I apologize to my readers for my month-long hiatus. March is full of deadlines at work and my brain was consumed with things like "Article 78 proceedings," "third-party plaintiffs," and 1,500 page transcripts about zoning property in Queens in 1978. It was like watching "Law and Order: Paint Drying Unit. " I like my job, but as with most legal jobs, it is not glamorous. The picture painted by Law and Order of Jack McCoy and his courtroom drama is a farce for the most part. I once conducted a DUI trial where 5 out of the 6 jurors were clearly nodding off and the judge was clearly "googling" his next vacation destination on his computer. (Googling is becoming the next "Kleenex" or "Band-Aid." I guess it is better than Yahooing or Binging. That sounds too racy.) Who could blame them? I was required to question the police officer about his experience and education as it pertains to the Breathalyzer machine. That is like asking who ever invented grammar rules, "so, can you tell us how you formulated the concept of adverbial participles?" I would rather slam my fingers in the sliding door of a Ford Aerostar. Bankruptcy hearings? Forget about it. I once argued for thirty minutes in front of a federal judge about the interest rate charged on the pawned title of a 1993 Ford Taurus. I felt like I was fighting over the shovel in the sandbox when I was at Montessouri in 1986. Anyhow, my mind has drifted back where it belongs: sports, food, people watching, coffee, food, sports, sports statistics, food and Walking Dead/Duck Dynasty.
I have been in New York for nine months. That is long enough to get a good grasp on what I like and do not like about the city. There is no place like New York City, for this I can vouch. I have beaten these sidewalks to death with my size 12 Nikes in search of the best food, good times, hidden gems, and music/sports venues. One of my co-workers remarked, "you have experienced more in this city in nine months than I have in my entire life." I reckon I am doing something right....or I have ADD and cannot sit around for more than ten seconds. I usually scan the newspapers for "top ten lists" and work from there. This city has about 47 different newspapers, so I never run out of material. Heck, one of the Irish pubs on 35th Street near my office has copies of some Irish newspaper on their bar every day. Thank God, I cannot go a single day without knowing who won between Galway and County Killarney in minor league soccer last week. These papers are always doing "Top Ten Best ______ in New York." Many times, the places discussed are interchangeable and are just ranked higher or lower on each paper's list. In any event, I give you "the best and worst of New York" according to me. This is mainly for the use of my Southern brethren who ever decide to visit and have no clue where to go. This list is brought to you by Bagel Talk on Amsterdam Avenue, the Flatt & Scruggs song "Pearl Pearl Pearl" and the lint in my sweatpants, which is still more interesting than North Korea.
Best Pizza: Rigoletto Pizza on West 72nd Street. Get the large with extra mozzarella, prosciutto, and Italian sausage. I once destroyed an entire pizza and went into a food coma for 48 hours, but it was worth it. Imagine Waffle House hash browns mixed with pieces of your grandmaw's fried chicken. Yes, THAT good. New York pizza has no rival, I'm sorry.
Best Place to Watch a Concert: The Beacon Theater on Broadway at West 74th Street. Maybe I am biased because I saw Lynyrd Skynyrd and the Allman Brothers at this venue (fulfilling a bucket list item for yours truly). What a night that was. The concert was exceptional, the band was on fire and played some amazing songs. They started with "Don't Want You No More" and proceeded to melt my face off for three hours. The pre-party was held at this old school bar called Malachy's. It is the kind of place where they sweep the teeth and sponge the blood off the floor at 4 AM before they close. The bartender was this gruff Irishman who pronounced "Bass" like "Boss" and probably has not smiled since 1992. They also do not care about marijuana use on the sidewalk out front because the old school Allman Brothers fans were blazing up like they were about to face a firing squad.
Best Cab Route to Get to the Lower East Side from Uptown: Just walk or take the 50 minute subway ride. The cab ride will cost you $40 and once you have arrived at your destination, you will run to the bathroom and vomit from motion sickness. New York cabbies only know two speeds: Warp Speed and Ludicrous Speed (+1 for Spaceballs reference). This goes for braking and turning as well. If you have had a couple of beers and the A/C is not working in the cab, then you will start feeling uneasy right around Second Avenue and 65th Street. The cab is whipping in and out of the lanes like you are being chased by the velociraptor pack from Jurassic Park. He slams on the brakes at least 37 times. This is all taking place at 87 MPH. Then your friends will grab you and say "are you OK?" as your face turns green. Suddenly, the rigatoni bolognese you were about to eat does not sound so tasty. Sweat trickles down your forehead, but it's 12 degrees outside. The cabbie suddenly whips over three lanes and exits off the FDR expressway like Tony Stewart trying to get the pole at Daytona. You taste yesterday's pastrami sandwich. Arriving at the destination, the cab brakes so hard that your internal organs shift and you suffer mild whiplash. You dart into the restaurant bathroom before you projectile vomit all over the maitre' d. Take the train, y'all.
Best Place to have a Sopranos Experience: Don Pepe's. This Italian gem is tucked away in the middle of nowhere in Queens in an area called Ozone Park. The area is mentioned frequently in Nicholas Pileggi's book "Wiseguy," which is the book that "Goodfellas" is based upon. One step in to Don Pepe's and you will know why. The owner of the restaurant was playing 5-Card Stud at one of the round tables with about five other guys who could have auditioned for the part of Sonny Corleone or Paulie Walnuts. In fact, the only people in the restaurant who were not out of central casting for a mob movie were Quinton and I. There's Quinton, a black man from Locust Grove, Georgia and me with my accent. The waiter asked me what part of Italy I came from. Luckily, I am a geography savant, so I said "Avellino." After a few jokes, he served us some of the best food I have ever tasted. Baked clams, baked ziti with meat "gravy," as they say, and a bottle of red wine. Then came the cannoli. I was stuffed to the gills, but I am not one to turn down cannoli. Quinton asks me if I think anyone has been whacked here. I look around....Quinton and I are the only ones without a pinky ring and the only ones who did not go over and kiss the owner on both cheeks. "Probably not," I say, but I would not put money on it. I now understand why Clemenza said, "leave the gun, take the cannoli." This place will definitely be a repeat visit for yours truly.
Best Bagel: Zabar's on Broadway and 81st. Get the vegetable cream cheese. Oy vey!
Best Sports Experience: A sold out New York Yankees game. For a baseball history nut like me, there is no substitute for an afternoon in the Bronx. You have to be there, realize how many great things have happened on 161st Street, and it will consume you.
Best Record Store: Rebel Rebel Records on Bleecker Street in the West Village. This tiny store looks like a dusty attic stuffed full of old vinyl records. So what? It is phenomenal. You want to find a long lost album or CD? This is the best place I have ever seen. I found "Brain Salad Surgery" by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, "Three Feet High and Rising" by De La Soul and a mint condition vinyl of "One of These Nights" by The Eagles here. The owner remarked, "that is a random combination, my friend." You could literally find anything here. In fact, I am not convinced that the Ark of the Covenant, Jimmy Hoffa and Christian Slater's acting career are not buried there somewhere. The owner is a musical encyclopedia, seriously. You could ask him, "what is the sixth track on the B side of Songs in the Key of Life?" and he would spout the answer before you could say, "Johnny Cash is overrated." (oops, did I say that?)
Best dive bar: Broome Street Bar & Grill at West Broadway and Broome. Cheap drinks, a good crowd, and maybe the best internet jukebox ever. The bartenders all look like roadies for Southern rock bands from the 70's. In fact, last time I was in there, this foreign guy paid $10.00 to the jukebox and played an entire U2 album. After about three songs (all of which sound exactly the same), the bartender hands me a $10.00 and says, "go play something we like and drown out this f***** garbage before I kill myself." So, being the good Southerner I am, I played Allman Brothers, Marshall Tucker, Outlaws with a little Traffic mixed in for good measure. New Yorkers love Southern rock. This is a fact that has thoroughly shocked me but it has been a pleasant surprise. (Runner Up: Rudy's Bar & Grill in Hell's Kitchen. Free hot dogs, red leather, duct taped booths, and a big movie screen out back where they show 80's movies all night. You know a bar is good when it is referenced in a Steely Dan song.)
Best thing about winter time in New York: Nothing. Unless you enjoy looking like the Rebel forces at the beginning of "The Empire Strikes Back," then winter is not for you. I now own two boggans, one for cold days and the other for ridiculously cold days. I have to get to work fifteen minutes early just so I can remove the 27 layers of clothing I wear to keep the wind from cutting me in two. Times Square in the morning looks like a bunch of "Ralphies" from "A Christmas Story." If you pushed us all down, we would squirm around on the ground helplessly like turtles.
Worst Thing I Have Seen on the Subway: It's a tie. I saw a cross dressing old man in see through panty hose and high heels, which destroyed my appetite for the next twelve hours. The other would be the 27 rats I counted running around the tracks as I waited for the B train at 81st Street. New York rats are enormous and I am pretty sure they talk and have personalities. They were all attacking a discarded sandwich on the track, trying to get pieces of it before it was devoured. A writhing pile of hairy vermin crawling all over each other. It was like watching the Florida student section in Jacksonville fighting over the last pair of jean shorts. I watched this scene in horror for a few seconds until one of them looked up at me and said "What's your problem?" Even the rats are abrasive in this city.
Worst Place to Eat if you are on a Diet: Great Burrito on Amsterdam Avenue. Not only are the burritos enormous and delicious, it is located next to Insomnia Cookies. This is an all-night cookie store (hence the name) that makes some of the best cookies I have ever tasted. They purposefully leave the door open so the smell right hooks you in the face as you walk by. They also have freezer where they keep one gallon of vanilla ice cream and one gallon of chocolate so they can make "cookiewiches," where they put a dip of ice cream between two giant cookies. Are you kidding me? One hour and 4,376 calories later and I am laying on the couch watching Sopranos reruns taking Pepto Bismol shots. Worth it!
Best Craft Beer spot: The Belgian Room on St. Mark's in the Lower East Side. Trappist monks in the Belgian hinterlands make the best beer. No contest.
Best Barbecue: Mighty Quinn's in the East Village. I will be brutally honest, NYC barbecue sucks for the most part. It is just not part of the lifestyle here and the health codes are so strict that using smokers are probably a violation of some obscure statute, which could get you shut down, whacked, or both. In any event, this place has it figured out. Get the brisket or the pulled pork with sweet potato casserole or baked beans. Take it to go and sit in Peter Cooper park while you stuff your face. You will think you are in North Carolina for a second, until somebody cuts off a cabbie taking a left onto 7th Street and he screams, "Getouttadaway, you %^%^$^$!"
Best Place not to hear the "F-word": Nowhere. New Yorkers say the "F-word" more than any other word. It is a noun, an adjective, and a verb. You hear it on the train, in the cabs, at the gym, in the barber shop, at work, at bars, at sporting events, at bar mitzvahs, ordering coffee....it does not matter. Heck, at Easter Sunday service, the priest said, "peace be with you and have a great f'in day." (not really, but I would not have batted an eye if he had) So, if you are easily offended by this word, turn up your Ipod to maximum volume and blare "Livin on a Prayer" in your ears until you want to smash your head through a plate glass window. By that point, you will be singing a new song......"Get Over It."
