jaysonslade.com

2011-12-24T08:05:00.001-06:00

BELLY LAUGHTER

2010-12-07T08:41:00.006-06:00

BELLY LAUGHTER
(c) Jayson Slade 2010

I keep thinking I’m a grown up, but I’m not. I still laugh and cut up, but probably not enough. Not all the time like my daughter. I'd like to get just as giddy as my 10 year old, but it doesn't always work out that way. Most of the time I only wish I could be more like her. That’s my goal in life. I just want to be like my 10 year old. She has taught me more than any one person ever has. It’s quite simple. She just takes it all in stride. She’s happy when things are great and she’s sad when things are not. She never gets too awfully strung out in either of those two directions because she is smart enough to know that the other is just around the corner. Resilient? Nah. Brilliant? Maybe. Most things don’t turn out the way she wants them, so she hangs a sad face and in not time flat she’s back around the other corner making herself happy again. Why is it so easy for a 10 year old with limited knowledge and experience, yet it’s so hard for a man of nearly 40 who’s been around the block a few times? I noticed that I should be learning from what she’s teaching me about three years ago. She was just about to turn seven. I was in the living room and she was a few feet away in full earshot in her bedroom. I heard a snicker that became giggling which quickly turned into a belly roll of hysterical laughter. It went on for a minute or two. Almost like she couldn’t stop. Like she was being tickled. Tickled from the inside out. She kept on and on for at least a minute. A minute can be a long time to laugh. You should try it sometime. I was intrigued. It was not very unusual for Hannah to enjoy time in her room. In her space. With her stuff. But to hear her belly laugh was a little more than interesting. She must be looking at a funny book. Or, even more obviously, she must be watching a funny television show or movie. That’s it. She’s probably watching a movie and just got tickled. She got caught up in the misadventures of some pre-teen idol that I really wish didn’t to be quite so sarcastic to be funny. I walked into her bedroom. I couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass up. I knew that pretty soon she’d be more grown up than I could want to be and those deep-rooted belly laughs would be a thing of the past. I eased in, not to abruptly interrupt. She saw me approach. We made eye contact. Her ear to ear smile and giggles made her squint. Since we do try to teach respect for each other’s space at our house, I gently knocked alongside her door. She was almost out of breath. Her mouth was wide open and her face was a little pink. She was really worked up. The television was not on. All her books were put away. She was sitting in the floor playing with her cat. What had I missed? I had to ask the question. I wanted to join in. I love to laugh. I really wanted to know what I had missed.

Hey, baby, what in the world is so funny?

She looked back up towards me and in her squint found a way to make eye contact once more.

Oh, nothing… I’m just happy because my cat loves me.

And that was it. That was what I had missed. I had missed what was right there all the time. I know now that it wasn’t really the cat. I realize that it was her allowing everything to be simple enough that the cat was the most amazing thing in the world for that minute. Hannah reached up and gave me a big old hug. One of those hugs that just goes through you when you’re a dad. I didn’t want to let go. But I eventually had to. And when I did. I snickered. My snicker became a giggle. And within moments we were both laughing large. She, because her life was pretty simple. Me, because I was realizing that mine could be too. She, because her cat loved her. Me, because my daughter did the same. Although she’s ten now and quite the pre-teen herself, that childish uncontrollable belly laugh doesn’t peek in quite as often anymore. I think I really miss those the most. But gladly, they have been replaced with visible happy emotions that someone with my limited vocabulary can’t really put into words. That look in her eye when she says “Hey, dad. I love you,” right out of the blue. No motive. No reason. Just because. Those are the best. And how we’ll see that old familiar squinty grin in a few days when Santa comes again. Sometimes I wonder what will replace these happy times down the road. And then I realize it really doesn’t matter. They’ll be great too. Spending my time wondering about the future may just make me miss some of the present. And like they say. It’s called the present because it’s a gift. Today, I’ll take my gift.

Why have you not been blogging?

2010-11-30T05:02:00.001-06:00

The first draft of my book is written. Working title: "Nothing In Casey." And I have to admit, I am more than just ok with it. It actually works! BTW, NaNoWriMo WINNER, right here! Yes, yes! I know. Thank you, really. No, really, sit, please. This is for sure, November has given me a newly gained respect for real writers. Blogging once every month or two was easy. But writing daily has put some hair on my chest. 200 or so pages later and I'm sitting on a two inch stack paper that holds one complete thought. What an amazing feeling. But finished means just beginning. It's time for the rewrite. Look out Barnes and Noble. Here I come.

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 1 of 6)

2010-06-09T08:42:00.001-05:00

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 1 of 6)

People didn't buy bottled water in 1979. If you had water in a bottle it was because you put it there. And it usually came from a garden hose. When you're a kid in the summertime in south Mississippi, water in a bottle was a thin, warm, stale syrup. It was always hot. Tray ice would never fit through the neck of the bottle and trying to break those cubes in my hand by popping them with a table spoon only seemed to hurt my fingers.

I once tried putting a bottle of water in the freezer until it was a block of curvy ice, but before I even get good and started on my yard chores, it was be melted. The Mississippi heat completely melted it. It was pretty damn hot, to say the least. This happened several times in a row before I finally got the point. God was probably laughing at me. One of the days I was doing yard might not seem quite as hot as the last and from time to time I'd always try it again. But never to any success. For a smart kid, I guess I was a little slow in the area of science and how that related to keeping water cold.

Eventually, I'd come to realize that ice in water worked better than solid ice. So I would use a jug, a cooler or a 30 gallon ice chest, depending on the job. Before I had been around long enough to celebrate double digits, there was usually a Sunday or two a month my dad would have me outside picking up limbs and pine cones so he could mow the yard. The area around our home was about two acres, so the routine was simple. My job was to pile up the limbs and about an hour later my dad would go behind me with a small trailer attached to his riding lawn mower. He'd pick them up and haul them off before eventually mowing the yard. Since I was a kid, my jobs were the safe ones. Not safe in the sense of I might not get hurt, but safe in the sense that if (read: when) I did get hurt one of my parents would be close by enough to attend first-aid before the blood went everywhere.

