles while putting up sweet feed.
We did not have Diet Sierra Mist, in fact, we only had six flavors: Coke, Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Diet Dr. Pepper, Sprite and Mello Yello. Our coffee maker had two pots, all caffeinated, all day. You want sugar free, Godiva chocolate creamer with a lemon twist? Sorry. We ain't got it. Neither do we have sleeves for the cups or lids that open conveniently. We drink coffee as God intended in the 30123 and if it burns your hands, then we made it right. There are no Bose speakers installed in the ceiling playing Kenny G. We have an old Panasonic radio and it will probably be playing Tracy Lawrence, Tracy Byrd, or Travis Tritt. The TV will be on Denny Brauer fishing in Lake Okeechobee, not showing a camera image of you walking down an aisle. Nobody would ever return to the Pilot at night, just to sit on the front and watch cars go by. I used to do that when I was 17. I would take a Coke and a Snickers and just sit there. It would be so quiet for minutes and then headlights would appear. The horn honks, "BOY! What you doin' out here? Ain't you had enough of this place?!?" I raised my glass bottle Coke in a toast as they pull away. Nope, never, I said to myself. Then it's just me and the crickets. There is truly nothing like Cassville at night.
The Dublin Tap Room, which is located about one block from my apartment here, has an awesome bartender who calls me "lad" when I stop by. When I order a Guinness, he says, "You mean Mother's Milk, lad." His accent is so thick I can barely understand him. Women are welcome, but this is a man's bar. One television has the Yankees channel and the other has European soccer, both watched equally by the patrons. Almost every man over 50 orders a shot of Jameson's with his beer. I'm nowhere near to that point, I'm more of a "one and done after work" customer. They have some signs on the wall, but most are advertisments for local bands or framed newspaper articles about Irish soccer teams. No frills. No gimmicks. No Cee-Lo blaring out of the speakers. Just a quiet place to reflect, watch sports, and people watch out the window to 79th Street.
There is something almost religious about it when the sun goes down. They have a blinking neon sign hanging over the door, a mix-hued conglomeration of red, green and yellow. The colors blink separately, so the sidewalk and the passers-by change color as the sign changes. One night, Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" was playing over the speakers and I just sat there and watched people walk by. Young white teenagers, adorned by the red flash, laughing and horsing around. A black man in a suit, lit up by the yellow flash, talks on his cell phone as he walks home. An Asian couple pushes their child in a stroller, brought to light by the green. The bartender talks quietly and expediently with other Irishmen and goes out to smoke. Cabs fly by toward Riverside Avenue and New Jersey. The day has gone to bed, but the everybody and everything moves on. "Same dances in the same old shoes," said Glenn Frey. I almost can hear the crickets. There is truly nothing like New York City at night.
Anyhow, I ambled past St. James Gate, an Irish pub near my apartment. An elderly man was outside taking a cigarette break. It was about 7:30 PM and he had clearly been a patron of the bar since lunch time. He drags on the cigarette and studies my shirt closely. His head moves up and he makes eye contact, and in an Irish brogue assisted by no telling how many pints of Guinness, he says, "Georgia Bulldogs?" I remove the headphones, now playing "Crossroader" by Mountain, and say, "Yes sir. Born and bred." The Irishman smiles and "Go Dawgs. And to HELL with Georgia Tech." He grins and goes back to his stool at the bar. See? Even Irishmen hate Tech. It warms the heart, it really does. Erin Go Bragh.
I love Irish pubs in this city. You know why? Because most of them are actually Irish, rather than a gimmick. That was always my complaint with Atlanta, nothing was authentic to me. It was like a group got together, formed a bullcrap LLC, and decided to open a bar. One day, they had a meeting and one guy said, "so, what kind of bar we gonna have?" After 2.7 seconds of thought, one guy throws out the original suggestion, "Irish?" So they go out, buy every Guinness, Smithwick's and Bass bar sign they can find, splatter them all over the walls and call it "O'Shaughnessy's." It would be just like Dublin, except you are in a strip mall next to a tanning salon and Chinese take-out. I'm not saying these places are a bad idea, they just have no allure to me. In this city, if you found a bar called "O'Shaughnessy's," it is probably because some guy named O'Shaughnessy opened it in 1934 because Prohibition ended and he needed to make money.
I think that is what people enjoyed about Cass Grocery: our authenticity. It kept the place novel, rather than run of the mill. When was the last time you heard the following statement in your life?
"Man, I love the new Pilot truck stop on I-75. There's nothing like fighting 63 tourists from Michigan to get a Diet Sierra Mist from the fountain."