I will do another list later on with more items like "best way to get stabbed by a skate at a hockey game" or "worst subway puddle." (Subway puddles may be the grossest entities on Earth. It's a collection of trash, liquid, and God knows what else that collects on the tracks of the busiest subway in the world. If I fell in one, I would just write my will on a napkin before I died of a combination of e.coli, AIDS, polio, scurvy, Spanish influenza and walking pneumonia.) Anyhow, I am glad to be able to write more and focus on things that are more fun than "motions in limine" and the legislative history behind the New York Appellate Rule about timely filed briefs. Don't worry, I won't intentionally slam my fingers in the sliding door of an Aerostar, but I might go to Don Pepe's and say "nobody move, FBI!"
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Friday, March 1, 2013
40 Ways to Beat the Urban Grind
Yesterday, I was riding the subway to Times Square and we were delayed for ten minutes because another person had been hit by a train at 50th Street. The person was not killed, but he/she was injured badly enough to where a stretcher was needed to get out of the station. So, as we sat in the tunnel waiting, you start hearing the grumbling...
"Ugh, I'm going to be late."
"When are people gonna learn?"
"Some crackhead probably pushed him."
"Dunkin Donuts will have a line out to 6th Avenue by the time I get there."
Sitting in a subway tunnel is a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You are packed in with 100 people in this train car, underground, in the dark. Since it is winter, everyone has on ridiculously huge coats, so you cannot really move around at all. I just cranked up my Ipod, playing "Barely Breathing" by Duncan Sheik, and waited out the delay in my own world. I watched people's faces, most of them looking positively miserable. As if this train delay marks the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine). The exception being three small children, a Jamaican guy clearly enjoying his Ipod, an old Asian woman with a perpetual grin and the girl next to me, who apparently plays "Molly" in some play on Broadway because she was reading her lines.
New Yorkers HATE to wait for anything. They even do what is called a "pre-honk" in their cars. This is a preemptive tap on the horn to alert the drivers ahead of them that traffic will indeed start moving soon. There can be a line of five people to get on a subway car and the last guy always yells, "C'mon!" They will get take-out food, be told "thirty minutes" and then instantly run to the restaurant and wonder why it is not ready. You do NOT want to be the guy whose credit card gets declined at the grocery store. Every grocery store in the city is busy, 24/7/365. Thirty five people will call you a "schmuck" and stone you to death with Gala apples. It is quite comical, as Southerners like me are rarely in a hurry. Sometimes, I walk extra slowly just to see how many people I can annoy. I usually get the women in the business suits, jabbering on their Iphone and doing the "fire-breathing dragon" act that so many corporate drones do around here. I love to listen to them talk tough about filing paperwork, insurance claims and mortgage interest rates.
This ridiculous behavior is foreign to me. I live by words that I was told in Cassville many years ago, "still water runs deep." I get better results and live a happier life. Toughness to me is not "telling someone off" over the phone. Toughness is people who get up at 4 AM and go to work without complaint. People who treat others with respect and deal with you face-to-face. People who take what life gives them and keep on going without whining. I find that small town people, specifically rural Southerners, seem to adjust to adversity better than the world assumes they would. We do not fly off the handle at little things. We do not walk through life looking for a reason to be angry. Those that do, the "telephone tough guys" and the "I got wedgied in high school so I am paying everybody back" crowd, often wilt like a burning potato chip bag when personally confronted. I never knew many of these types of people until I passed the Bar and started working in urban areas. People are wound too damn tight. They just need a "dip a 'niller" (dip of vanilla) and a riveting discussion about roofing nail prices on the benches of Cass Grocery. It does the soul good to stand around a 1967 Pontiac GTO with the hood up and lament the loss of carburetors with ten other people. To smell barbeque cooking or get a wave from your neighbor riding around in his "weekend truck." To argue over what is the best way to get to Rome. All that angry nonsense will disappear because they will know the world ain't out to get them.
I thought to myself, "what are some ways to help these poor souls?" To get happy like us, you must become one with us. Adapt to our way of life. See things as we see them. In an effort to assuage the stress of urban life, I have concocted a list of forty things that a city-dwelling cubicle slave can do to get some peace in their lives, Cassville style. This list is brought to you by Zabar's bagels and lox, Katz's Deli on the Lower East Side, Garcia's Mexican restaurant in Forest Hills, Queens (best. salsa. ever.), the Chinese lady at 6th Avenue bodega who says "tonk you, suh" every time I buy something, and Lana, my female Israeli barber who never stops grinning.
1) Buy an American-made truck and do something to the engine. Anything. Take the oil pan off and put it back on, then brag about it. Instant conversation starter.
2) Get a dog and name it after a famous country/Southern rock singer. Ex: Duane, George, Willie, Ronnie, Elvis, or Johnny. Have it ride with you in your newly souped up Ford Ranger.
3) Buy a metal toolbox for the Ranger. Fill it with jumper cables, rubber hunting boots, empty dip cans, packs of arrow tips for your compound bow that you are going to buy, two crowbars, three full Natty Lite cans, and two one-gallon gas cans. One full of gas and the other full of Round Up. Do not label them. You must do the test sniff, say with confidence, "Round Up" and move on. You will appear to know what you are talking about.
4) You need a compound bow in your life. No less than an 80 pound pull will do. No matter how much pull you say you have....somebody else will have a higher one. I think one man in Cassville had 764 pound pull on his bow. He had to use a draft horse to fire it and he once hit a deer from six miles away on the run.
5) Dove shoots. You need to attend one. Take your worst gun though, because this party will likely be pooped upon by the DNR and your gun will be confiscated as "evidence" of people having a good time.
6) Pronounce the word "grass" like this: "grice."
7) Scream at an umpire at a middle school softball game like he burned your house down and stole everything you own. Encourage others to do so. Get arrested and smile in the mugshot.
8) Sit in an emergency room for seven hours and cry uncontrollably because your 3rd cousin's ex neighbor in law might have diabetes.
9) Go to church and ask the congregation to pray for your 3rd cousin's ex neighbor in law. Be sure it gets in the bulletin.
10) Claim third cousins and beyond. Always have one in another state too. "Bobby, my fourth cousin from East Ridge, Tennessee" will do nicely.
11) Get in touch with your inner Cherokee Indian. We are all part Cherokee. Every single one of us.
12) Go to Six Flags on the hottest day of the year and win at least three stuffed unicorns and two basketballs.
13) Buy a Carhartt vest and swear to wear it to church or a wedding.
14) Mention your "2nd Amendment rights" at least once a week.
15) Somehow work into a conversation that you've been to the "Nannahaler" recently. (Nantahala River...the alpha and omega of all rivers. Longer than the Nile and more dangerous than the Amazon)
16) You must go to a Mexican restaurant for one birthday. Wear a sombrero and take a picture. Act like this could possibly be the greatest moment of your life as they sing "Feliz Cumpleanos" and "La Cucharacha" to you, as those are the only Hispanic songs you know.
17) Buy second hand appliances and then brag about the deal you received to your friends. "Ol Steve gave me this dryer for two hunnert and thirty dollars."
18) Have a domestic dispute on Facebook, change your relationship status and then make up the next day.
19) Dixie Speedway. If you have not been, you are already a day late.
20) Pronounce "log" like this: "lawg."
21) Use tornadoes to mark years and locations. "1993, that was the year we had that tornado, right?" or "There's Griffin Road, about three years ago a tornado blowed that place slap to pieces."
22) Refer to a group of people in this manner: "Keith n' them."
23) Get really fired up about an election and then do not actually vote in it. "I couldn't get off work."
24) Buy a 12 Pack of Old Milwaukee and a pack of Marlboro Reds. Smoke and drink all within a 12 hour period.
25) Be very particular about the brand of spark plugs you buy.
26) Talk about "going to Atlanta" as if you were landing at Normandy or Iwo Jima.
27) You can never have enough chainsaw files or pipe glue.
28) If your friends ask if you want to "go muddin' at the par (power) lines," the answer is always "yes."
29) Old men are always "sir," old women are always "ma'am," and do not talk bad about anyone's blood relations, even if they are imprisoned.
30) Remember where you were on the following dates: Dale Earnhardt's death, when Sid Bream scored the winning run in the 1991 NLCS, and when Herschel ran over Bill Bates in Knoxville in 1980.
31) Expect to catch hell if you put too much cream in your coffee, mention the word "gluten" or concern yourself with sodium content.
32) Pronounce the word "bass" (the fish) like this: "bice." Also, don't say "croppie."
33) Only wear your nice t-shirts to Ryan's. Be sure to tuck them in.
34) Get to the point where you openly admit that you considered "dumpster diving" when you saw somebody throw away a decent looking recliner
35) Know where a secret farm pond is located that only you can visit. Brag about this knowledge repeatedly. When confronted, just say "this ol boy I know from work, he just lets me go out there." Your clandestine activity will drive your friends crazy.
36) All your close friends have the title "Ol" before their name. Their age is no concern. "Ol' Buck's been livin' in Darsvul (Adairsville) his whole life."
37) Attend a wrestling match with local sponsorship. Forget WWE. Forget Monday Night Raw. Do a Wednesday night "Southern Outlaw North Georgia Throwdown" match at the old Kingston Elementary School gym involving chainsaws and ladders.
38) Know all the Hooters employees names, their kids names, have their phone numbers and be their friend on Facebook.
39) Have a friend named after a city, a color or a personal value/state of mind: Denver, Cleveland, Richmond, Dallas, Houston, Cheyenne, Memphis, Amber, Red, Blue, Chastity or Charity.
40) Learn to properly use the word for eternal damnation in any situation: "the hell you say," "like hell you will," "you'll play hell too," "hell, I don't know," "hell-far," and the all time favorite in Cassville...."git the hayul off my property." (you must drag it out when used in those terms)
Enjoy the weekend.
"Ugh, I'm going to be late."
"When are people gonna learn?"
"Some crackhead probably pushed him."
"Dunkin Donuts will have a line out to 6th Avenue by the time I get there."
Sitting in a subway tunnel is a claustrophobic's worst nightmare. You are packed in with 100 people in this train car, underground, in the dark. Since it is winter, everyone has on ridiculously huge coats, so you cannot really move around at all. I just cranked up my Ipod, playing "Barely Breathing" by Duncan Sheik, and waited out the delay in my own world. I watched people's faces, most of them looking positively miserable. As if this train delay marks the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine). The exception being three small children, a Jamaican guy clearly enjoying his Ipod, an old Asian woman with a perpetual grin and the girl next to me, who apparently plays "Molly" in some play on Broadway because she was reading her lines.
New Yorkers HATE to wait for anything. They even do what is called a "pre-honk" in their cars. This is a preemptive tap on the horn to alert the drivers ahead of them that traffic will indeed start moving soon. There can be a line of five people to get on a subway car and the last guy always yells, "C'mon!" They will get take-out food, be told "thirty minutes" and then instantly run to the restaurant and wonder why it is not ready. You do NOT want to be the guy whose credit card gets declined at the grocery store. Every grocery store in the city is busy, 24/7/365. Thirty five people will call you a "schmuck" and stone you to death with Gala apples. It is quite comical, as Southerners like me are rarely in a hurry. Sometimes, I walk extra slowly just to see how many people I can annoy. I usually get the women in the business suits, jabbering on their Iphone and doing the "fire-breathing dragon" act that so many corporate drones do around here. I love to listen to them talk tough about filing paperwork, insurance claims and mortgage interest rates.