(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 2 of 6)

2010-06-09T08:41:00.005-05:00

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 2 of 6)

My part of the yard work would probably have taken the standard adult about 30 minutes. But given my inablility to give a shit about finishing anything in a timely manner, my little 7 year old self would drag things out for hours on end. I'd moan. And I'd groan. The end result was almost always the same. My dad would come to me and give me some rationalization that being lazy was not what he expected, but it still didn't change things. Hot was hot. And hot meant slow. No matter what I did or how I thought, I couldn't see that being in a hurry had any merit. This was a trait I'd not soon outgrow.

I'm not sure if summertime in those days was actually hotter than it is now or if it just seemed hotter because of my build. I was about average height as the other 1st graders, but I wore ToughSkins. ToughSkins were dark blue jeans made of slightly thicker denim that never even looked comfortable. No matter how often they went through the washer they were still stale. The insides sported reinforced knees which were embarrassingly noticeable after just a few washings. They also made a horrible "swishy-swishy" sound with every step. I think ToughSkins and Chinet paper plates were created by the same guy.

My mom told me over and over I was to wear those targets of elementary ridicule because I was so rough on the knees of my pants, but I knew it was because I was chunky. I don't think I was fat. But I know I was chunky. I know this because my Mom insisted I was not chunky, which only proved that I really was.

Back in those days the highlight of the classroom was running toward your desk and sliding on your knees. Or running to the coat rack and sliding on your knees. Same with the lunch box cubby. I'd run, if the first two or three steps can actually be called running, full speed and drop to my knees. I'd slide a good half a foot or so along the hard tile of the classroom. It felt like three or four feet at 7 years old. I was an olympic star.

My mind conjured images of the long jump where Joe Hurdler lands heels first with arms out front in the sand as pebbles of sand and dirt skoonch into the air. His frontal thighs and chest meet, relaxing his backside into the sand. My version was only this glamorous in my own mind. But I could see it plainly there. I was a titan.

(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 3 of 6)

2010-06-09T08:41:00.004-05:00

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 3 of 6)

From time to time this sliding would do a number on my knee caps, a thing I'd regret soon after my college years, but it most certainly took a heavy toll on my jeans right then. Some kids got spanked or grounded because of spills or stains on their clothes. I got in trouble for rubbing the knees out. My dad used to say that his job was to have me at least three complete outfits. "One clean. One dirty. And one being worn. The rest was just extra", he'd say. I had several more than just those three, but they all had one thing in common. The Chinet shards were protruding through the knees like broken cardboard. I'd just have to get used to this.

It was very cool growing up in 1979. Things were calm. I enjoyed school and school work, but at this point school was out for summer and I wasn't always enjoying my time off at home. Home was hot. And I had yard chores to do. It sucked doing yard chores. Luckily, I soon realized that as long as I didn't do too good a job, then I wouldn't usually get very many new assignments. And if I did, at least they'd be about the same as far as their complexity. Very similar to that first time you make it known that you know how to properly load the dishwasher. Soon it just becomes your job. I didn’t want that to happen again. I don't know if my dad caught on to my scheme and just let me slide on the harder stuff or if he might've thought I was just a bit of a tard.

Either way, by having yard work and hating it, I taught myself to became a lackey. I wasn't really a dead beat, but definitely opposed to manual labor of any kind. Probably because it seemed like every time the wind blew in south Mississippi, one of two things would happen. Either 4,387 pine cones would suddenly drop to the ground, almost in unison, or bus loads of limbs would randomly fall from the trees, making the area around our home look like a bad move in Jenga. The problem was, the wind seemed to blow a lot.

I'd drag around the yard cursing elementary variations of profanities in my head about how bad I hated piling up limbs and sticks and pine cones and shit. Dad would come around periodically to relight the fire under my butt and I'd get it in gear enough to troggle through the next section. Usually anytime I could find good reason, I'd create a distraction. One legitimate distraction was always the garden hose. That was an easy fix.

(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 4 of 6)

2010-06-09T08:40:00.003-05:00

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 4 of 6)

Many times I'd go meander off to grab the garden hose. Of course, it was primarily my job to keep that garden hose rolled up next to the faucet that came out of the side of the house. And because it was my job, chances are it was always strung out across the driveway or out in the yard like it was on this June day. I guess this wasn't so much a big deal to my dad since I didn't really get in much trouble whenever he found out about it.

Limb patrol was the 1979 version of being on restriction even though you weren't actually being punished. It was extremely boring. Miniature cassette players with headphones had not been invented yet. There was nothing to keep me occupied except the daunting task at hand. And it never happened on a breezy day. Windy days caused the problem. So why couldn't a breezy one take most of it away? Life is tough enough to make any sense when you're a kid. Not to mention the fact that It was hotter than hot. The sun burned fast and I moved slow. Any excuse to get side tracked was only one good idea away.

The best excuse, although legitimate, was thirst. Les than an hour into the day, the temperature felt like 127 degrees in the shade. Beads of sweat would be dripping without hesitation from my brow. It would roll down to my nose and that salty burn would almost always get in my eyes. I'd rub them and it would just get worse, like putting lemon juice on a paper cut, it burned. I could hear my dad as he'd always say, "You should wear a hat like me." But my dad was known for headware that looked like a cross between what Audrey Hepburn wore on The African Queen and what a Vietnamese guy would wear harvesting a rice paddy. I thought I'd deal with my eyes instead.