Never. Nobody gives a damn about that place. Nobody darkening the doors of that place remembers a thing about it. They might brag that the fountain has 76 flavors or that gas is fifty cents cheaper than everyone else, but that is the extent of their discussion. They had nowhere for locals to drink coffee, no fruit for sale purchased from Henry Stephens (no relation), they could not tell you how much a post hole digger costs, nor could they offer to show you how many Nightcrawlers were in the newest delivery of live worms. Nobody could remember the time the cat pooped on my uncle's arm on the front. Or the time that the Stanley brothers, after witnessing a rude customer threaten yours truly, inform him, "you touch that boy and you won't walk outta here." You won't hear me and Gary Gray singing "After the Thrill is Gone" by The Eagles while putting up sweet feed.
We did not have Diet Sierra Mist, in fact, we only had six flavors: Coke, Diet Coke, Dr. Pepper, Diet Dr. Pepper, Sprite and Mello Yello. Our coffee maker had two pots, all caffeinated, all day. You want sugar free, Godiva chocolate creamer with a lemon twist? Sorry. We ain't got it. Neither do we have sleeves for the cups or lids that open conveniently. We drink coffee as God intended in the 30123 and if it burns your hands, then we made it right. There are no Bose speakers installed in the ceiling playing Kenny G. We have an old Panasonic radio and it will probably be playing Tracy Lawrence, Tracy Byrd, or Travis Tritt. The TV will be on Denny Brauer fishing in Lake Okeechobee, not showing a camera image of you walking down an aisle. Nobody would ever return to the Pilot at night, just to sit on the front and watch cars go by. I used to do that when I was 17. I would take a Coke and a Snickers and just sit there. It would be so quiet for minutes and then headlights would appear. The horn honks, "BOY! What you doin' out here? Ain't you had enough of this place?!?" I raised my glass bottle Coke in a toast as they pull away. Nope, never, I said to myself. Then it's just me and the crickets. There is truly nothing like Cassville at night.
The Dublin Tap Room, which is located about one block from my apartment here, has an awesome bartender who calls me "lad" when I stop by. When I order a Guinness, he says, "You mean Mother's Milk, lad." His accent is so thick I can barely understand him. Women are welcome, but this is a man's bar. One television has the Yankees channel and the other has European soccer, both watched equally by the patrons. Almost every man over 50 orders a shot of Jameson's with his beer. I'm nowhere near to that point, I'm more of a "one and done after work" customer. They have some signs on the wall, but most are advertisments for local bands or framed newspaper articles about Irish soccer teams. No frills. No gimmicks. No Cee-Lo blaring out of the speakers. Just a quiet place to reflect, watch sports, and people watch out the window to 79th Street.
There is something almost religious about it when the sun goes down. They have a blinking neon sign hanging over the door, a mix-hued conglomeration of red, green and yellow. The colors blink separately, so the sidewalk and the passers-by change color as the sign changes. One night, Glenn Miller's "Moonlight Serenade" was playing over the speakers and I just sat there and watched people walk by. Young white teenagers, adorned by the red flash, laughing and horsing around. A black man in a suit, lit up by the yellow flash, talks on his cell phone as he walks home. An Asian couple pushes their child in a stroller, brought to light by the green. The bartender talks quietly and expediently with other Irishmen and goes out to smoke. Cabs fly by toward Riverside Avenue and New Jersey. The day has gone to bed, but the everybody and everything moves on. "Same dances in the same old shoes," said Glenn Frey. I almost can hear the crickets. There is truly nothing like New York City at night.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Meant to Be or Not Meant to Be....That is the Question
There's an old saying I have heard my entire life, "some things are meant to be." Obviously, this can cover millions of situations, good and bad. I often find it used to explain the inexplicable, to create an excuse for a bad result or hide disgust over something disagreeable. For example, in my life:
1) Georgia Tech winning a national championship in 1990. Although they had to share it, proving God is a Dawg at heart (even though we went 4-7 that year), it still irked me to see them succeed;
2) The closing of the Starbucks on Walnut Avenue in Dalton. It was the perfect location. Right off the exit. Steaming hot Venti Pike Place Roast on the way in to work and a hot tea on the way out at 6:00. Boom! The recession hits, the store was closed and replaced by a Chinese fast food restaurant.....the foulest foulness that ever fouled up the universe. Coffee > MSG infused cat meat. If I wanted to commit aggravated assault on my arteries, at least I would be organic about it;
3) The virtual disappearance of Pop Rocks. 1/10th of 1% of my childhood.....gone;
4) The Spin Doctors only made one album. Come on....you still sing "Two Princes" in the shower;
5) The popularity of the Kardashians. They have accomplished NOTHING in their lives except sex tapes and high profile marriages/relationships. Yet, they get TV shows and make millions. I know about 250 women in Bartow County, Georgia that fit that bill right now. Well, except for the high profile marriage thing....it would just be a high number of marriages;
6) White guys named Bernard and Maurice no longer exist. I am sorry, I just like those names. Now, white folks are naming kids after cities. "This is our son, Billings St. Paul Watkinsville Smith III." Seriously, come on, you know it is getting out of hand;
7) The toll on Georgia 400. The road is paid for. It's BEEN paid for. Where does that money go? Obviously not to any state department, considering the ridiculously bad service you receive. You don't believe me? Call one of them. An extremely disinterested, unhappy sounding female will answer the phone and forward you to somebody's voicemail quicker than William Hung's fall from fame. Let's take some of that money and reopen the Starbucks in Dalton.