This ridiculous behavior is foreign to me. I live by words that I was told in Cassville many years ago, "still water runs deep." I get better results and live a happier life. Toughness to me is not "telling someone off" over the phone. Toughness is people who get up at 4 AM and go to work without complaint. People who treat others with respect and deal with you face-to-face. People who take what life gives them and keep on going without whining. I find that small town people, specifically rural Southerners, seem to adjust to adversity better than the world assumes they would. We do not fly off the handle at little things. We do not walk through life looking for a reason to be angry. Those that do, the "telephone tough guys" and the "I got wedgied in high school so I am paying everybody back" crowd, often wilt like a burning potato chip bag when personally confronted. I never knew many of these types of people until I passed the Bar and started working in urban areas. People are wound too damn tight. They just need a "dip a 'niller" (dip of vanilla) and a riveting discussion about roofing nail prices on the benches of Cass Grocery. It does the soul good to stand around a 1967 Pontiac GTO with the hood up and lament the loss of carburetors with ten other people. To smell barbeque cooking or get a wave from your neighbor riding around in his "weekend truck." To argue over what is the best way to get to Rome. All that angry nonsense will disappear because they will know the world ain't out to get them.
I thought to myself, "what are some ways to help these poor souls?" To get happy like us, you must become one with us. Adapt to our way of life. See things as we see them. In an effort to assuage the stress of urban life, I have concocted a list of forty things that a city-dwelling cubicle slave can do to get some peace in their lives, Cassville style. This list is brought to you by Zabar's bagels and lox, Katz's Deli on the Lower East Side, Garcia's Mexican restaurant in Forest Hills, Queens (best. salsa. ever.), the Chinese lady at 6th Avenue bodega who says "tonk you, suh" every time I buy something, and Lana, my female Israeli barber who never stops grinning.
1) Buy an American-made truck and do something to the engine. Anything. Take the oil pan off and put it back on, then brag about it. Instant conversation starter.
2) Get a dog and name it after a famous country/Southern rock singer. Ex: Duane, George, Willie, Ronnie, Elvis, or Johnny. Have it ride with you in your newly souped up Ford Ranger.
3) Buy a metal toolbox for the Ranger. Fill it with jumper cables, rubber hunting boots, empty dip cans, packs of arrow tips for your compound bow that you are going to buy, two crowbars, three full Natty Lite cans, and two one-gallon gas cans. One full of gas and the other full of Round Up. Do not label them. You must do the test sniff, say with confidence, "Round Up" and move on. You will appear to know what you are talking about.
4) You need a compound bow in your life. No less than an 80 pound pull will do. No matter how much pull you say you have....somebody else will have a higher one. I think one man in Cassville had 764 pound pull on his bow. He had to use a draft horse to fire it and he once hit a deer from six miles away on the run.
5) Dove shoots. You need to attend one. Take your worst gun though, because this party will likely be pooped upon by the DNR and your gun will be confiscated as "evidence" of people having a good time.
6) Pronounce the word "grass" like this: "grice."
7) Scream at an umpire at a middle school softball game like he burned your house down and stole everything you own. Encourage others to do so. Get arrested and smile in the mugshot.
8) Sit in an emergency room for seven hours and cry uncontrollably because your 3rd cousin's ex neighbor in law might have diabetes.
9) Go to church and ask the congregation to pray for your 3rd cousin's ex neighbor in law. Be sure it gets in the bulletin.
10) Claim third cousins and beyond. Always have one in another state too. "Bobby, my fourth cousin from East Ridge, Tennessee" will do nicely.
11) Get in touch with your inner Cherokee Indian. We are all part Cherokee. Every single one of us.
12) Go to Six Flags on the hottest day of the year and win at least three stuffed unicorns and two basketballs.
13) Buy a Carhartt vest and swear to wear it to church or a wedding.
14) Mention your "2nd Amendment rights" at least once a week.
15) Somehow work into a conversation that you've been to the "Nannahaler" recently. (Nantahala River...the alpha and omega of all rivers. Longer than the Nile and more dangerous than the Amazon)
16) You must go to a Mexican restaurant for one birthday. Wear a sombrero and take a picture. Act like this could possibly be the greatest moment of your life as they sing "Feliz Cumpleanos" and "La Cucharacha" to you, as those are the only Hispanic songs you know.
17) Buy second hand appliances and then brag about the deal you received to your friends. "Ol Steve gave me this dryer for two hunnert and thirty dollars."
18) Have a domestic dispute on Facebook, change your relationship status and then make up the next day.
19) Dixie Speedway. If you have not been, you are already a day late.
20) Pronounce "log" like this: "lawg."
21) Use tornadoes to mark years and locations. "1993, that was the year we had that tornado, right?" or "There's Griffin Road, about three years ago a tornado blowed that place slap to pieces."
22) Refer to a group of people in this manner: "Keith n' them."
23) Get really fired up about an election and then do not actually vote in it. "I couldn't get off work."
24) Buy a 12 Pack of Old Milwaukee and a pack of Marlboro Reds. Smoke and drink all within a 12 hour period.
25) Be very particular about the brand of spark plugs you buy.
26) Talk about "going to Atlanta" as if you were landing at Normandy or Iwo Jima.
27) You can never have enough chainsaw files or pipe glue.
28) If your friends ask if you want to "go muddin' at the par (power) lines," the answer is always "yes."
29) Old men are always "sir," old women are always "ma'am," and do not talk bad about anyone's blood relations, even if they are imprisoned.
30) Remember where you were on the following dates: Dale Earnhardt's death, when Sid Bream scored the winning run in the 1991 NLCS, and when Herschel ran over Bill Bates in Knoxville in 1980.
31) Expect to catch hell if you put too much cream in your coffee, mention the word "gluten" or concern yourself with sodium content.
32) Pronounce the word "bass" (the fish) like this: "bice." Also, don't say "croppie."
33) Only wear your nice t-shirts to Ryan's. Be sure to tuck them in.
34) Get to the point where you openly admit that you considered "dumpster diving" when you saw somebody throw away a decent looking recliner
35) Know where a secret farm pond is located that only you can visit. Brag about this knowledge repeatedly. When confronted, just say "this ol boy I know from work, he just lets me go out there." Your clandestine activity will drive your friends crazy.
36) All your close friends have the title "Ol" before their name. Their age is no concern. "Ol' Buck's been livin' in Darsvul (Adairsville) his whole life."
37) Attend a wrestling match with local sponsorship. Forget WWE. Forget Monday Night Raw. Do a Wednesday night "Southern Outlaw North Georgia Throwdown" match at the old Kingston Elementary School gym involving chainsaws and ladders.
38) Know all the Hooters employees names, their kids names, have their phone numbers and be their friend on Facebook.
39) Have a friend named after a city, a color or a personal value/state of mind: Denver, Cleveland, Richmond, Dallas, Houston, Cheyenne, Memphis, Amber, Red, Blue, Chastity or Charity.
40) Learn to properly use the word for eternal damnation in any situation: "the hell you say," "like hell you will," "you'll play hell too," "hell, I don't know," "hell-far," and the all time favorite in Cassville...."git the hayul off my property." (you must drag it out when used in those terms)
Enjoy the weekend.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Spotting Southerners and Staying Country
Growing up as Southerners, we have a different mindset than anyone in the world. Of that, I am sure. Being in this melting pot of the world, I have had a chance to see so many cultures interact. I know Albanian people. I know Uzbekistanians. I think I talked to a guy from Sierra Leone the other day. I bet 0.00001% of Americans could point to Sierra Leone on a map. It sounds like the name of a town where Clint Eastwood killed a bunch of bad guys in Hang Em High.
(typical Eastwood sigh/grunt followed by tough one-liner): "Met a few of your guys in Sierra Leone....they won't be meeting anyone else."
Southerners have a "vibe" that seems to precede us. I can tell that another person is from the South before they open their mouth and reveal a Georgia twang or a Carolina drawl. Maybe it comes from a lifetime of exposure. Maybe I have a sixth sense, but I ain't seeing dead people yet. When my people visit New York, they always flock to Times Square. That is a proving ground for my ability to spot Southerners. I watch them walk in circles, admire the giant Hard Rock Cafe, buy an FDNY shirt and then pull out a giant map. Usually, I approach them and ask them if they need help finding anything. I enjoy the relief on their faces when a familiar accent addresses them. Of course, their first question is always the same,
"Where you from, boy?"
Always. Then I answer, ask them the same question, and get all kinds of random answers:
"Fort Mill, South Carolina"
"Anniston, Alabama....by God"
"God's country, my friend.....Natchez, Missippi" (Mississippi)
"Georgia boy too! Down at Manchester. I got cousins in Fairmount."
We all have cousins. Millions of them. Spread all over the South like kudzu. Name a town right now and I guarantee that one of my aunts or my grandmother will remark, "oh, your mama's third cousin Willie Ted lived there for awhile when he was with the power company." I would not know Willie Ted if he walked in my house right now and ate my last bite of cheese grits.
Older rural Southerners are very easy to spot, especially the men. They are the only demographic that does the following:
1) Tucks in a t-shirt (it could be a tattered Bill Elliott #94 t-shirt, no matter. It's tucked, y'all)
2) Has a toothpick in his mouth at 4:45 because they just ate dinner
3) Looking at TVs to see if any of them have on the Weather Channel, so he can check what is going on back home (by God, if that dewpoint drops any lower...)
4) Has a ring full of keys attached to his jeans, even though he is on vacation
5) Wears a mesh back hat because it's cooler (literally, not figuratively. Southern men have not gone hipster yet.)
Older women are slightly tougher, but I have decoded five ways to determine that a woman is a Southerner:
1) Carries her purse with her arm bent, palm up
2) Uses the windows of the Olive Garden to check her perm
3) The man she is with refers to her as "mama"
4) She won't touch the railings going down into the subway ("Oh God, Harold. Go wash your hands.")
5) Looks at every pashmina on the street vendor's table and holds it next to her shirt to make sure it coordinates (Southern women have not gone hipster yet)
Younger Southerners are not so easy to spot. Our generation is much more transient and connected to the outside world. Other influences exist in our lives that did not exist when our parents and grandparents came of age. Even with our speech, you cannot automatically tell with many of my generation. In a sense, we have lost some of our identity. Are we ashamed of ourselves? Has the national media finally convinced us to blend completely with everyone else? Case in point: I was talking with a group of people I know from Georgia. One of the girls, from Forsyth County, addressed the group with this:
"Myself and some co-workers are going to a thing in Brooklyn, you guys want to come with?" (clearly trying to eliminate her twang in that last phrase)
You guys? Come with? It was like an over-the-top rendition of Breakfast at Tiffany's. If I asked this question in Cassville, I would be laughed/cussed out of the building. Be yourself and damn everyone else. It is perfectly fine to be worldly. It is fine to appreciate other cultures, their way of life, and their traditions. However, I have a problem with Southerners cashing out their culture and values. We have made a niche in this world for being who we are, just like New York Italians, Boston Irishmen, California surfers, and Montana cowboys. To become homogeneous is to allow a small part of the South that exists in all of us to die. That is why I go to Times Square to spot old school Southern people. What others see as redneck or simple, I see as terms of endearment. I have made a concerted effort to remain as "country" as I possibly can. Carry on the way of life set forth by my predecessors rather than forget it and "progress." I have added "Cassville" to my Weather Channel App. I type in "old school country" on Spotify and let it play all day at work. I wear my old Russell moccasins just because. I still cry when I hear Elvis sing the "Dixie" part of American Trilogy. I watch old Austin City Limits performances on Youtube. I am on a quest to find the best fried chicken in the city. And grits? God, how I love them. If you don't like it.......frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.