(to be continued)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 5 of 6)

2010-06-09T08:39:00.005-05:00

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 5 of 6)

Nobody used sunscreen in those days, so my skin felt like it was a little Worstershire sauce short of beef jerky. And I was thirsty by now. I mean damn thirsty. I may only do limb reconnaissance in low gear, but at that moment I'd have run the bases to get a drink of water. Full sprint to the garden hose by the carport. It wasn't rolled up. Of course it wasn't. That was my job. I'd make sure the faucet was turned on as far as it would go. It was. I'd trampse across carport gravel and follow the hose out into the yard. Not paying as much attention as I probably should, I'd have about a dozen ant bites and a couple of rock bruises before reaching the spray nozzle. Ah ha. There it was. Water. Agua.

I pronounced it with a "g" because my pre-elementary education consisted of Sesame Street's bilingual teaching methods. I.E. "boat... barco" or "dog... perro" and of course Kermit would sing "an apple is maaaanzaaaaanaaaa." So even though I did not speak fluent anything, except vanilla American, with much accuracy, I did watch alot of Sesame Street, so I knew, or didn't know as it would turn out, that water was pronounced "og-wah."

I raised the nozzle directly into my sun dried face and quickly pulled the trigger handle firmly. I was ready to enjoy the comfort of Mother Nature’s natural drink. But today would be the day that I'd be reminded of two very different things. A) just how much pressure could build up inside a stretched out garden hose that had been left wide open in the heat of the summer, and b) however much pressure it had build up, that shit gets hot.

I'm not sure if it was the scalding hot water that captivated my attention more or the immediate pain of having that first gallon of scalding water hit my face at 40 psi. Either way, I dropped the hose. It shut off automatically before it even hit the ground. Because of my carelessness it also took a gash out of my shin on the way down. Things didn't always have rounded edges in those days.

I shook my head, tossed my hair back and gathered what was left of my senses. Looking around for witnesses and seeing none, I picked the nozzle back up. This time pointing it in the other direction, I sprayed it out forward from myself for about half a minute. I held it wide open the whole time to let all the hot water escape. Checking from time to time with my finger instead of my cheek, I saw it was cooling off. It actually cooled off rather quickly to my surprise. Then, like any southern boy would, I folded the hose over and crinkled it between my stubby legs to cut off the pressure and unscrewed the sprayer off the end.

(to be concluded)

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 6 of 6)

2010-06-09T08:39:00.004-05:00

THE GARDEN HOSE (Part 6 of 6)

The cool water flowed out in a girgling, rhythmic motion. It came out from the hose and splashed onto my bare feet. It was nice. It was cool and it was nice. I'd put the hose to my mouth now and this time I'd enjoy it's Earthy goodness in comfort. Today we enjoy our bottled water as we do a watch or a cell phone. It's just there. We hardly could imagine being without it for any length of time. Always having it within arms reach when we may be away from the house or the office is just standard. Sometimes we are only away for minutes at a time, but the bottled water is always near. But when you're 7 years old, doing chores you hate, sweating like a whore in church, with ant bites up to your knees, bruises on your feet, eyes afire and trying to come out of a state of shock from the bloody mess running down your leg, you just can't beat grabbing the nearest garden hose and taking a gulp.

The amazing flavor of the water from a rubber garden hose is unique. Sure there might have been dirt around the metal tip and some shit that looked like it came off grandpa's toenails spotted around the rubber end, but it tasted fine. It wouldn't have hurt us either. It couldn't. Our little bodies got plenty of practice in those days. A little dirt never hurt anybody on our street.

I could have dropped that hose tip in dog shit and it wouldn't have mattered. I'd wipe it off a little then let it run a minute to clean itself off. And stick it right in your mouth. The kids back then didn't know about any five second rule. That wasn't even necessary. We just drank from it. It tasted like summertime. It tasted like Heaven. Well, maybe not exactly Heaven. But it did taste like new plastic smells. It was thick and it was delicious. I'm surprised I never chipped my teeth on the threads of the metal fitting on that hose, but I didn't. And if I had, my dad was always a scream away.

Eventually, my dad would come back around and take up my slack with the limbs and the pine cones. And before it was all done, we'd both drink from the garden hose a couple more times. It was great. Afterward, he'd mow the grass while me and my ant bites would go on back inside the house where'd I'd be a kid just a little bit longer.

the end

The Swagger Wagon

2010-05-07T17:45:00.002-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ql-N3F1FhW4&sns=em

Sent from my iPhone

On Being the Best (part 2 of 2)

2010-02-19T13:38:00.015-06:00

On Being the Best (part 2 of 2)
Feb 19, 2010

He had the makings of a pro back in 1978, at the age of 2, when he putted against Bob Hope on The Mike Douglas Show. This guy has been in the spotlight since before kindergarten. You and I can not even come close to imagining what that must be like.

Now that we’ve established that he’s the best, let's establish one more thing.

Remember the whole O.J. trial?

O.J. found out that his wife, the mother of his kids, was sleeping around on him in the house that he paid for, with the waiter from their restaurant, riding around with that waiter in the car that he bought and she didn’t even try to be sneaky about it.

In the words of Chris Rock, “I ain’t gonna kill nobody, but if he did… I understand.”

And O.J. wasn’t even the best.

We, the people, gave O.J. a mulligan.

I was in Wal-Mart the other day and this kid about 7 years old was whining and bitchin’ and moanin’ about waaaah wah wah… His momma told him to shut his mouth. He told her to shut up. His momma picked him up by his ear lobe with one hand. (His feet just about left the floor.) She twisted his arm behind his back like on Cops. She lifted him by the back side of his britches with her free hand and drug his little ass out of the store.

Now, I’m not gonna condone the abuse of America’s youth, but if she did… I understand.

And she’s not the best either.

We, the bystanders, gave her a mulligan.

So Tiger gets all this money, all this fame, all this support from the world for being the best! Then he gets caught doing something a little out of our idea of what his character should be.

Why do we really care where he puts his penis? David Bowie and George Michael are two perfect examples of how it's ok not to be concerned with the places a person puts their genitals.