8) Bjork. I have no idea what that is. I have even "wikipediaed" the subject and I still have nothing. And Wikipedia is never wrong.
9) America's Next Top Model. If any show in the universe characterizes the downfall of America, this is the one. Afflicted twenty-something girls doing their best imitation of spaghetti, dressed like aliens, fighting over the bathroom before their photo shoot with a liger under a palm tree. The entire show hinges on moments where a washed up Tyra Banks lines up the women and hands down Judgment by showing their photograph and says "Congratulations, you are on you're way to being America's Next Top Model." Then, all the spaghetti imitators hug and cry, probably break a collarbone while doing it and retreat to their bedrooms. OMG, they are so hot. This show has been on TV for NINE YEARS. Hey, Sri Lanka, if you want to invade us, now is the time;
10) Southerners taking "all white" beach photographs. C'mon, admit it, we have all done it. You donned your whitest Polo, bared your feet, went to Gulf Shores and showed those pearly whites about 67 times. You probably used it for a Christmas card too. I'm going to buck the trend one day. My family and I are going to Newark, New Jersey and taking an "all magenta" photo under an oil refinery. Merry &$%$$# Christmas.
Some things are meant to be, I guess.
Now, there are situations that are "NOT meant to be." I was not meant to attend Georgia Tech. I was not meant to play poker well, enjoy video games or dip snuff. Believe me, I've tried all three and they only lead to vomit, sleep and right rear end cheek pain from sitting on my wallet too long. I was also not meant to abide mistreatment of helpless animals (why I joined the ASPCA) or the mistreatment of our civil rights (why I am an attorney). In New York City, the people are represented by two equally important groups, the district attorneys who.....just kidding (+1 for Law & Order reference).
I have found several situations here in New York City where I am "not meant to be." Times Square is beautiful, but only from afar. Bergdorf Goodman has great shirts and they are on sale, only $425 today. A night in The Plaza is $1000 and the mixed drinks are $20 a piece, even Budweiser is $12. I have tried to go to Brooklyn about three times and each time the subway has decided otherwise. I still haven't learned how to speak "subway" yet. New York subway drivers only speak when the train is moving and screeching on the tracks, so their speech sounds like a mix of Morse Code, rabbits dying and the Sand People from Star Wars. I assume the times I have been diverted from Brooklyn have been explained to me in this language, but I was too busy listening to "Heard It In a Love Song" on my Ipod to hear or understand.
On Friday night, however, I found the numero uno of "not meant to be" for me. Being the cultured individual that I am, I agreed to attend a ballet/opera interpretation of "Orpheus and Eurydice" at the Lincoln Center here in Manhattan. I should have known. It was obvious from the "get go," as we say down South. The only served Amstel Light and white wine. Cheese was the main course at the concession stand. As I watched and listened to the fellow operagoers enter the theater, my mind instantly went into overdrive. To put in in SAT words, this was a hodgepodge of exaggerated eccentricity and profound, preposterous posturing of predisposed pettiness. To put it in Cassville terms, these people were weird, y'all. If this is who enjoyed opera, then it was going to be a long night. As it turns out, it was not long at all.
The first act comes out as I read the playbill, which is essentially lists the cast and characters along with a storyline. It's the Paris Ballet. The singers sing, the flutes are fluting, the oboes are oboeing and the cello is....celloing. The words are unintelligible, so I scramble through the playbill to find out that the entire opera is in German. There is no English interpretation. Great, I say to myself. Then a half naked man danced by himself for about thirty minutes around some women in nightgowns. Apparently, this was Orpheus. Eurydice had affixed herself in a giant chair in the corner and never moved. A fallen tree laid in the middle of the stage. German verbiage covered the theater like kudzu covers north Georgia. This scene was called "Mourning." I began to mourn by manhood as I was auditorily emasculated minute by minute. The opera crowd exploded in applause and discussed the imagery, as I imagined a $5.00 plate of chicken fingers at Son's of Italy in Athens.