(typical Eastwood sigh/grunt followed by tough one-liner): "Met a few of your guys in Sierra Leone....they won't be meeting anyone else."
Southerners have a "vibe" that seems to precede us. I can tell that another person is from the South before they open their mouth and reveal a Georgia twang or a Carolina drawl. Maybe it comes from a lifetime of exposure. Maybe I have a sixth sense, but I ain't seeing dead people yet. When my people visit New York, they always flock to Times Square. That is a proving ground for my ability to spot Southerners. I watch them walk in circles, admire the giant Hard Rock Cafe, buy an FDNY shirt and then pull out a giant map. Usually, I approach them and ask them if they need help finding anything. I enjoy the relief on their faces when a familiar accent addresses them. Of course, their first question is always the same,
"Where you from, boy?"
Always. Then I answer, ask them the same question, and get all kinds of random answers:
"Fort Mill, South Carolina"
"Anniston, Alabama....by God"
"God's country, my friend.....Natchez, Missippi" (Mississippi)
"Georgia boy too! Down at Manchester. I got cousins in Fairmount."
We all have cousins. Millions of them. Spread all over the South like kudzu. Name a town right now and I guarantee that one of my aunts or my grandmother will remark, "oh, your mama's third cousin Willie Ted lived there for awhile when he was with the power company." I would not know Willie Ted if he walked in my house right now and ate my last bite of cheese grits.
Older rural Southerners are very easy to spot, especially the men. They are the only demographic that does the following:
1) Tucks in a t-shirt (it could be a tattered Bill Elliott #94 t-shirt, no matter. It's tucked, y'all)
2) Has a toothpick in his mouth at 4:45 because they just ate dinner
3) Looking at TVs to see if any of them have on the Weather Channel, so he can check what is going on back home (by God, if that dewpoint drops any lower...)
4) Has a ring full of keys attached to his jeans, even though he is on vacation
5) Wears a mesh back hat because it's cooler (literally, not figuratively. Southern men have not gone hipster yet.)
Older women are slightly tougher, but I have decoded five ways to determine that a woman is a Southerner:
1) Carries her purse with her arm bent, palm up
2) Uses the windows of the Olive Garden to check her perm
3) The man she is with refers to her as "mama"
4) She won't touch the railings going down into the subway ("Oh God, Harold. Go wash your hands.")
5) Looks at every pashmina on the street vendor's table and holds it next to her shirt to make sure it coordinates (Southern women have not gone hipster yet)
Younger Southerners are not so easy to spot. Our generation is much more transient and connected to the outside world. Other influences exist in our lives that did not exist when our parents and grandparents came of age. Even with our speech, you cannot automatically tell with many of my generation. In a sense, we have lost some of our identity. Are we ashamed of ourselves? Has the national media finally convinced us to blend completely with everyone else? Case in point: I was talking with a group of people I know from Georgia. One of the girls, from Forsyth County, addressed the group with this:
"Myself and some co-workers are going to a thing in Brooklyn, you guys want to come with?" (clearly trying to eliminate her twang in that last phrase)
You guys? Come with? It was like an over-the-top rendition of Breakfast at Tiffany's. If I asked this question in Cassville, I would be laughed/cussed out of the building. Be yourself and damn everyone else. It is perfectly fine to be worldly. It is fine to appreciate other cultures, their way of life, and their traditions. However, I have a problem with Southerners cashing out their culture and values. We have made a niche in this world for being who we are, just like New York Italians, Boston Irishmen, California surfers, and Montana cowboys. To become homogeneous is to allow a small part of the South that exists in all of us to die. That is why I go to Times Square to spot old school Southern people. What others see as redneck or simple, I see as terms of endearment. I have made a concerted effort to remain as "country" as I possibly can. Carry on the way of life set forth by my predecessors rather than forget it and "progress." I have added "Cassville" to my Weather Channel App. I type in "old school country" on Spotify and let it play all day at work. I wear my old Russell moccasins just because. I still cry when I hear Elvis sing the "Dixie" part of American Trilogy. I watch old Austin City Limits performances on Youtube. I am on a quest to find the best fried chicken in the city. And grits? God, how I love them. If you don't like it.......frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
So God Made Cass Grocery
God created the Earth and he looked down from on high,
He saw a certain group of people walking around with nowhere to go,
from Firetower to Cass-White to Cedar Creek Road,
A society without community cannot stand, said He
So God made Cass Grocery
God said, "I need a place where they can be home away from home,"
He needed a place made of bricks and wood
held together by the bonds of friendship and loyalty,
where good people congregate daily to talk about car parts, horse feed,
their kids, the Braves, their cousin's Camaro, the price of gas, PVC pipe,
Dale Earnhardt's death, the potholes on Shinall-Gaines Road, .44 slugs,
Skilsaws, chainsaws, roofing nails, the best way to get to Rome, food plots,
the red lights on 41, 2 cycle oil, john boats, Carter's Lake and dogs.
So God made Cass Grocery.
God said, "I need a place where characters with character can reside,"
Where Billy, Gene, Dee, Joel, Harold, J.L. Forrest, Doc, Gus, Junior, Marvin, Russell,
Jimmy Lee, Mark, Jubal, Andrew, Daryl, Ricky, Johnny, Eddie, Larry, Jim, Leon, Buck,
Earl, Randy, Keith, Mike, Dale, Matt, Brad, David, and W.L. can all say "hey" over a coffee.
Where they can pull up in their trucks after killing a ten pointer in Pine Log,
or reeling in the largest largemouth from a secret farm pond in Rydal and say,
"Hey, y'all ain't gonna believe this..."
So God made Cass Grocery.
God said, "I need a place where young boys can grow into men,"
Where they can pump gas and check oil at age nine,
Learn about lag screws, sparkplugs, 16 penny nails, water heater elements,
brass elbows, shutoff valves, drive shafts, cracked corn, and power steering fluid.
Where they get their first chew of Levi Garrett or their first drag of a Marlboro
and get laughed out of the parking lot with "we tried to tell ye!" when they turn green,
Where "gimme five in high test" and "car's thowed a rod" would send them into action,
Where things get done between Dean Durham's and Bill Dance's segments on the TV,
Where "This Ain't No Thinkin Thing" and "Tequila Sunrise" blare from the tiny radio,
while old men explain the difference between a Carolina rig and a Texas rig,
why you "pull" corn, why you "don't never check a radiator on a hot car," and whatever you do,
don't ever compare a Mossberg to a Browning.
So God made Cass Grocery.
God said, "I need a place where people can have pride in themselves and their town,"
Where crowds gather to admire somebody's rebuilt 327 engine,
Where the same crowd cheers when the car lays drag on the way to Adairsville,
Women never have to open their own door, pump their own gas or carry their groceries,
Where children get their first ice cream,
A place that is the first stop for newly licensed 16 year olds to show off their new wheels,
A place where you can order a 1/4 pound of bologna, a Moon Pie and pork rinds for lunch,
Where you can always borrow the water hose for your radiator or a empty milk jug for gas,
Where handshakes are plenty and you truly can "have a Coke and a smile"
and at the end of the day, you are glad that you were able to live that day.
So God made Cass Grocery.
He saw a certain group of people walking around with nowhere to go,
from Firetower to Cass-White to Cedar Creek Road,
A society without community cannot stand, said He
So God made Cass Grocery
God said, "I need a place where they can be home away from home,"
He needed a place made of bricks and wood
held together by the bonds of friendship and loyalty,
where good people congregate daily to talk about car parts, horse feed,
their kids, the Braves, their cousin's Camaro, the price of gas, PVC pipe,
Dale Earnhardt's death, the potholes on Shinall-Gaines Road, .44 slugs,
Skilsaws, chainsaws, roofing nails, the best way to get to Rome, food plots,
the red lights on 41, 2 cycle oil, john boats, Carter's Lake and dogs.
So God made Cass Grocery.
God said, "I need a place where characters with character can reside,"
Where Billy, Gene, Dee, Joel, Harold, J.L. Forrest, Doc, Gus, Junior, Marvin, Russell,
Jimmy Lee, Mark, Jubal, Andrew, Daryl, Ricky, Johnny, Eddie, Larry, Jim, Leon, Buck,
Earl, Randy, Keith, Mike, Dale, Matt, Brad, David, and W.L. can all say "hey" over a coffee.
Where they can pull up in their trucks after killing a ten pointer in Pine Log,
or reeling in the largest largemouth from a secret farm pond in Rydal and say,
"Hey, y'all ain't gonna believe this..."
So God made Cass Grocery.
God said, "I need a place where young boys can grow into men,"
Where they can pump gas and check oil at age nine,
Learn about lag screws, sparkplugs, 16 penny nails, water heater elements,
brass elbows, shutoff valves, drive shafts, cracked corn, and power steering fluid.
Where they get their first chew of Levi Garrett or their first drag of a Marlboro
and get laughed out of the parking lot with "we tried to tell ye!" when they turn green,
Where "gimme five in high test" and "car's thowed a rod" would send them into action,
Where things get done between Dean Durham's and Bill Dance's segments on the TV,
Where "This Ain't No Thinkin Thing" and "Tequila Sunrise" blare from the tiny radio,
while old men explain the difference between a Carolina rig and a Texas rig,
why you "pull" corn, why you "don't never check a radiator on a hot car," and whatever you do,
don't ever compare a Mossberg to a Browning.
So God made Cass Grocery.
God said, "I need a place where people can have pride in themselves and their town,"
Where crowds gather to admire somebody's rebuilt 327 engine,
Where the same crowd cheers when the car lays drag on the way to Adairsville,
Women never have to open their own door, pump their own gas or carry their groceries,
Where children get their first ice cream,
A place that is the first stop for newly licensed 16 year olds to show off their new wheels,
A place where you can order a 1/4 pound of bologna, a Moon Pie and pork rinds for lunch,
Where you can always borrow the water hose for your radiator or a empty milk jug for gas,
Where handshakes are plenty and you truly can "have a Coke and a smile"
and at the end of the day, you are glad that you were able to live that day.
So God made Cass Grocery.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Welcome to February: The Deserted Wasteland for Sports Fans
There are a few times in a year where depression sets in, despite anything said or done. It happens to all of us. Times where hope feels miles away. The wind blows colder. You get more irritable with others. Work days seem to last 15 hours. Traffic is worse. People honk their horns on narrow streets more often, deafening pedestrians, causing dogs to bark incessantly and children to scream bloody murder. Terrible things seem to pile up. I have already imagined what will take place:
1) Justin Bieber comes out with a new album, covering the Allman Brothers in falsetto with Taylor Swift and other modern "artists." Ladies and gentlemen, on the stage to perform Midnight Rider......Lady Gaga and Nickelback. I could see Gregg just set his Hammond organ on fire and light a cigarette on the burning ashes.
2) American Idol signs on for 17 more seasons and the new judges are Kim Kardashian, Diane Feinstein and Jesse Jackson.
Jesse Jackson: "Contextually, that performance was perfunctory and prognostificacious." (Feinstein nods, Kim is still trying to figure out how to write a "K" in cursive)
Contestant: "What? You people make no sense."
Jesse Jackson: "What do you mean, YOU PEOPLE?"
3) MTV comes out with MTV3, a network solely dedicated to Jersey Shore reruns, Bjork music videos and eternal Kurt Cobain worship.