People say that his wife is beautiful, that she’s a model. Well she’s obviously not the best! She’s got to be lacking in a few areas. She comes short in some department. (No pun intended.) We all know that for every beautiful woman in the world, there’s at least one guy that’s tired of putting up with her shit. Maybe Tiger has been telling her for years “baby, I’m tired of your shit.” Then again, maybe she’s tired of his… who knows?

But one thing’s for sure. So many people in the world get a mulligan when they get busted, and they don’t even deserve it because they aren’t the best.

So Tiger is 9 over par. I don’t remember Wilt Chamberlain feeling like he had to go into any form of seclusion and he supposedly slept with 20,000 women. Tiger had 9. Do the math.

Maybe the money from razor blades and sneakers weren’t the motivators he needed.

Maybe slacking down on the strange is gonna prove to be his kryptonite.

We'll see.

And it may never happen, but if it does… I understand.

On Being the Best (part 1 of 2)

2010-02-19T10:42:00.024-06:00

On Being the Best (part 1 of 2)
Feb 19, 2010

Tiger Woods is the undisputed best golfer in the world. He has been for over a decade. You and I can not imagine what it’s like to be the best at anything. None of us can. Rarely is anyone ever the best at anything.

I’m really good at what I do for a living, but I’m not the best. I couldn’t even imagine what it must be like to just know, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that I was the best at anything. I’m really good at what I do, but I’m not the best. I’ll bet you there’s a guy that does what I do everyday and he is probably better at it than me. Hell, there’s probably a guy better than me in my own town or even on my street. No, I’m not the best.
But Tiger is the best.

Sinatra was a great singer and performer, but he wasn’t the best.
Babe Ruth was a great baseball player, but he wasn’t the best.
Drew Brees is the greatest quarterback our area has seen in years, but he’s not the best.
Tom Cruise has made a gazillion dollars acting in movies, but he’s not the best.

Think about it… in what area of anything (sports, music, acting, anything) is there one single undisputed person that is the best? I can’t think of a single one. There are lots and lots of “really goods” and those that are “up there”, but no other bests.

So how do we know what it’s like? Easy... we don’t.

This guy has got more money than he could ever spend. Gillette, Nike, ATT&T and countless others have given this guy more than any other golfer in the history of the entire world. And he’s worth it. He out performs absolutely everyone that challenges him. And he is consistent. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a sure thing in my lifetime. Can you imagine what kind of confidence a guy like that has got? He is made of balls! And they are Titleist!

He doesn’t walk up to the tee and say to himself “Oooh, shit… I hope I don’t fuck this up with all these people watchin’.”

Heck no! He’s the best!

He approaches, takes his aim (or whatever people like him take) and simply uses the little club to put the little ball in the little cup. And he does it in the fewest number of tries. He probably doesn’t even think about it. He’s got his own God-Given Auto Pilot! He doesn't do, he just does. He is the best. He always has been.

I think that if he's only slept with 9 other women and he's the best, then he has massive self control. Think about the masses of women that probably threw themselves at him daily. It's amazing he only cracked 9.

(to be concluded...)

The Giraffe Effect (part 4 of 4)

2010-02-12T18:23:00.012-06:00

The Giraffe Effect (part 4 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010

For me, the belief in some power greater than ourselves is very necessary in getting through the struggles of daily life. We all know that laughter is the best healer. And honestly, none of our kids would be here if we all didn’t have a pretty sizeable interest in sex. Do we agree so far? Ok. So at least we sort of, kinda, mostly agree to this. That’s a start.

But you just have to admit, it’s a tad bit extreme to change gears so quickly within the same browser.

So for all you guys (like me) that love the female body… for goodness sake, send ‘em on! The more the merrier.

But let’s decide now if our email relationship is gonna be Biblical or booblical. I just don’t know if I can handle both. I get more confused than a pre-pubescent gaylord in gym class. It kinda makes me feel like I’m keeping secrets from The Big Guy upstairs. I know he knows, but lets not advertise.

Now, for the record, I have no interest in seeing who just signed up on Classmates.com. I’m not putting all my family pics on Flikr. I don’t do MySpace because I’m over the age of 12 and I’m not a perv. I do use facebook though. I like facebook. It’s right about “my speed.” But that doesn’t mean I want to add crops on Farmville. And lay off the Gangsta Wars or whatever it’s called. I’m also not interested in all the virtual drinks and quizzes. Besides, I really doubt that the prom queen from high school really has anything in common with Angelina Jolie anyway.

Come on… I'm perfectly capable of wasting my own time.

I do happen to like the birthday reminder on facebook quite a bit though. Probably because I am a firm believer that most people don’t call and tell you "happy birthday" because of that awkward silence or those meaningless minutes of conversation that always follow the actual statement of “happy birthday.” It's just too uncomfortable. For both sides. They don’t want to catch up on old times (neither do you) or to hear about all the local drama going on in your life, they just want to acknowledge the day for you. (Actually for them.) More accurately, they want you to know that they did it for you, but it's actually for them.

Here's how to tell. Try this the next time someone calls to tell you “happy birthday” or “happy anniversary” or whatever, take note of how many times you smile and nod while you’re on the phone. You will actually be smiling and nodding and they can’t even see you. It’s all fake. Then notice the awkward pauses. There will be at least two. Also, take note of how many times you say “yeeeees, yes, uh huh, yes.” Then there’s the more than awkward experience of getting off the phone without hurting Aunt Hilda’s feelings. She called from Minnesota for goodness sake. After all, you only talk to her once a year (or two), you owe it to her. Right? Forget about being late for work or burning dinner. Spend some time on the phone. Do it for her. Right? (Wrong.)

Does anyone else believe that birthday wishes give more satisfaction to the giver than the receiver??? Think about it. Most of the conversation (from both sides) is spoken in a way that's not to hurt the other person’s feelings. It’s a remarkable phenomenon. We all do it.

That’s why I think eCards are very under rated. Their motto should be “When you almost care enough to type the very least!” Hallmark, eat your heart out.