They took a break and moved to scene called "Birth." The half naked man danced around again. The women in nightgowns made a circle of tree branches in the middle of the stage and he danced in it for awhile. This signified a "womb," I guess. I thought of the times when we had thunderstorms in Cassville and we would lose branches off the oak trees. We would have to pile them up and burn them next to the pasture. Alas, these branches stayed flameless. Laura realized that this was not even a ballet at this point, but merely an interpretative dance. The half naked man flailed about like he was at an LMFAO concert. Perusing the playbill more, I realize that the lead singer is Japanese. I couldn't tell from the nosebleed section, or as I began to call it, the suicide contemplation section. So, now, we have a German opera sung by a Japanese person. The Axis Powers have reunited against me. The opera crowd explodes yet again.
Another break. More half naked men come out and more giant chairs are on the stage. Eurydice decides to join the fray in the scene called "Love." She and Orpheus play a game of tag while others run around and fall, getting back up and falling again. Somebody whispers in my section and is "shushed" by another patron. Yes, I thought, please be quiet. This scene is really touching and by touching, I mean like how Moloram rips the guy's heart out in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and lowers him into the fire. The language of the country that brought us Mueslix reverberates in my section. I lean forward and place my hands on my head. It's like when the pastor has talked past 12:00 and you are ready to get to Ryan's buffet immediately. Laura catches a heavy glance from me. There will be an intermission after this scene, before the scene called "Death." I think she read my mind and knew that intermission was my submission.
In full retreat, I left before "Death" started. The operagoers were talked semantics and idiosyncracies. I just wanted a good ol American hot dog. Ruralites like me....football loving, ESPN watching, let's meet at the bar and get some wings and beer kind of guys, don't do German/Japanese/French opera. It was boring, uninspiring, and I could not imagine how anyone could enjoy it. Kind of like Georgia Tech football. Yes, I was not "meant" to attend this opera. If I had been, I would have had some cherry Pop Rocks in my mouth and my Spin Doctors album blaring "Jimmy Olsen's Blues" while Orpheus twirled around the tree branches, afire.
1) Georgia Tech winning a national championship in 1990. Although they had to share it, proving God is a Dawg at heart (even though we went 4-7 that year), it still irked me to see them succeed;
2) The closing of the Starbucks on Walnut Avenue in Dalton. It was the perfect location. Right off the exit. Steaming hot Venti Pike Place Roast on the way in to work and a hot tea on the way out at 6:00. Boom! The recession hits, the store was closed and replaced by a Chinese fast food restaurant.....the foulest foulness that ever fouled up the universe. Coffee > MSG infused cat meat. If I wanted to commit aggravated assault on my arteries, at least I would be organic about it;
3) The virtual disappearance of Pop Rocks. 1/10th of 1% of my childhood.....gone;
4) The Spin Doctors only made one album. Come on....you still sing "Two Princes" in the shower;
5) The popularity of the Kardashians. They have accomplished NOTHING in their lives except sex tapes and high profile marriages/relationships. Yet, they get TV shows and make millions. I know about 250 women in Bartow County, Georgia that fit that bill right now. Well, except for the high profile marriage thing....it would just be a high number of marriages;
6) White guys named Bernard and Maurice no longer exist. I am sorry, I just like those names. Now, white folks are naming kids after cities. "This is our son, Billings St. Paul Watkinsville Smith III." Seriously, come on, you know it is getting out of hand;
7) The toll on Georgia 400. The road is paid for. It's BEEN paid for. Where does that money go? Obviously not to any state department, considering the ridiculously bad service you receive. You don't believe me? Call one of them. An extremely disinterested, unhappy sounding female will answer the phone and forward you to somebody's voicemail quicker than William Hung's fall from fame. Let's take some of that money and reopen the Starbucks in Dalton.
8) Bjork. I have no idea what that is. I have even "wikipediaed" the subject and I still have nothing. And Wikipedia is never wrong.
9) America's Next Top Model. If any show in the universe characterizes the downfall of America, this is the one. Afflicted twenty-something girls doing their best imitation of spaghetti, dressed like aliens, fighting over the bathroom before their photo shoot with a liger under a palm tree. The entire show hinges on moments where a washed up Tyra Banks lines up the women and hands down Judgment by showing their photograph and says "Congratulations, you are on you're way to being America's Next Top Model." Then, all the spaghetti imitators hug and cry, probably break a collarbone while doing it and retreat to their bedrooms. OMG, they are so hot. This show has been on TV for NINE YEARS. Hey, Sri Lanka, if you want to invade us, now is the time;
10) Southerners taking "all white" beach photographs. C'mon, admit it, we have all done it. You donned your whitest Polo, bared your feet, went to Gulf Shores and showed those pearly whites about 67 times. You probably used it for a Christmas card too. I'm going to buck the trend one day. My family and I are going to Newark, New Jersey and taking an "all magenta" photo under an oil refinery. Merry &$%$$# Christmas.