4) Wal-Mart, McDonald's and Apple merge into one giant company, thereby decreasing the per capita IQ of this country by 43 points and increasing the sale of sweatpants, houseshoes, Monster Energy drinks and Mountain Dew.
5) The NFL and NCAA, under immense pressure, decides that football will be two-hand touch in 2013. The UGA Administration bans tailgating altogether, moves all our games to Tuesday nights and gives half of the athletic budget to the rowing team.
Your steak is overcooked, your coffee is lukewarm and one of your headphones stops working while you are going for a run. Just inexplicable horrors run rampant in your life. Yes, y'all, I am talking about the month of February for sports fans.
I have lived through 31 Februarys in my life, each one worse than the last. Nothing happens in February. Football is gone. Baseball is a non-entity until March. Basketball is still in the midseason doldrums before their playoff runs. I think 37 people attended the last Hawks home game and that was a bunch of youth recreation teams who got in free. NASCAR has yet to begin, but quite frankly, it is no longer interesting to me. I did attempt to watch soccer last week at a bar in Manhattan but I instantly went into a boredom coma, fell out of my stool and landed in somebody's guacamole dip. When I was in Ireland last Fall, I watched soccer in a pub there, amongst the "hooligans" along the River Liffey in Dublin. It was Manchester United versus Everton (I think). The final score of the 2 hour and 45 minute game was 0-0. Basically, it was a cross country meet with a ball added into the mix. It got so bad that I started playing a drinking game by myself. Every time I thought about throwing myself into the river, I took a drink. 14 Guinness pints lost their lives that evening. These Irishmen were going NUTS over this game. It was like watching an oil puddle form in a Wal-Mart parking lot. To make matters worse the next morning, the local paper had a three page write-up on how Manchester almost scored once in the first ten minutes of the game. I looked at my waitress, Maggie Shaughnessy O'Callahan, and ordered a shot of Bailey's for my coffee.
Soccer needs three things to be interesting, if you ask me:
1) Fighting: At least once, a slide tackle needs to result in fisticuffs. A brouhaha. A donnybrook. A bench clearing slugfest. Penalize the offender(s) in soundproof boxes next to each other, however, allow them access to dry erase markers so they may write their feelings on the box for all to see until they get out.
2) More Points: Extra points for longer kicks. Bicycle kicks are worth ten points. If the goalie scores with a cross field kick, the game is over, you lose.
3) Shorten and narrow the playing field by 20 yards: These guys are 765 miles away from the goal, no wonder they never score. I swear I saw a coach send a telegram to a player during the World Cup because he was so far downfield. If you want a gigantic American audience, it is not hard to entice us. We want scoring, blood, possibly a fight or two and scantily clad cheerleaders to shoot t-shirts out of a bazooka.
Signing Day does occur on February 6th, but even that has become a non-entity in the life of a Georgia fan this season. We signed the majority of our class in December during the early enrollee signing period. Our remaining commitments are firm and have no intention of switching. While this is a good thing, it does not lend much to excitement on Signing Day. The majority of the uncommitted players we are still pursuing have written us off at this point, much to the chagrin of myself and about 2,500 Dawgventers who have been gnashing teeth and blaming Richt for everything from the apparent loss of Georgia's "Mr. Football" Alvin Kamara, to the Kennedy assassination and the Vietnam War. We get our share of great players but we always seem to be on the outside looking in for these five star "holdouts." The same 4-5 schools are always in the mix for their services and these schools are normally at the precipice of NCAA sanctions or have already been nailed in the past.
In the last five years, the recruiting cycle in the SEC has become a form of cultural prostitution. The NCAA appears to be powerless to stop it and too unscrupulous to handle an investigation with propriety. Kids transfer more than ever before, creating these football factory high schools and killing the "hometown" feel of a Friday night tilt in Smalltown, USA. Mark my words, in Georgia, you will see the same 12-14 schools rotate as state champions every year. There will be no more Cinderella stories or diamonds in the rough. The Internet is a fountain of knowledge that needs to be turned off. I know more about these kids than I EVER wanted to know. I pay $99 per year to subscribe to Dawgvent and the content has dramatically changed since I started in 2004. What happened to the good ol days of 40 times, vertical leaps and cone drills? Now, thanks to Twitter, I know what Laremy Tunsil's girlfriend looks like Precious after an all night eating binge at Dunkin Donuts. Thanks to Twitter, I know Davin Bellamy was in a dorm room in Oregon with a bong (gasp!). Facebook let me know that Da'Rick Rogers likes to drink beer with fat white girls, Johnny Manziel likes to gamble on Indian reservations in the offseason, and Laquon Treadwell appeared to be $1,000 richer after leaving Oxford, Mississippi last time. Frankly, on the scale of "things I care about," the personal lives of 17 year olds falls below the following:
1) Did I download the live version of "My Baby Daddy" by B-Rock and the Bizz?
2) The number of times "Freebird!" has been yelled in the state of Alabama
3) My lamentation over my failure to buy a Hypercolor T-shirt in 1991
4) The 4,598,234 pigeons that just relieved themselves on Grand Central Station
5) The ignition timing of a 1983 Camaro
Money changes hands. Illegal promises are made. If this was a civil trial, there would a preponderance of evidence against so many programs. Those who appear to be guilty are never caught (in a timely fashion), those who play by the rules get left behind and the majority of programs, contrary to past years, now must "impress" the recruit. Kids leave their home state because they get better "deals" at other schools. Words like"bagman" and "under the table" have replaced "boy, he is fast" in recruiting discussions. Alabama picked up a commitment from Reuben Foster, a five star linebacker, yesterday. During his incoherent speech about why he chose the Tide, he used the term "business decision." That embodies all that is wrong with the state of recruiting in the southeast. When I was 18, the only "business decision" I made was whether I needed to buy the $0.79 Snickers or the $1.19 Snickers. The excitement of what used to be a wonderful day has been waning for me. I will still keep up with the days events but I'll only check the Dawgvent 12,537 times instead of my usual 19,435.
As you can see, I like to make lists when I am depressed. I am just going to bide my time until March gets here. There is plenty to do. Pitchers and catchers are reporting soon. College basketball will get fired up and the greatest spectacle in sports will ensue once again. The Walking Dead will return from its midseason break. The Beacon Theater has put out their new lineup for the Spring and it is going to be unreal. Yes will be in concert on April 9th. Brit Floyd, an awesome Pink Floyd cover band, will also perform in April. The most underrated guitarist in the universe, Joe Bonamassa, will be here in May. Most importantly, the Allman Brothers Band will be here in T-minus 23 days. They will spend half of March inundating the Upper West Side with 17 minute jam sessions, guest stars, Derek's unbelievable slide guitar work and Gregg belting out the words as only he can. I have already purchased tickets for a Saturday show and I plan for my "inner Cassville" to come out in full force. So, friends, I leave you with a final, more happy list.
Brad's Top 5 Most Underrated Allman Brothers songs:
5) Don't Want You No More
4) Little Martha
3) Hot Lanta
2) Mountain Jam
1) Dreams
I encourage each of you to listen to these wonderful songs and enjoy them. I guarantee they will brighten a cold, dark February day before you can say "I was born in the backseat of a Greyhound bus."
1) Justin Bieber comes out with a new album, covering the Allman Brothers in falsetto with Taylor Swift and other modern "artists." Ladies and gentlemen, on the stage to perform Midnight Rider......Lady Gaga and Nickelback. I could see Gregg just set his Hammond organ on fire and light a cigarette on the burning ashes.
2) American Idol signs on for 17 more seasons and the new judges are Kim Kardashian, Diane Feinstein and Jesse Jackson.
Jesse Jackson: "Contextually, that performance was perfunctory and prognostificacious." (Feinstein nods, Kim is still trying to figure out how to write a "K" in cursive)
Contestant: "What? You people make no sense."
Jesse Jackson: "What do you mean, YOU PEOPLE?"
3) MTV comes out with MTV3, a network solely dedicated to Jersey Shore reruns, Bjork music videos and eternal Kurt Cobain worship.
4) Wal-Mart, McDonald's and Apple merge into one giant company, thereby decreasing the per capita IQ of this country by 43 points and increasing the sale of sweatpants, houseshoes, Monster Energy drinks and Mountain Dew.
5) The NFL and NCAA, under immense pressure, decides that football will be two-hand touch in 2013. The UGA Administration bans tailgating altogether, moves all our games to Tuesday nights and gives half of the athletic budget to the rowing team.
Your steak is overcooked, your coffee is lukewarm and one of your headphones stops working while you are going for a run. Just inexplicable horrors run rampant in your life. Yes, y'all, I am talking about the month of February for sports fans.
I have lived through 31 Februarys in my life, each one worse than the last. Nothing happens in February. Football is gone. Baseball is a non-entity until March. Basketball is still in the midseason doldrums before their playoff runs. I think 37 people attended the last Hawks home game and that was a bunch of youth recreation teams who got in free. NASCAR has yet to begin, but quite frankly, it is no longer interesting to me. I did attempt to watch soccer last week at a bar in Manhattan but I instantly went into a boredom coma, fell out of my stool and landed in somebody's guacamole dip. When I was in Ireland last Fall, I watched soccer in a pub there, amongst the "hooligans" along the River Liffey in Dublin. It was Manchester United versus Everton (I think). The final score of the 2 hour and 45 minute game was 0-0. Basically, it was a cross country meet with a ball added into the mix. It got so bad that I started playing a drinking game by myself. Every time I thought about throwing myself into the river, I took a drink. 14 Guinness pints lost their lives that evening. These Irishmen were going NUTS over this game. It was like watching an oil puddle form in a Wal-Mart parking lot. To make matters worse the next morning, the local paper had a three page write-up on how Manchester almost scored once in the first ten minutes of the game. I looked at my waitress, Maggie Shaughnessy O'Callahan, and ordered a shot of Bailey's for my coffee.
Soccer needs three things to be interesting, if you ask me:
1) Fighting: At least once, a slide tackle needs to result in fisticuffs. A brouhaha. A donnybrook. A bench clearing slugfest. Penalize the offender(s) in soundproof boxes next to each other, however, allow them access to dry erase markers so they may write their feelings on the box for all to see until they get out.
2) More Points: Extra points for longer kicks. Bicycle kicks are worth ten points. If the goalie scores with a cross field kick, the game is over, you lose.
3) Shorten and narrow the playing field by 20 yards: These guys are 765 miles away from the goal, no wonder they never score. I swear I saw a coach send a telegram to a player during the World Cup because he was so far downfield. If you want a gigantic American audience, it is not hard to entice us. We want scoring, blood, possibly a fight or two and scantily clad cheerleaders to shoot t-shirts out of a bazooka.
Signing Day does occur on February 6th, but even that has become a non-entity in the life of a Georgia fan this season. We signed the majority of our class in December during the early enrollee signing period. Our remaining commitments are firm and have no intention of switching. While this is a good thing, it does not lend much to excitement on Signing Day. The majority of the uncommitted players we are still pursuing have written us off at this point, much to the chagrin of myself and about 2,500 Dawgventers who have been gnashing teeth and blaming Richt for everything from the apparent loss of Georgia's "Mr. Football" Alvin Kamara, to the Kennedy assassination and the Vietnam War. We get our share of great players but we always seem to be on the outside looking in for these five star "holdouts." The same 4-5 schools are always in the mix for their services and these schools are normally at the precipice of NCAA sanctions or have already been nailed in the past.