Here’s where I smile and nod.

Just sayin’…

The Giraffe Effect (part 3 of 4)

2010-02-12T18:23:00.011-06:00

The Giraffe Effect (part 3 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010

Here's the way I figure it must have happened. Some point along the way, I must have said “bless you” after someone sneezed in public. Then they told somebody I was deeply religious. That person must have advertised the depth of my Christian values because almost daily, I receive prayer emails. I get a veritable plethora of Bible referenced passages and online documentation of how my soul will be saved only if I forward this message to at least 10 people.

You must admit that those emails are kind of weird. I have a hard time believing that Big Daddy up There has a T1 connection. I just don’t feel a need to bcc God. Sorry.

Let’s make matters a little worse. Apparently (no, obviously), at some point(s), I've had a positive reaction in front of other people involving a woman’s bare breast or the appealing nature of her body (sneaking a peak), because almost daily I receive nudie pictures in my inbox. And it’s not generally the classy WW2 calendar girl type either. It’s more of a Dom Perignon slash Louisville Slugger kind of gal-asaurus. Most are jokes. Usually, they involve a play on words. Some have wording about a camel’s foot and after scrolling to the bottom it reveals a close up pic of a woman’s private area in some really tight jogging pants or something. You get the idea.

Sometimes it’s a weight joke about how the female Rothlisberger fans must be large women compared to Romo fans in order for all the letters of his name to fit on the back side of their panties. Or how Ray Charles could go to California following the roadmap on those spider veins. You get the idea.

And I’m sure we’ve all seen Bob and the “little blue pill” jokes about the man at the doctor’s office asking about male enhancement.

That’s all well and good. Most of it is quite entertaining in an “I sure do hope nobody’s looking” kind of way.

However, the part out of all of this that blows my mind is when the same person sends me both religious emails and dirty jokes/porn. For example, I will get an email quoting the Bible and within minutes I’m getting another email from that same person showing me the up close and personals of a hairy broad that looks mostly like a cross between J. Edgar Hoover and Ernest Borgnine. I know for a fact that I’ve never had a conversation about church and ugly girls with big naturals. So what makes it ok in email? And what makes it ok, especially since we’ve only recently met. I’m just asking.

Please keep in mind… none of this offends me at all. That’s not the point. Again, I’m no prude. I just think it’s odd. What naughty school girls do during Spring Break when they are a thousand miles away from momma and daddy is their own business. I'm just paying for cable. I'm not making the movie.

So that’s not what I’m getting to at all. In fact, I think it’s hilarious. But unfortunately, I’m not laughing at the emails I get. (And I get a ton.) I’m laughing at the sender.

Think about it. I’m picturing the guy on the other end of the interwebs saying to himself “I know who’s going to have to see this!” And that person that's got to see it turns out to be me. Very strange that I always come to mind in this situation. Maybe it's some sort of oddball, weird, 21st century, single guy compliment.

(to be concluded…)

The Giraffe Effect (part 2 of 4)

2010-02-12T18:22:00.011-06:00

The Giraffe Effect (part 2 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010

Thanks to the internets (lol), namely email and facebook, I am able to keep in contact with a large number of people that I’ve met over the years. Whether we were very close, passed in the halls of high school or college and never really got to know each other, or whether we drank really bad, warm, draft beer at Majestic's or Elsie's (ditto the apostrophe comment above), chances are, we feel like we know each other. And in most cases we do to some degree. Then, fast forward a few years. Slinging cards in casinos and coming up through the ranks selling cars on the coast, there’s been a few times that I ran into a chum with a bottle of rum and we wound up drinking all night (another Buffett quote that seems to fit.) So I know a lot of really good people. And I've had a lot of eclectic experiences with those people. Unfortunately, I just don’t care for giraffes.

Let me explain. It’s very similar to what my friend Lynsi calls “The Giraffe Effect.” She invited us over to see her new house last year and I couldn’t help but notice that she had several giraffes mixed in among all her decorations about the house. I saw a wooden giraffe on the mantle, a giraffe picture frame on the wall, a giraffe pillow on the couch and a stuffed giraffe chew toy for the puppy just to name a few. Having known Lynsi for a pretty good while, I never knew about her affinity for giraffes. So in making awkward conversation I said “I didn’t realize you liked giraffes so much.” To which she replied, “I don’t.” She continued “You make one 'that’s a cute giraffe' comment and that's all people give you.” She went on to say that it was easier to just smile and nod.

I completely understood that logic.

So here’s my giraffe.

As a kid I read and collected comic books. As an adult with a job and an above average income, I wanted to buy some of the rarer more expensive issues from the 1950s and 60s. However, this doesn’t necessarily mean that I have any intention of ever needing a set of Superman UNO cards or a Batman Frisbee.

Also, I currently own one of rarest lunchboxes ever produced, a Toppie, from the 1950s. Experts estimate that only about 21 to 25 were ever produced. It’s literally worth thousands. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that I like elephants very much or Green Stamps for that matter.

And I think that the possibility of one day owning an authenitc Superman Gum Card Mail-Away Secret Compartment Ring (that's a mouthful) from 1940 would be a heck of an addition to my pop culture collection. Collectors dream of those things! (I have to admit, it isn’t easy making the transition to grownup.) But don’t bring me a Twilight mood ring from Barnes & Noble because it reminded you of me. For one thing, you obviously don’t realize how hard real collectors try to distinguish themselves from the Twi-crap buyers. So don’t add to the agony. And second, hardly anyone that earns anything short of a doctor’s income could even afford the 1940 ring I mentioned above. It’s a tad bit pricey.

So how does all this fit in? I've noticed lately that I have to be really careful exactly what emails I forward and particularly who I forward those emails to. There's something in our society that makes it acceptable for anyone that might receive an email from me to put me on their forwarding list ad nauseum for every single bit of interweb nonsense that they read.