Some things are meant to be, I guess.
Now, there are situations that are "NOT meant to be." I was not meant to attend Georgia Tech. I was not meant to play poker well, enjoy video games or dip snuff. Believe me, I've tried all three and they only lead to vomit, sleep and right rear end cheek pain from sitting on my wallet too long. I was also not meant to abide mistreatment of helpless animals (why I joined the ASPCA) or the mistreatment of our civil rights (why I am an attorney). In New York City, the people are represented by two equally important groups, the district attorneys who.....just kidding (+1 for Law & Order reference).
I have found several situations here in New York City where I am "not meant to be." Times Square is beautiful, but only from afar. Bergdorf Goodman has great shirts and they are on sale, only $425 today. A night in The Plaza is $1000 and the mixed drinks are $20 a piece, even Budweiser is $12. I have tried to go to Brooklyn about three times and each time the subway has decided otherwise. I still haven't learned how to speak "subway" yet. New York subway drivers only speak when the train is moving and screeching on the tracks, so their speech sounds like a mix of Morse Code, rabbits dying and the Sand People from Star Wars. I assume the times I have been diverted from Brooklyn have been explained to me in this language, but I was too busy listening to "Heard It In a Love Song" on my Ipod to hear or understand.
On Friday night, however, I found the numero uno of "not meant to be" for me. Being the cultured individual that I am, I agreed to attend a ballet/opera interpretation of "Orpheus and Eurydice" at the Lincoln Center here in Manhattan. I should have known. It was obvious from the "get go," as we say down South. The only served Amstel Light and white wine. Cheese was the main course at the concession stand. As I watched and listened to the fellow operagoers enter the theater, my mind instantly went into overdrive. To put in in SAT words, this was a hodgepodge of exaggerated eccentricity and profound, preposterous posturing of predisposed pettiness. To put it in Cassville terms, these people were weird, y'all. If this is who enjoyed opera, then it was going to be a long night. As it turns out, it was not long at all.
The first act comes out as I read the playbill, which is essentially lists the cast and characters along with a storyline. It's the Paris Ballet. The singers sing, the flutes are fluting, the oboes are oboeing and the cello is....celloing. The words are unintelligible, so I scramble through the playbill to find out that the entire opera is in German. There is no English interpretation. Great, I say to myself. Then a half naked man danced by himself for about thirty minutes around some women in nightgowns. Apparently, this was Orpheus. Eurydice had affixed herself in a giant chair in the corner and never moved. A fallen tree laid in the middle of the stage. German verbiage covered the theater like kudzu covers north Georgia. This scene was called "Mourning." I began to mourn by manhood as I was auditorily emasculated minute by minute. The opera crowd exploded in applause and discussed the imagery, as I imagined a $5.00 plate of chicken fingers at Son's of Italy in Athens.
They took a break and moved to scene called "Birth." The half naked man danced around again. The women in nightgowns made a circle of tree branches in the middle of the stage and he danced in it for awhile. This signified a "womb," I guess. I thought of the times when we had thunderstorms in Cassville and we would lose branches off the oak trees. We would have to pile them up and burn them next to the pasture. Alas, these branches stayed flameless. Laura realized that this was not even a ballet at this point, but merely an interpretative dance. The half naked man flailed about like he was at an LMFAO concert. Perusing the playbill more, I realize that the lead singer is Japanese. I couldn't tell from the nosebleed section, or as I began to call it, the suicide contemplation section. So, now, we have a German opera sung by a Japanese person. The Axis Powers have reunited against me. The opera crowd explodes yet again.
Another break. More half naked men come out and more giant chairs are on the stage. Eurydice decides to join the fray in the scene called "Love." She and Orpheus play a game of tag while others run around and fall, getting back up and falling again. Somebody whispers in my section and is "shushed" by another patron. Yes, I thought, please be quiet. This scene is really touching and by touching, I mean like how Moloram rips the guy's heart out in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and lowers him into the fire. The language of the country that brought us Mueslix reverberates in my section. I lean forward and place my hands on my head. It's like when the pastor has talked past 12:00 and you are ready to get to Ryan's buffet immediately. Laura catches a heavy glance from me. There will be an intermission after this scene, before the scene called "Death." I think she read my mind and knew that intermission was my submission.