In the last five years, the recruiting cycle in the SEC has become a form of cultural prostitution. The NCAA appears to be powerless to stop it and too unscrupulous to handle an investigation with propriety. Kids transfer more than ever before, creating these football factory high schools and killing the "hometown" feel of a Friday night tilt in Smalltown, USA. Mark my words, in Georgia, you will see the same 12-14 schools rotate as state champions every year. There will be no more Cinderella stories or diamonds in the rough. The Internet is a fountain of knowledge that needs to be turned off. I know more about these kids than I EVER wanted to know. I pay $99 per year to subscribe to Dawgvent and the content has dramatically changed since I started in 2004. What happened to the good ol days of 40 times, vertical leaps and cone drills? Now, thanks to Twitter, I know what Laremy Tunsil's girlfriend looks like Precious after an all night eating binge at Dunkin Donuts. Thanks to Twitter, I know Davin Bellamy was in a dorm room in Oregon with a bong (gasp!). Facebook let me know that Da'Rick Rogers likes to drink beer with fat white girls, Johnny Manziel likes to gamble on Indian reservations in the offseason, and Laquon Treadwell appeared to be $1,000 richer after leaving Oxford, Mississippi last time. Frankly, on the scale of "things I care about," the personal lives of 17 year olds falls below the following:
1) Did I download the live version of "My Baby Daddy" by B-Rock and the Bizz?
2) The number of times "Freebird!" has been yelled in the state of Alabama
3) My lamentation over my failure to buy a Hypercolor T-shirt in 1991
4) The 4,598,234 pigeons that just relieved themselves on Grand Central Station
5) The ignition timing of a 1983 Camaro
Money changes hands. Illegal promises are made. If this was a civil trial, there would a preponderance of evidence against so many programs. Those who appear to be guilty are never caught (in a timely fashion), those who play by the rules get left behind and the majority of programs, contrary to past years, now must "impress" the recruit. Kids leave their home state because they get better "deals" at other schools. Words like"bagman" and "under the table" have replaced "boy, he is fast" in recruiting discussions. Alabama picked up a commitment from Reuben Foster, a five star linebacker, yesterday. During his incoherent speech about why he chose the Tide, he used the term "business decision." That embodies all that is wrong with the state of recruiting in the southeast. When I was 18, the only "business decision" I made was whether I needed to buy the $0.79 Snickers or the $1.19 Snickers. The excitement of what used to be a wonderful day has been waning for me. I will still keep up with the days events but I'll only check the Dawgvent 12,537 times instead of my usual 19,435.
As you can see, I like to make lists when I am depressed. I am just going to bide my time until March gets here. There is plenty to do. Pitchers and catchers are reporting soon. College basketball will get fired up and the greatest spectacle in sports will ensue once again. The Walking Dead will return from its midseason break. The Beacon Theater has put out their new lineup for the Spring and it is going to be unreal. Yes will be in concert on April 9th. Brit Floyd, an awesome Pink Floyd cover band, will also perform in April. The most underrated guitarist in the universe, Joe Bonamassa, will be here in May. Most importantly, the Allman Brothers Band will be here in T-minus 23 days. They will spend half of March inundating the Upper West Side with 17 minute jam sessions, guest stars, Derek's unbelievable slide guitar work and Gregg belting out the words as only he can. I have already purchased tickets for a Saturday show and I plan for my "inner Cassville" to come out in full force. So, friends, I leave you with a final, more happy list.
Brad's Top 5 Most Underrated Allman Brothers songs:
5) Don't Want You No More
4) Little Martha
3) Hot Lanta
2) Mountain Jam
1) Dreams
I encourage each of you to listen to these wonderful songs and enjoy them. I guarantee they will brighten a cold, dark February day before you can say "I was born in the backseat of a Greyhound bus."
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Mama, What is Dixie? Asked and answered in my own terms....
I had a poignant moment this week, courtesy of Facebook. Now, you are probably saying to yourself, "Facebook? Really?" In the midst of all the political rhetoric, Farmville requests, baby bump pictures, the vague "hey, look at me" posts, complaints about traffic, descriptions of what somebody ate for dinner, and how much everyone hates their job....you can find a source of inspiration or a random quote that actually makes your day. Mine came from my friend Rachel, who I've known for a decade. She now lives in Washington DC with her husband Will, who I've known about the same amount of time. I went to college with these two wonderful people and sadly, I have not seen them in a long while. I can say the same for many of my college friends, time and distance have rendered our relationship digital. Despite its faults, Facebook is an avenue to keep up with long distance friends and I am glad a few nerds from Harvard took it upon themselves to create it. Anyhow, Will and Rachel have a young daughter named Eileen. I would not know what she looks like if it were not for Facebook. She is a cute little blonde girl with curls, one of those quintessential Southern sweethearts. Rachel posed a question on Facebook that Eileen asked of her and I share with you now:
"Mama, what's Dixie?"
I thought about that question for quite some time. Is there a definition of "Dixie?" Is it limited to the physical? Can it be a mental state of mind as well? I pondered it over a cup of coffee. Then another. I realized that I have been trying to define this term my entire life. To hear a young child, with her life ahead of her, ask that question ignited the ever-present pilot light inside my brain. So, Miss Eileen, I will tell you what Dixie is, according to me.
It's where I was born, "early on one frosty morn," dear. Elvis sang this line in "American Trilogy" so beautifully that it renders my eyes misty every time. You should listen to Elvis, Eileen. You may not end up being a lifelong fan, but he defines Dixie in his own sense. Ask your parents and grandparents. If you grow up in a small town, you will get the best sense of Dixie that is possible. There's nothing wrong with a big city, I live in one now, as do you. However, these melting pots often dilute culture as much as they build it. It has not changed me one bit, that much I can say. If you cut me open, my bones would be made of red clay and my blood would be water from Two Run Creek. I played in that creek countless times as a child. There is no telling how many periwinkles I collected, water moccasins I dodged, bream I caught, or rocks I skipped in this tiny trickle of muddy water. In fact, Eileen, the name of this blog is derived from memories of that creek. I hope you get a creek someday. Stick your bare feet in it. Grab a handful of the mud and get it under your fingernails. That mud is Dixie, my dear. Walk downstream, using branches from ferns and willow trees to guide you. Just don't grab any poison ivy or poison oak or you'll be pink from your mother smothering you in Calamine lotion. I know from experience.
Get a Slip n Slide during the summer when it is so unbearably hot and humid that it feels like you are breathing in a wet dish rag. That heat? That's Dixie. Plug in your Iphone, if that's what you have, and blare some good music while you cool off. Listen to Marshall Tucker, the Allman Brothers Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Outlaws. Hear those guitars echo in the pine trees that hopefully still surround the area. That sound defines us. While you are waiting your turn on the Slip n Slide, take a moment to listen to Duane play his slide guitar. It will stick to your soul, just like that pine sap that you will undoubtedly get all over your hands. When I am having a bad day, I just turn on "Mountain Jam" and recall the smell of pine sap on my hands. That was from the countless forts that I tried to build. Build forts, Eileen. Build lots of them.
I had a dogwood tree outside my window growing up. I hope you get one too. When in bloom, they smell like Heaven. That smell? Dixie. Climb its branches, that is what they are made for. Endure a rain shower sitting on a dogwood branch, it will change your life. Ride your bike to the local store, if such a thing still exists. Go downhill with no hands on the handlebars, that is the only way I ever exited Kimsey Circle on my GT bike with 6 gears. Talk to the old men who hang around and drink coffee. Eat ice cream and candy. Heat up a Moon Pie and drink a pint of whole milk. You will not find people in coats and ties here, these people wear dirty boots all day and talk about chainsaws, backhoes, people named Ricky who call in sick too much, the Atlanta Braves, water heater elements, 3/4 inch PVC elbows and radiators. They are characters, but such is life in a small town. They are Dixie.
During the Fall, your life will revolve around football. Get used to it. Your dad will get with his friends, like me, and relive glory days and bark like a dog. Do not be alarmed, dear. This is Dixie. The smell of barbecue and a faint whiff of bourbon. Women in their Saturday best, which consists of red shirts, black skirts, heels and red lipstick, by God, let's not forget the red lipstick. You will burn up in August and then freeze in November. You will eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes (with gravy), macaroni and cheese (because it's a vegetable) and sweet potatoes. You will sing "Glory, Glory" when we win and ride home in silence when we lose (your dad will get over the loss around next Tuesday, that's about as long as it takes me). This ritual takes place in all Southern states, dear. No matter where you go to school, nothing will compare to the experiences you will have in Athens. There is no telling how many fake touchdowns I scored in the Hull Street parking lot, posing as Lindsay Scott. How many I threw to my parents and my brother, posing as Buck Belue. You may not do that very thing, but I want you to witness it, just the same. Learn the importance of a great offensive line, creative play calling in the red zone and always hate Tech.
As you get older, you will learn history. Our history is spotted, yet proud. You will hear of "lost causes, hate, segregation and Reconstruction." Many people will judge you because you are from Dixie, make assumptions about you and your way of life. Remind them, that the American way of life has been preserved by armed forces made up of an inordinate amount of your Southern ancestors. My grandfather landed on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944 and lived to tell it. My other grandfather served in Korea. Many of the people who judge you are too cowardly and weak to endure such a violent and bloody struggle. Listen to the older generations. Learn from them. Love your Neen and your Meemaw, your Granddaddy and your Peepaw. They are like a welcome summer rain storm, wonderful in so many ways. Pouring on you while you dance around. Cooling you off when times are hot. Like the storm, they will not be around forever. Take lots of pictures and never, ever turn down a milkshake or a piece of cake they made. Always say "yes" to the question, "you wanna go fishing?" They are Dixie.
I speak in colloquial terms often, it's a Southern thing to do. We are the kings of reading between the lines. You will know when somebody says "bless their heart," to watch out for gossip immediately thereafter. You will understand when someone you don't know talks about the weather too much, to put your hand on your wallet. You will know that you "pull" corn, you do not "pick" it. When somebody says, "I don't know about that boy," that does not mean exactly what it says. When your grandmother "hopes you don't get in that cloud" on the way home, that does not mean you are physically entering a cumulonimbic realm of destruction. You can use phrases like "Y'all ain't never..." and get away with it. We have our own language. That's Dixie.
So, what is Dixie? It is defined by you. It's sitting in silence in an old cotton field, like I used to do. Breathing in that thick air. Watching the carpenter bees pollinate every flower. Looking down at my skinned knees, not remembering how it happened. Catching lightning bugs with my brother or listening to the Doobie Brothers with Mom while she catches some sun on the deck. Working at the store with Dad, hauling horse feed and checking oil, talking about whether Gregg Allman sounded better on "Queen of Hearts" or "Multi Colored Lady." It is the place where you feel most content, no matter how far you may travel. Where you learned more about who you are, than what you are. Where chivalry is not dead and a good drag laying by a 1977 Camaro will elicit as many cheers as a touchdown on a Saturday. Where you can be friends with people named Dwayne, Harold, Buck, Leon, Junior and Jubal. Where you get your first kiss, your first heartbreak and your first breakup song ("When I Call Your Name" by Vince Gill) If you ever forget, Eileen, do yourself a favor. Go back to your creek. Grab a handful of mud and put your feet in. It won't take long for it to come back.
"Mama, what's Dixie?"