So The Giraffe Effect rears its ugly head in my inbox daily. This brings me to the incredibly poor taste, but necessary, issue of linking Biblical email and porn.

(to be continued...)

The Giraffe Effect (part 1 of 4)

2010-02-12T16:33:00.014-06:00

The Giraffe Effect (part 1 of 4)
Feb 11, 2010

The fact that you are even reading this more than likely makes at least one of the following a true statement.

A) You know me
B) You have friends that know me
C) You’ve read my stuff before and you like it (or not, but you're not sure)
D) You want to forward me Bible verses and porn

Go figure…

A, B and C are rather self explanatory. As family and friends you probably read, or have read, my meaningless rants and psychobabble because of an unwritten rule that it’s just the right thing to do. “He’s family” or “he’s a nice guy” probably guilted you into this category. This is the same category of people that smile and say “fine, and you” when I say "how are you" or that laugh at a stupid joke I tell (because they don’t want to hurt my feelings.)

Then there's C. C is a bit trickier than A or B. C sort of puts you and me on the same wave length. It doesn’t necessarily mean that we know each other, per se. It just means that if we did, we’d probably hit it off. But whether we have met or will never meet is actually of very little or no consequence at all because we have that common factor. We’re on that same plane of existence. We both know the world can be a strange and inconsistent place. We both realize that 10 to 15 minutes of non-verbal, one-sided conversation can prove to be a closer bond than most people share in a lifetime. Why? Because it’s real. It’s true to life. We don’t always like to have a conversation with other people because we have to listen to the unnecessary drama that they verbally vomit and hurdle our way. But reading a blog allows you the ability to do only one thing. And that’s to play the part of listener. And with that, you can stop at any time. And if you are still with me this far down… thanks. I believe that all the Dr. Phil’s (I’m pretty sure an apostrophe doesn’t go there, but it looks right) of the world would agree with me on this.

All of which brings me to D.

I completely understand A, B and C. But D pretty much blows me away every time. Now I’m no prude. Far from it. I pray. I love to laugh. And I love the female body. (Too bad us guys got the short end of the stick in that department. No pun intended.) It’s quite easy to make fun of myself and make other people laugh though. I haven’t seen the world, but I’ve seen it’s underbelly a few times and it’s more fun to just smile and nod. There’s beauty in many things we take for granted. Through good times and riches and son-of-a-bitches, I’ve seen more than I can recall, as Jimmy Buffet would say. But what makes D the "social norm" from people that don’t fall into A, B or C? That’s just a little weird.

(to be continued...)

(Not So) Old Time Television

2010-02-01T13:37:00.005-06:00

Jan 31, 2010

I've heard it takes a big man to admit he was wrong. I'm not necessarily that big man. Nor have I been so wrong that it would require a public demonstration of repent. However, I recently found out that Flounder and Newman are not one in the same. Now, for you to say "so what's your point?" would be a little too cliché. The point will follow.

It wasn't all that hard growing up with basically three channels on the television because it was just the way it was. The kids at school may have talked about watching shows I had never actually heard of, but for some reason instantly intrigued me nonetheless. But that "I want what I don't yet have" part of my human nature wasn't developing as quickly as armpit hair and zits.

We had ABC, NBC and Educational TV. I say "basically three" because there were others. At least some times there were others. If the weather was just right and if the wind was blowing our direction, the signals might just come in strong enough to warrant giving it a try via the old manual outside antenna. But even so, CBS was, for the most part, impossible. I wish I knew how many shows I watched sitting way up close to the TV screen and squinting my eyes ever so hard just to see between the staticy lines. Using my imagination to visualize an image that was only partially there made it all seem worth while. We won't even talk about the audio issues.

This sophomoric effort absolutely gave me the edge when friends would invite "the guys" over to watch satellite. This would always quickly become the upper "not actually porn" channels of satellite, Skin-a-max, we called them, that would come through after most parents had gone to bed. This is the same satellite that still sits in their back yards to this day. The one that's so big I used to think it could catch every foul ball in Yankee Stadium, not to mention the local venue, The Deeter Dome. I still adhere to the notion that trying to watch Skin-a-max with the screen constantly rolling through all that static was far more likely to cause the blindness than we what we were actually told would cause it by our parents. Still no hairy palms. I hate to refer to my mom and dad as liars, but I guess they did what they needed to do in those situations.

We lived in a small rural town, on the outskirts of a larger small rural town, that was a little lower than centrally located within the state. Whew! Did you get all that? Mississippi was always the green state on all the maps in school. It was sort of a taffy green, not a tree green. It was even a sherbety shade of lime in the front of the dictionary I used to look up my spelling words on Tuesday nights. Now, imagine that our green state stands four hands high, then Purvis is right at the top edge of your bottom hand. So we were half way in between the bottom half of the state.

In those days the cable company didn't find it necessary to run their lines down every street. (I recently found out that they still don't to this day.) They said it just didn't seem economically feasible. So for all of the 70s and the majority of the 80s (up through present day, I guess), those of us in the outskirts of Purvis had 3 channels. NBC had a local affiliate in Hattiesburg, about 20 minutes away. ABC was down on the coast, about an hour away. And there was ETV out of Jackson, which was about 2 ½ hours away, dead center between the palms of your 2^nd and 3^rd hands. (In case you hadn't noticed, distance is measured using time.)

The coast had a lot more people per capita than Hattiesburg. So naturally, ABC was a much stronger signal to those of us with rabbit ears. NBC was usually pretty clear. And ETV was pretty much perfect. The only problem with ETV was that once you'd graduated from The Electric Company, there really wasn't much point in watching it. There was Matinee at the Bijou on Sundays at noon, but even that got old.

It would be about 5 years before I'd ever hear Bruce Springsteen bellow out 57 Channels (and Nothin' On), but the thought had crossed my mind with the 3 we had.