In full retreat, I left before "Death" started. The operagoers were talked semantics and idiosyncracies. I just wanted a good ol American hot dog. Ruralites like me....football loving, ESPN watching, let's meet at the bar and get some wings and beer kind of guys, don't do German/Japanese/French opera. It was boring, uninspiring, and I could not imagine how anyone could enjoy it. Kind of like Georgia Tech football. Yes, I was not "meant" to attend this opera. If I had been, I would have had some cherry Pop Rocks in my mouth and my Spin Doctors album blaring "Jimmy Olsen's Blues" while Orpheus twirled around the tree branches, afire.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Text Walking and Goldfish: Don't "Count Beer" Too Early, Y'all
"What part of Brooklyn you from?"
I was asked this question the other day in jest by a bartender. Apparently my accent is a source of great amusement here, a sincere amusement though. People here do not condescend outsiders, rather they try to understand them. New Yorkers inquire earnestly about the Southern heat and astonished of my stories about the lack of red lights in Cassville. They simply cannot grasp full service gas stations, maybe because I've seen a total of two during my entire stay here. You read that correctly.....2. Many of them have passed through Georgia at some point in their lives and have only nice things to say. It is refreshing to know that many people outside the South do not believe us to be ridgerunning Klansmen. There are some, however, that want us to be that way. It's not sexy to be sophisticated and Southern and I have thought about humoring them at times. I will don my best airbrushed Gatlinburg t-shirt, acid washed Jordaches, go barefoot to a bar and scream obscenities mixed in with remarks about the 2nd Amendment and Trent Lott. Then I'll order a Manhattan.
Strangely enough, I realized today that Cassville and New York City have more in common than one realizes. I grabbed the #1 train downtown this morning with about 20,000 other people, of which I know none. In a city of 9,000,000 people, I know exactly 10 people to whom I could say more than "hello." In fact, most people do not know the person standing next to them. In all the city hustle and bustle, there is a quiet undertone. In Cassville, it's simply the reverse....no hustle and bustle, but you know everybody. I thought about this as I surveyed my fellow passengers, all of them staring straight ahead or looking at their Ipods. They will likely dodge more cars in the next twenty minutes than a Cassvillian will dodge in half a year and they will likely not speak a word on this train ride. Such is life in New York City.
There is also another thing you have to dodge in New York. It's something that is infecting every metropolitan area in this country. An epidemic that is sweeping the nation, causing one town in New Jersey to ban it altogether. I call it "text walk." Essentially, metro citizens are glued to the screens of their phones for at least 17 hours per day. This does not just include standing in line at Starbucks, the train station or waiting in the bathroom line at the bar. People here walk and text, walk and send emails, walk and download ITunes, walk and Photoshop.....I cannot count how many people I have seen almost become a taxi hood ornament because they could NOT wait to send a "LOL, for real? Awesome, TTYL! #winning" before crossing 5th Avenue. Text walkers are easy to spot, as well. They are the ones weaving from side to side, speeding up, then slowing down, sometimes abruptly stopping because they are shocked by a text that informs them that Hollister is not opening until 11 AM. They look like that goldfish that you had when you were a kid and you let it die because you hadn't the first clue about how to care for a living thing. While on its last leg, its swimming patterns become erratic. It bumps the side of the aquarium. It floats to the top and then sinks, then suddenly becomes alive and swims straight to the bottom, slamming into the rocks. The difference is the goldfish is sick, people are just stupid. Oh, and the goldfish does not care about Hollister. OMG.
Text walking does not take place in Cassville. I mean, I've seen people walking from side to side, slowing down and speeding up inexplicably, but that explanation can be summed up by Atlanta's own Andre 3000 of Outkast......"engulfed in the OE." Cassville people haven't the need for texting to be honest. All you have to do is go to Cass Grocery and hang out for awhile. You will run into everyone you know within a couple of hours. Plus, it would be hard to text a Cassville conversation:
Randy (grumbles, how in the hell do you work this thing...): "Hey."
Leon: "Yeah"
Randy: "Where's Ted with that dam poly butter?"
Leon: "Poly butter? You smokin again?"
Randy: "I meant Polly Beauty lean. I aint smokin!" Dammit."
Leon: "Who the hell is Polly? Boy, Martha gonna have your ass if she finds out!"
Randy: "This phone keeps changing my words. There ain't no Polly."
Leon: "Yeah, boy. I done heard that one. You and Polly have fun at the Red Carpet."