I thought about that question for quite some time. Is there a definition of "Dixie?" Is it limited to the physical? Can it be a mental state of mind as well? I pondered it over a cup of coffee. Then another. I realized that I have been trying to define this term my entire life. To hear a young child, with her life ahead of her, ask that question ignited the ever-present pilot light inside my brain. So, Miss Eileen, I will tell you what Dixie is, according to me.
It's where I was born, "early on one frosty morn," dear. Elvis sang this line in "American Trilogy" so beautifully that it renders my eyes misty every time. You should listen to Elvis, Eileen. You may not end up being a lifelong fan, but he defines Dixie in his own sense. Ask your parents and grandparents. If you grow up in a small town, you will get the best sense of Dixie that is possible. There's nothing wrong with a big city, I live in one now, as do you. However, these melting pots often dilute culture as much as they build it. It has not changed me one bit, that much I can say. If you cut me open, my bones would be made of red clay and my blood would be water from Two Run Creek. I played in that creek countless times as a child. There is no telling how many periwinkles I collected, water moccasins I dodged, bream I caught, or rocks I skipped in this tiny trickle of muddy water. In fact, Eileen, the name of this blog is derived from memories of that creek. I hope you get a creek someday. Stick your bare feet in it. Grab a handful of the mud and get it under your fingernails. That mud is Dixie, my dear. Walk downstream, using branches from ferns and willow trees to guide you. Just don't grab any poison ivy or poison oak or you'll be pink from your mother smothering you in Calamine lotion. I know from experience.
Get a Slip n Slide during the summer when it is so unbearably hot and humid that it feels like you are breathing in a wet dish rag. That heat? That's Dixie. Plug in your Iphone, if that's what you have, and blare some good music while you cool off. Listen to Marshall Tucker, the Allman Brothers Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the Outlaws. Hear those guitars echo in the pine trees that hopefully still surround the area. That sound defines us. While you are waiting your turn on the Slip n Slide, take a moment to listen to Duane play his slide guitar. It will stick to your soul, just like that pine sap that you will undoubtedly get all over your hands. When I am having a bad day, I just turn on "Mountain Jam" and recall the smell of pine sap on my hands. That was from the countless forts that I tried to build. Build forts, Eileen. Build lots of them.
I had a dogwood tree outside my window growing up. I hope you get one too. When in bloom, they smell like Heaven. That smell? Dixie. Climb its branches, that is what they are made for. Endure a rain shower sitting on a dogwood branch, it will change your life. Ride your bike to the local store, if such a thing still exists. Go downhill with no hands on the handlebars, that is the only way I ever exited Kimsey Circle on my GT bike with 6 gears. Talk to the old men who hang around and drink coffee. Eat ice cream and candy. Heat up a Moon Pie and drink a pint of whole milk. You will not find people in coats and ties here, these people wear dirty boots all day and talk about chainsaws, backhoes, people named Ricky who call in sick too much, the Atlanta Braves, water heater elements, 3/4 inch PVC elbows and radiators. They are characters, but such is life in a small town. They are Dixie.
During the Fall, your life will revolve around football. Get used to it. Your dad will get with his friends, like me, and relive glory days and bark like a dog. Do not be alarmed, dear. This is Dixie. The smell of barbecue and a faint whiff of bourbon. Women in their Saturday best, which consists of red shirts, black skirts, heels and red lipstick, by God, let's not forget the red lipstick. You will burn up in August and then freeze in November. You will eat fried chicken, mashed potatoes (with gravy), macaroni and cheese (because it's a vegetable) and sweet potatoes. You will sing "Glory, Glory" when we win and ride home in silence when we lose (your dad will get over the loss around next Tuesday, that's about as long as it takes me). This ritual takes place in all Southern states, dear. No matter where you go to school, nothing will compare to the experiences you will have in Athens. There is no telling how many fake touchdowns I scored in the Hull Street parking lot, posing as Lindsay Scott. How many I threw to my parents and my brother, posing as Buck Belue. You may not do that very thing, but I want you to witness it, just the same. Learn the importance of a great offensive line, creative play calling in the red zone and always hate Tech.
As you get older, you will learn history. Our history is spotted, yet proud. You will hear of "lost causes, hate, segregation and Reconstruction." Many people will judge you because you are from Dixie, make assumptions about you and your way of life. Remind them, that the American way of life has been preserved by armed forces made up of an inordinate amount of your Southern ancestors. My grandfather landed on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944 and lived to tell it. My other grandfather served in Korea. Many of the people who judge you are too cowardly and weak to endure such a violent and bloody struggle. Listen to the older generations. Learn from them. Love your Neen and your Meemaw, your Granddaddy and your Peepaw. They are like a welcome summer rain storm, wonderful in so many ways. Pouring on you while you dance around. Cooling you off when times are hot. Like the storm, they will not be around forever. Take lots of pictures and never, ever turn down a milkshake or a piece of cake they made. Always say "yes" to the question, "you wanna go fishing?" They are Dixie.
I speak in colloquial terms often, it's a Southern thing to do. We are the kings of reading between the lines. You will know when somebody says "bless their heart," to watch out for gossip immediately thereafter. You will understand when someone you don't know talks about the weather too much, to put your hand on your wallet. You will know that you "pull" corn, you do not "pick" it. When somebody says, "I don't know about that boy," that does not mean exactly what it says. When your grandmother "hopes you don't get in that cloud" on the way home, that does not mean you are physically entering a cumulonimbic realm of destruction. You can use phrases like "Y'all ain't never..." and get away with it. We have our own language. That's Dixie.
So, what is Dixie? It is defined by you. It's sitting in silence in an old cotton field, like I used to do. Breathing in that thick air. Watching the carpenter bees pollinate every flower. Looking down at my skinned knees, not remembering how it happened. Catching lightning bugs with my brother or listening to the Doobie Brothers with Mom while she catches some sun on the deck. Working at the store with Dad, hauling horse feed and checking oil, talking about whether Gregg Allman sounded better on "Queen of Hearts" or "Multi Colored Lady." It is the place where you feel most content, no matter how far you may travel. Where you learned more about who you are, than what you are. Where chivalry is not dead and a good drag laying by a 1977 Camaro will elicit as many cheers as a touchdown on a Saturday. Where you can be friends with people named Dwayne, Harold, Buck, Leon, Junior and Jubal. Where you get your first kiss, your first heartbreak and your first breakup song ("When I Call Your Name" by Vince Gill) If you ever forget, Eileen, do yourself a favor. Go back to your creek. Grab a handful of mud and put your feet in. It won't take long for it to come back.
Monday, January 14, 2013
The World Needs More Characters, Happy Monday and Lynyrd Skynyrd revives my Southernness
Happy Monday, y'all. I can safely say this without sarcasm. For one, it is 57 degrees outside and the wind is not impaling my face like an Arctic samurai sword. I am halfway through my first northern winter and I'm here to tell you, it is definitely colder here, and it is on account of the wind.
**Sidenote: "On account of" is one of my favorite Southern sayings. I have never heard any other culture use this phrase. It is usually said when blaming others for your problems or reasons why someone has fallen ill.
"Dakota was kicked outta school on account of that damn teacher upair (up there). She ain't heard the end of this. He won that fake Rebel flag tattoo at Six Flags, far (fair) and squar (square)."
"Chastity was not at school today, on account of her bronchitis." (Southern people tend to get bronchitis more than any demographic in the known universe.) Here are my sentiments regarding bronchitis:
Anyhow, in other great news, Lynyrd Skynyrd will be in concert tomorrow night at the Beacon Theater and I will be there. I see this concert as a golden opportunity to renew my "Southernness." Three straight hours of "Swamp Music," "Tuesday's Gone," "Call Me the Breeze" and "Gimme Three Steps." (at least I hope they play these underrated songs) I jump at the chance to revisit my roots. I am not afraid to dust off my Russell moccasins, my faded Georgia Bulldog t-shirt and relive some glory days. There are other Southern things that I may need at this concert and I have inquired by phone to the Beacon management to see if they can be done:
1) A creamed corn fountain;
2) A redneck toddler with a Kool-Aid mustache, a full diaper, and his momma on her cell phone arguing about child support, puffing a Newport;
3) People drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon because they actually like it (seriously, what is this new urban obsession with PBR? Cassville people have been drinking this crap FOR-EV-ER) (+1 for Sandlot reference);
4) When someone says "hell yeah!" it sounds like "Ha-yul ye-uh!" rather than "Hall ya!" or somebody than pronounces "Tuesday" like "Toosdee." ;
5) Somebody in the crowd has on a Bill Elliott t-shirt
My co-workers are already on notice about my lack of productivity before and after this concert takes place. Skynyrd is not so popular here and many people are not aware that they sing any other songs outside of "Freebird" and "Sweet Home Alabama." This is tragic, but a reality, and a testament to regional differences. Honestly, Southern people, name two New York Dolls songs right now without going to Wikipedia. (FYI: it's a band, not a house of ill repute) Finally, I purchased my Allman Brothers Band tickets for the March 15th show. They will be here from March 1 - March 16. This is a lifelong dream coming true, as I have always wanted to see them live in New York City. Strangely, unlike Skynyrd, they are immensely popular here and the tickets for all SIXTEEN shows sold out in a manner of minutes. So yes, I can say Happy Monday and mean it!
I know one person who cannot say the same.....Lance Armstrong. The world's most decorated cyclist is about to become the latest pariah in sports history. Today, he is expected to admit that he doped during his incredible Tour de France victory streak and basically confirm what most people figured all along. Do I care? Not really. I never watched the Tour de France. In fact, I cannot tell you when it takes place, how long it takes or who has won the damn thing before or after Lance. The same can be said for soccer outside the World Cup, swimming other than the Olympic games and almost all winter sports. They could dope, cheat, lie, throw games, conspire, retire and set the stadium on fire and I would not know the difference.
What makes me sad is that so many athletes of my generation are being exposed as frauds, cheaters, dopers, criminals, drunks, addicts, gamblers, and some who are just bad people. McGwire, Clemens, Sosa and Bonds....four men who captivated baseball during an era of revival for the sport that had lost so many fans to a strike....all cast down with Pete Rose, Shoeless Joe Jackson and others who will likely never make the Hall of Fame. They will be known for steroid use and Congressional hearings rather than home runs or ERA. Tiger Woods. Mike Tyson. Kobe Bryant. Hell, somebody tried to throw Michael Jordan under the bus for gambling HIS OWN money on golf games in the offseason. The guy wrote a whole damn book about it. The media has even reached back in time with their scandalous bloodlust. It's like they flipped a switch in the 1990's.
BEFORE: Mickey Mantle - # 7, 536 home runs, multiple World Series championships, MVPs, Triple Crown, New York Yankee legend, centerfielder, Hall of Famer
AFTER: Mickey Mantle - #7, 536 home runs, drunk, womanizer, MVP, bar room brawler, New York Yankee legend, alcoholic, centerfielder, Hall of Famer
The Mick never cheated. Maybe he was hungover during some games. Maybe he got into fights. Frankly, I do not care about any of those things. I like to remember him as an icon of a simpler time, back when people minded their own business, and went to the ballpark to see him in all his greatness. To hear my Dad talk of him like he was larger than life. Even Mom, who does not follow sports very closely, knows something about Mickey Mantle. So what if Mickey and Billy Martin got into a fistfight with randoms at the Copacabana? So what if he stayed out all night at the Plaza Hotel? He's not stealing from you. He's not forcing you to the ballpark. Media people knew Mickey partied, but they stayed out of his personal life, out of respect for him, his team and baseball. So what if Charles Barkley threw a guy through a window in a bar in Wisconsin? I met Charles once at the Four Seasons Hotel in Atlanta. You could not ask for a nicer, more genuine guy than Charles Barkley. Or that Kobe runs around with twenty five girlfriends or that Tiger's car was wrecked by his own nine-iron. I am not justifying the dopers or the frauds. They tarnished their game, their results are not true and any victory or records they have should be null and void. However, as the great Don Henley once said, "people love it when you lose, they love Dirty Laundry." Where does it end?