We're talking pre-VCR era too here. You couldn't record anything to watch later or to watch again if you missed anything. If you didn't get it the first go round the odds were slim you'd ever see it again. Same at the movie theater. If you didn't go see it when it played that first time, you had to wait until it was edited for television. That could take years. And it always sucked because inevitably Charles Bronson would be about to blow some street thug's lights out in vigilante style and he'd say something like, "You're a friggin' meanie", but his lips would still be moving to the tune of expletives I'd not yet learned. (Which only proves my theory that any sports caster that can read the coaches lips with great accuracy must always have been Death Wish fans.)

It was basically impossible to see these movies again in their truest form. Reruns were sometimes possible with sitcoms, but there was no YouTube or Apple Store to check it out again later. So with theoretically only 2 useable channels, my childhood consisted mostly of family oriented, middle class entertainment. 70s and early 80s TV was great. Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli showed us what being cool was really like. It was very similar to the way Vincent Barbarino had done on Welcome Back Kotter. But with most episodes airing only once, and no internets, it was highly unlikely for us to ever know that the Sweathog's teacher was also an acclaimed poker player in real life. But we watched anyway.

CHiPs raised our respect for the law. Starsky and Hutch raised our respect for fast cars. And Good Times raised our respect for living a good life through tough times in the inner city. This was a topic I somehow thought I related to. Being a white kid in southern Mississippi and thinking Penny was cute wasn't exactly the most popular thing to advertise in 1979. It would take years before the locals looked at Janet Jackson the way I had as a child. I think I can actually say, with some degree of accuracy, that I've seen more episodes of That's My Mama than Lost. This is a fact that I am quite proud of.

In those days, you might watch a series for years and never realize a complete story arc had ever even happened. Here's a prime example: Did you know that Richie Cunningham had an older brother named Chuck? I didn't either until years later when there were stations devoted solely to all the episodes I had missed as a kid, before the age of the DVR. That was back when the channel was called Nickelodeon. Even when it went to Nick at Nite, it was still cool. Now it's more "Nick of the Nineties". But, hey, you can't have too much of The Nanny, now can you? I'm a firm believer that her outfits must have been made especially for her on the day of taping. My wife says that Fran Drescher's voice is annoying. Personally, I've never actually needed to hear it. No audio is necessary for me to enjoy that show. I don't look forward to the day The Suite Life of Zack and Cody will be on the retro channels.

Sometime in the mid to late 80s a whole new world of possibilities opened up. For years I'd seen commercials for the Laser Disc and the Beta Max, but apparently they were quite large and very expensive. $600-$1000 during the time period that Taxi and Hill Street Blues were still on the air was a month's pay for a lot of families. Needless to say, we didn't all have those monstrosities sitting atop our televison sets. But something happened in 1985 that changed all that. The Video Home System was introduced and more and more people were able to afford their own VHS. With VHS came video rental stores. From the video rental stores came the ability for all us non-cableized, small town folks to watch movies (without static or rolling pictures) from the comfort of our own Lay-Z-Boy. This was the beginning of a completely new trend for people like me. Interested, yet lazy.

I had been to the theater several times. Besides the normal kiddy Disney cartoon and live actions, I had seen Smokey and the Bandit in the theater. I watched Luke Skywalker inside Cloud City look Darth Vader right in the mask and cry "You are not my father" on the big screen before the movie world had ever even heard of an Ewok. And the people that wrote the tag lines were right, I "would believe that a man could fly" after watching Christopher Reeve don the cape, in full color, that I'd grown up seeing George Reeves (no relation) do the same with, in B&W.

Another thing is for sure. It didn't take much more than watching Top Gun close to 100 times on that giant (for its time) 19 inch, plastic, faux wood grain encased box that my parents had, to make me think I could fly an F16 fighter plane in a dogfight, wearing Ray Bans and listening to Otis Redding albums with the lovely and talented Kellie McGillis during her closet days.

And who wouldn't want to quit school and tour the finer establishments of your average bad neighborhoods after seeing Fast Eddie Felson show Vincent exactly how it was done 80 or 90 times? (Note to self: Download the soundtrack to The Color of Money for Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London by and Eric Clapton's It's In the Way That You Use It.)

Of course, Ferris Bueller's Day Off and WarGames made me immediately want to go out and buy a personal computer. If they were actually available at the time.

And… Animal House. Oh, yes, Animal House. That's the one movie that actually made me want to go to college. Albeit, for all the wrong reasons. (Later I'd find out that what I really wanted was a gray tshirt that simply said "COLLEGE.") I probably wore out the tape at exactly that scene where John Blutarsky (John Belushi to any bottom feeders that don't already know) is on the ladder and falls backward from the girls' dorm window. What a scene for a tweener! My imagination was working harder that it ever had squinting through the static. And, "Over? Did you say 'over'? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!" That is comedic genius. "Forget it, he's rolling." Intellectual humor. What a concept. <Deep voice> "Duh you mine… if we dance… wif yo dates?!!" and when Blutarsky said "A zit! Get it?" I almost peed my pants. Not so much because it was that funny per se, but because I only wished I could do that in real life. That was the edge of intellectual humor in those days, but I don't think most people "got it." I'm a firm believer that even the most ardent viewer missed things in that movie that went virtually unnoticed until at least the twentieth viewing. Then one day they say to their wife "Honey? How'd I miss that before? I've seen this thing a million times." It's just how it is. Now, let's all sing "I gave my love a cherry / That had no stone / I gave my love a chicken / That had no bones / I gave my love a story / That had no end / I gave my...", well before you smash my guitar into the staircase, I'll get on with it.

I guess, even though I'd risked life and limb adjusting the manual antenna outside the house in the rain while dad yelled from inside "just a little bit more, oh no, wait, go back some, ok, right there", the fascination of watching on the little screen probably hadn't fully developed until the latter part of the 80s.