Randy and Leon would likely meet up and fight about this later. Frankly, anything is better than those early 2000's Nextels that everybody had. I have ranted about these God-forsaken beacons of annoyance ad nauseum. Watching Randy and Leon annihilate a text conversation is better than hearing it loud and clear in the store at the busiest portion of the day, which is typically when these guys chose to have their discussion about sprinkler pipe at 35,000 decibels. Seriously, I distinctly recall a time where a construction worker had six people order an ice cream from me via Nextel. Imagine being stuck in a car in Georgia in August with no AC and the only radio you have is an FM station that is playing a Celine Dion marathon. That's the kind of hell I'm talking about.
Annoying Knuckledragger #1: "WHAT FLAVORS Y'ALL GOT???"
Me: "Chocolate, Vanilla, Stra..."
Annoying Knuckledragger #1: "HUH?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU, BUDDY!" (grrrr. buddy. I hate being called "buddy." I'm not a dog or a six-year old.)
Me: "CHOCOLATE, VANILLA, STRAWBERRY, BUTTER PECAN, BLACK WALNUT AND hydrochloric acid, you %%^^%#*(#"
Annoying Knuckedragger #1: "THAT LAST ONE SOUNDS GOOD! 10-4"
I guess 10-4 was the predecessor to TTYL. In any event, the conversation took about 45 minutes and I was on the verge of hari-kari via the ice cream scoop. I had to go "count the beer" for about 20 minutes after that one.
"Count the beer" was unique term for Cass Grocery employees only. Dad invented it in 1995 and it was genius, pure genius. Basically, if somebody needed to cool off, get out of sight or just get away from a customer....you would go into the walk-in cooler and "count the beer." It was cool there (literally and figuratively) and nobody was allowed to go to the back other than employees. It was created mainly due to female affection for myself and Russell. Many times, a less than desirable female would come to the store in search of us and they knew we were trapped. They would hang around for hours, talking to us, trying to get us to sell them beer or go out on a date. Luckily, Dad was working with me one day and one of these estrogen fueled, Glenn Close imposters descended upon me. Rather than be rude to her, he turned to me and said, "get your ass to the back and count the beer." Puzzled, I went to the cooler and started counting. I got to about 237 when Dad came in and said, "Partner, that's gonna be our little code from now on. She's gone. Whenever we need to get gone, we are counting beer." That little avenue to peace and serenity was used more times than crack at Whitney Houston's last birthday. Too soon? Oh well.
So, in short, I hope all my friends take a lesson and stop texting while walking, much less driving. Take a lesson from Cassville, meet up face to face and hash out your days and nights. Talk about PVC pipe, Hollister, the Braves, your grandmother's sweet potato casserole or how much beer you drank at the bowling alley last night. You may be OK 99.9% of the time, but all it takes is that one time to change a life forever. Eventually it will catch up to you and the Good Lord will have you "counting beer" long before you should. 10-4?
I was asked this question the other day in jest by a bartender. Apparently my accent is a source of great amusement here, a sincere amusement though. People here do not condescend outsiders, rather they try to understand them. New Yorkers inquire earnestly about the Southern heat and astonished of my stories about the lack of red lights in Cassville. They simply cannot grasp full service gas stations, maybe because I've seen a total of two during my entire stay here. You read that correctly.....2. Many of them have passed through Georgia at some point in their lives and have only nice things to say. It is refreshing to know that many people outside the South do not believe us to be ridgerunning Klansmen. There are some, however, that want us to be that way. It's not sexy to be sophisticated and Southern and I have thought about humoring them at times. I will don my best airbrushed Gatlinburg t-shirt, acid washed Jordaches, go barefoot to a bar and scream obscenities mixed in with remarks about the 2nd Amendment and Trent Lott. Then I'll order a Manhattan.
Strangely enough, I realized today that Cassville and New York City have more in common than one realizes. I grabbed the #1 train downtown this morning with about 20,000 other people, of which I know none. In a city of 9,000,000 people, I know exactly 10 people to whom I could say more than "hello." In fact, most people do not know the person standing next to them. In all the city hustle and bustle, there is a quiet undertone. In Cassville, it's simply the reverse....no hustle and bustle, but you know everybody. I thought about this as I surveyed my fellow passengers, all of them staring straight ahead or looking at their Ipods. They will likely dodge more cars in the next twenty minutes than a Cassvillian will dodge in half a year and they will likely not speak a word on this train ride. Such is life in New York City.