I think back to all the people from Cassville I know. None of them were perfect, nor am I. I knew people who drank too much. Got into fights. Spent time in jail or prison. If I judged these people like the country judges these athletes, I would have to read comic books to find heroes and friends. (+1 for Randy Travis song reference) I liked these people because they WERE characters, not in spite of their character. These people are interesting, not homogeneous robots with no story to tell. Imagine childhood without scraped knees, black eyes and bloody noses. It would the same if these guys towed the morality line every single minute of the day. I would have no blog or stories to tell you.
Like Billy, who used to tell us of nights at an underground watering hole in Kingston, Georgia where it was so rough that "you'd get knifed for lookin' at somebody crossways" or Tom, who would talk of wading through a sea of drunken fighters in bars all across Georgia. Another guy who discussed the time my great-grandfather paid him to haul illegal liquor for him back in the 1940's or my great uncle who drove the souped-up Ford that ran interference for it all. His brother, a combat veteran of WWII, used to own the store before Dad. He was a character himself who once got thrown in jail in North Carolina for staying past sunset in a town where he was not welcome. He did not go down without a fight, that much is true. Take Rick, who would smoke five Winstons in 10 minutes and tell me how he "whupped ever' (every) ice (ass) in Centre, Alabama" one night in 1984. Or our neighbor Johnny, who at 16 years old, wiped out this 25 year old guy from New York in the Big Lots parking lot who made a crass remark about his sister's posterior. I mean, he just cold-cocked this guy and stood over him and said, "don't you never talk to my people like 'at." I personally witnessed this and I don't think I have ever laughed so hard in my life. Johnny just lit a cigarette, laughed and peeled out in the parking lot in his ragged out Chevy Beretta. None of these guys pretended to be angels and I genuinely enjoyed being around these people and I think my life has been enriched by them immeasurably. Seriously, since when did a good story start out with, "this one time, when I was playing X-Box on a Saturday night....."
The point is this: I hope America stops indicting people in the court of public opinion who are not 100% squeaky clean. For every Lance Armstrong, there is a Charles Barkley or a Pistol Pete Maravich, who may have been flaky but is one of the best basketball players to ever live. Some people are characters. Some people stand their ground when challenged and do not care what people think. Some guys like to party. I swear, the 1970's Oakland Raiders would be the scourge of the sports world today. The city of Oakland would have to start a new paper called "The Raider Rap Sheet." All those great Yankee teams of the 1950's would be suspended for half the season in today's world. Now, these guys have to tiptoe through their personal lives, speak in "coachspeak" when interviewed and issue public apologies for every transgression. Good Lord, if the guys from Cassville had to issue public apologies, the Daily-Tribune would look like a dictionary and this would be the most boring blog in history. Some folks may not see it this way and that is understandable. Maybe the pristine choir boy image benefits some people. However, if I had my choice, to quote Ronnie Van Zant, "I'd rather live with the hound dogs, for the rest of my natural born life."
**Sidenote: "On account of" is one of my favorite Southern sayings. I have never heard any other culture use this phrase. It is usually said when blaming others for your problems or reasons why someone has fallen ill.
"Dakota was kicked outta school on account of that damn teacher upair (up there). She ain't heard the end of this. He won that fake Rebel flag tattoo at Six Flags, far (fair) and squar (square)."
"Chastity was not at school today, on account of her bronchitis." (Southern people tend to get bronchitis more than any demographic in the known universe.) Here are my sentiments regarding bronchitis:
Anyhow, in other great news, Lynyrd Skynyrd will be in concert tomorrow night at the Beacon Theater and I will be there. I see this concert as a golden opportunity to renew my "Southernness." Three straight hours of "Swamp Music," "Tuesday's Gone," "Call Me the Breeze" and "Gimme Three Steps." (at least I hope they play these underrated songs) I jump at the chance to revisit my roots. I am not afraid to dust off my Russell moccasins, my faded Georgia Bulldog t-shirt and relive some glory days. There are other Southern things that I may need at this concert and I have inquired by phone to the Beacon management to see if they can be done:
1) A creamed corn fountain;
2) A redneck toddler with a Kool-Aid mustache, a full diaper, and his momma on her cell phone arguing about child support, puffing a Newport;
3) People drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon because they actually like it (seriously, what is this new urban obsession with PBR? Cassville people have been drinking this crap FOR-EV-ER) (+1 for Sandlot reference);
4) When someone says "hell yeah!" it sounds like "Ha-yul ye-uh!" rather than "Hall ya!" or somebody than pronounces "Tuesday" like "Toosdee." ;
5) Somebody in the crowd has on a Bill Elliott t-shirt
My co-workers are already on notice about my lack of productivity before and after this concert takes place. Skynyrd is not so popular here and many people are not aware that they sing any other songs outside of "Freebird" and "Sweet Home Alabama." This is tragic, but a reality, and a testament to regional differences. Honestly, Southern people, name two New York Dolls songs right now without going to Wikipedia. (FYI: it's a band, not a house of ill repute) Finally, I purchased my Allman Brothers Band tickets for the March 15th show. They will be here from March 1 - March 16. This is a lifelong dream coming true, as I have always wanted to see them live in New York City. Strangely, unlike Skynyrd, they are immensely popular here and the tickets for all SIXTEEN shows sold out in a manner of minutes. So yes, I can say Happy Monday and mean it!
I know one person who cannot say the same.....Lance Armstrong. The world's most decorated cyclist is about to become the latest pariah in sports history. Today, he is expected to admit that he doped during his incredible Tour de France victory streak and basically confirm what most people figured all along. Do I care? Not really. I never watched the Tour de France. In fact, I cannot tell you when it takes place, how long it takes or who has won the damn thing before or after Lance. The same can be said for soccer outside the World Cup, swimming other than the Olympic games and almost all winter sports. They could dope, cheat, lie, throw games, conspire, retire and set the stadium on fire and I would not know the difference.
What makes me sad is that so many athletes of my generation are being exposed as frauds, cheaters, dopers, criminals, drunks, addicts, gamblers, and some who are just bad people. McGwire, Clemens, Sosa and Bonds....four men who captivated baseball during an era of revival for the sport that had lost so many fans to a strike....all cast down with Pete Rose, Shoeless Joe Jackson and others who will likely never make the Hall of Fame. They will be known for steroid use and Congressional hearings rather than home runs or ERA. Tiger Woods. Mike Tyson. Kobe Bryant. Hell, somebody tried to throw Michael Jordan under the bus for gambling HIS OWN money on golf games in the offseason. The guy wrote a whole damn book about it. The media has even reached back in time with their scandalous bloodlust. It's like they flipped a switch in the 1990's.
BEFORE: Mickey Mantle - # 7, 536 home runs, multiple World Series championships, MVPs, Triple Crown, New York Yankee legend, centerfielder, Hall of Famer
AFTER: Mickey Mantle - #7, 536 home runs, drunk, womanizer, MVP, bar room brawler, New York Yankee legend, alcoholic, centerfielder, Hall of Famer
The Mick never cheated. Maybe he was hungover during some games. Maybe he got into fights. Frankly, I do not care about any of those things. I like to remember him as an icon of a simpler time, back when people minded their own business, and went to the ballpark to see him in all his greatness. To hear my Dad talk of him like he was larger than life. Even Mom, who does not follow sports very closely, knows something about Mickey Mantle. So what if Mickey and Billy Martin got into a fistfight with randoms at the Copacabana? So what if he stayed out all night at the Plaza Hotel? He's not stealing from you. He's not forcing you to the ballpark. Media people knew Mickey partied, but they stayed out of his personal life, out of respect for him, his team and baseball. So what if Charles Barkley threw a guy through a window in a bar in Wisconsin? I met Charles once at the Four Seasons Hotel in Atlanta. You could not ask for a nicer, more genuine guy than Charles Barkley. Or that Kobe runs around with twenty five girlfriends or that Tiger's car was wrecked by his own nine-iron. I am not justifying the dopers or the frauds. They tarnished their game, their results are not true and any victory or records they have should be null and void. However, as the great Don Henley once said, "people love it when you lose, they love Dirty Laundry." Where does it end?
I think back to all the people from Cassville I know. None of them were perfect, nor am I. I knew people who drank too much. Got into fights. Spent time in jail or prison. If I judged these people like the country judges these athletes, I would have to read comic books to find heroes and friends. (+1 for Randy Travis song reference) I liked these people because they WERE characters, not in spite of their character. These people are interesting, not homogeneous robots with no story to tell. Imagine childhood without scraped knees, black eyes and bloody noses. It would the same if these guys towed the morality line every single minute of the day. I would have no blog or stories to tell you.
Like Billy, who used to tell us of nights at an underground watering hole in Kingston, Georgia where it was so rough that "you'd get knifed for lookin' at somebody crossways" or Tom, who would talk of wading through a sea of drunken fighters in bars all across Georgia. Another guy who discussed the time my great-grandfather paid him to haul illegal liquor for him back in the 1940's or my great uncle who drove the souped-up Ford that ran interference for it all. His brother, a combat veteran of WWII, used to own the store before Dad. He was a character himself who once got thrown in jail in North Carolina for staying past sunset in a town where he was not welcome. He did not go down without a fight, that much is true. Take Rick, who would smoke five Winstons in 10 minutes and tell me how he "whupped ever' (every) ice (ass) in Centre, Alabama" one night in 1984. Or our neighbor Johnny, who at 16 years old, wiped out this 25 year old guy from New York in the Big Lots parking lot who made a crass remark about his sister's posterior. I mean, he just cold-cocked this guy and stood over him and said, "don't you never talk to my people like 'at." I personally witnessed this and I don't think I have ever laughed so hard in my life. Johnny just lit a cigarette, laughed and peeled out in the parking lot in his ragged out Chevy Beretta. None of these guys pretended to be angels and I genuinely enjoyed being around these people and I think my life has been enriched by them immeasurably. Seriously, since when did a good story start out with, "this one time, when I was playing X-Box on a Saturday night....."
The point is this: I hope America stops indicting people in the court of public opinion who are not 100% squeaky clean. For every Lance Armstrong, there is a Charles Barkley or a Pistol Pete Maravich, who may have been flaky but is one of the best basketball players to ever live. Some people are characters. Some people stand their ground when challenged and do not care what people think. Some guys like to party. I swear, the 1970's Oakland Raiders would be the scourge of the sports world today. The city of Oakland would have to start a new paper called "The Raider Rap Sheet." All those great Yankee teams of the 1950's would be suspended for half the season in today's world. Now, these guys have to tiptoe through their personal lives, speak in "coachspeak" when interviewed and issue public apologies for every transgression. Good Lord, if the guys from Cassville had to issue public apologies, the Daily-Tribune would look like a dictionary and this would be the most boring blog in history. Some folks may not see it this way and that is understandable. Maybe the pristine choir boy image benefits some people. However, if I had my choice, to quote Ronnie Van Zant, "I'd rather live with the hound dogs, for the rest of my natural born life."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
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.