There is also another thing you have to dodge in New York. It's something that is infecting every metropolitan area in this country. An epidemic that is sweeping the nation, causing one town in New Jersey to ban it altogether. I call it "text walk." Essentially, metro citizens are glued to the screens of their phones for at least 17 hours per day. This does not just include standing in line at Starbucks, the train station or waiting in the bathroom line at the bar. People here walk and text, walk and send emails, walk and download ITunes, walk and Photoshop.....I cannot count how many people I have seen almost become a taxi hood ornament because they could NOT wait to send a "LOL, for real? Awesome, TTYL! #winning" before crossing 5th Avenue. Text walkers are easy to spot, as well. They are the ones weaving from side to side, speeding up, then slowing down, sometimes abruptly stopping because they are shocked by a text that informs them that Hollister is not opening until 11 AM. They look like that goldfish that you had when you were a kid and you let it die because you hadn't the first clue about how to care for a living thing. While on its last leg, its swimming patterns become erratic. It bumps the side of the aquarium. It floats to the top and then sinks, then suddenly becomes alive and swims straight to the bottom, slamming into the rocks. The difference is the goldfish is sick, people are just stupid. Oh, and the goldfish does not care about Hollister. OMG.
Text walking does not take place in Cassville. I mean, I've seen people walking from side to side, slowing down and speeding up inexplicably, but that explanation can be summed up by Atlanta's own Andre 3000 of Outkast......"engulfed in the OE." Cassville people haven't the need for texting to be honest. All you have to do is go to Cass Grocery and hang out for awhile. You will run into everyone you know within a couple of hours. Plus, it would be hard to text a Cassville conversation:
Randy (grumbles, how in the hell do you work this thing...): "Hey."
Leon: "Yeah"
Randy: "Where's Ted with that dam poly butter?"
Leon: "Poly butter? You smokin again?"
Randy: "I meant Polly Beauty lean. I aint smokin!" Dammit."
Leon: "Who the hell is Polly? Boy, Martha gonna have your ass if she finds out!"
Randy: "This phone keeps changing my words. There ain't no Polly."
Leon: "Yeah, boy. I done heard that one. You and Polly have fun at the Red Carpet."
Randy and Leon would likely meet up and fight about this later. Frankly, anything is better than those early 2000's Nextels that everybody had. I have ranted about these God-forsaken beacons of annoyance ad nauseum. Watching Randy and Leon annihilate a text conversation is better than hearing it loud and clear in the store at the busiest portion of the day, which is typically when these guys chose to have their discussion about sprinkler pipe at 35,000 decibels. Seriously, I distinctly recall a time where a construction worker had six people order an ice cream from me via Nextel. Imagine being stuck in a car in Georgia in August with no AC and the only radio you have is an FM station that is playing a Celine Dion marathon. That's the kind of hell I'm talking about.
Annoying Knuckledragger #1: "WHAT FLAVORS Y'ALL GOT???"
Me: "Chocolate, Vanilla, Stra..."
Annoying Knuckledragger #1: "HUH?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU, BUDDY!" (grrrr. buddy. I hate being called "buddy." I'm not a dog or a six-year old.)
Me: "CHOCOLATE, VANILLA, STRAWBERRY, BUTTER PECAN, BLACK WALNUT AND hydrochloric acid, you %%^^%#*(#"
Annoying Knuckedragger #1: "THAT LAST ONE SOUNDS GOOD! 10-4"
I guess 10-4 was the predecessor to TTYL. In any event, the conversation took about 45 minutes and I was on the verge of hari-kari via the ice cream scoop. I had to go "count the beer" for about 20 minutes after that one.
"Count the beer" was unique term for Cass Grocery employees only. Dad invented it in 1995 and it was genius, pure genius. Basically, if somebody needed to cool off, get out of sight or just get away from a customer....you would go into the walk-in cooler and "count the beer." It was cool there (literally and figuratively) and nobody was allowed to go to the back other than employees. It was created mainly due to female affection for myself and Russell. Many times, a less than desirable female would come to the store in search of us and they knew we were trapped. They would hang around for hours, talking to us, trying to get us to sell them beer or go out on a date. Luckily, Dad was working with me one day and one of these estrogen fueled, Glenn Close imposters descended upon me. Rather than be rude to her, he turned to me and said, "get your ass to the back and count the beer." Puzzled, I went to the cooler and started counting. I got to about 237 when Dad came in and said, "Partner, that's gonna be our little code from now on. She's gone. Whenever we need to get gone, we are counting beer." That little avenue to peace and serenity was used more times than crack at Whitney Houston's last birthday. Too soon? Oh well.
So, in short, I hope all my friends take a lesson and stop texting while walking, much less driving. Take a lesson from Cassville, meet up face to face and hash out your days and nights. Talk about PVC pipe, Hollister, the Braves, your grandmother's sweet potato casserole or how much beer you drank at the bowling alley last night. You may be OK 99.9% of the time, but all it takes is that one time to change a life forever. Eventually it will catch up to you and the Good Lord will have you "counting beer" long before you should. 10-4?
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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.