It was about this time that I'd seen Jerry Seinfeld appear on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Soon he'd have his own show. It would be a show about nothing. A show that proves you can have a life centered around cereal and comic books. Did you ever realize that Superman appears or is referred to, sometimes very indirectly, in (rumor has it) all 180 episodes? (It's become a nerd-sport to guys like me to try and spot them all.) Then, yada, yada, yada, the show was a hit. Kramer slid in through the door. George's pretzels were making him thirsty. Elaine shouted "Get OUT!" And then there was… Newman.

"Hello… Newwwmannn." (grit teeth and turn, trying not to smile)

"Hello… Jerrrrry." (ditto)

It never crossed my mind that I didn't already know this guy. In my mind it was Flounder from day one. But it wasn't. I can remember thinking to myself that Kramer may make the show, but Flounder needed more stage time. Just sayin'. All the seriousness that he brought with the badge of the mailman made every scene a masterpiece.

I guess in the pre-interweb era where imdb.com is just a dream with no name, it could probably happen. Not nowadays. I knew that Kevin Bacon had made an early, if not his first, appearance in Animal House. He was noticeable in that role. But the fat guy that always gets screwed is such a believable part for a guy like me. I also remembered that a Donald Sutherland showed his ass, literally. And I probably knew that Flounder's real name was Stephen Furst. But apparently it didn't really matter in the annals of worthless knowledge that I chose to retain.

Today, seeing Stephen Furst and Wayne Knight I'm not real sure how I missed this for so long. But one thing I can tell you is that there were only 12 years between Animal House at the theater and Seinfeld taking over the air waves. Seinfeld reined supreme for almost 9 years. Fast forward just a little while and you'll realize Seinfeld's been out of syndication for 12 years, the same distance between Animal House and the first Seinfeld Chronicles (true fans know this). Where did all the time go? Maybe it flew by so quickly because there has not been a single day in almost 20 years that an episode of Seinfeld has not been on the air. It will definitely seem strange, if the day ever comes, that I start flipping channels at bedtime and Seinfeld is not taking up two slots back to back. If they'd had cable TV back in the 70s, they'd probably have said the same thing about I Love Lucy.

Think about this, aside from Lucille Ball basically giving birth to Little Ricky on live television in 1953, the Beatles invasion of 1964 and the "at the time" unrated swagger of a guy named Elvis in 1956, both on the Ed Sullivan Show, were the only times that would even come close to how many people, both viewers and households, that actually watched the last episode of Seinfeld air. That night at The Bombay Bicycle Club we knew we were, although indirectly, and even more so, inconsequentially, living a vital part of small screen history.

I still watch the old reruns. Seeing Seinfeld on television is far better for me than watching it on DVD. There's a certain "timing" that gets lost when there's no actual commercial break. Similar is true I'm sure of Animal House in the actual theater. I did not see Animal House in the theater, but I can tell you from experience that the fanboys of today that rent the Indiana Jones Trilogy and take advantage of a $3.00 2-liter Coke and a "free" pack of microwave popcorn at the counter because Netflix is taking a day longer than expected, will never know what it feels like to actually feel that big ass boulder rolling toward Harrison Ford in the movie theater. But if they think they can, maybe they should go home and watch X-Games on ESPN. Or even worse, X-Games on ESPN Classic.

Are they secretly promoting deadbeat suicide with this stuff. I wonder just how many poor bastards lie at home on the couch, staring at this crap because A) they have no sense of creativity from the watering down of modern television, and B) they're too lazy to get up and find the remote control for crying out loud. So he ends it. The note he leaves, if he leaves one at all, might refer to his Facebook account getting hacked or eHarmony not working out, but it doesn't really matter. I mean really, unless your little sister, or your brother-in-law, is the one actually skiing down the slope on the bright pink boogy-board from 1994, then who in the hell really cares? Is this what entertainment has become? Reruns of sports shows that nobody even really watched when they were on the first time? Give me some Newhart. It was pretty boring too and nothing ever really happened, but at least we could laugh at Larry, his brother Darryl and his other brother Darryl.

Kiss in Kindergarten

2010-01-26T18:24:00.008-06:00

Kiss in Kindergarten
01.26.2010

I can never remember where I’m at in a book, what I’m supposed to get at the grocery store or how many minutes to microwave the rice. But I can vividly remember several things about my childhood that happened over 30 years ago. Why the 70s are easier to remember than my repetitious
yesterday is beyond me.
Probably my oldest memory is one where I’m sitting upright in Oma’s foyer, trying to put those shoes on my feet that all kids have to wear. Of course, I’m talking about the rock hard, white, leather ones that make you walk funny because they are so flat and don’t give at all, but eventually help you walk right because of these very same reasons. I don’t know how old I was, but I’m going to go with 2. I say this because it was before Oma had turned the foyer into an extra bedroom. So I’ll go with late 1975. It was right about the time I slipped out of her fridge and busted out (knocked out, rather) both of my front teeth. But that’s a story within itself.
I basically grew up on the floor board of a 1974 Ford pickup. I slept on a pillow when we travelled. And we travelled alot. My dad was a pipe fitter and worked shut-downs in various states across the southeast. We went everywhere. Travel trailer parks and instant grits at gas stations were all I knew until I was about school age. He settle into the place I’d spend my entire grade school career when I was 7. But the period before the age of 7 is quite fond to me.
I can remember several things from that very influential period in my life. Most of it, I learned from TV. Success meant pretty girls, a fast car and a hanging basket chair in your living room because Dan Tanner had all three. I thought that Leonard Nimoy was a bit odd, but that George Reeves was quite believable. A car chase involving a cop always ended in a spectacular way with rampa and an 18 wheeler. TV Dinners took forever to cook. Lunch boxes were made out of metal and made an awesome sound if you slid them on the floor just right. Captain Kangaroo was not a real captain. There was something odd and dainty about the relationship between Mr. Rogers and Mr. McFeely. Bozo was a real live person. Oh, and how words are very important. In music, that is.
Jump start to the late 70s. I know that I went half a year of kindergarten in Oklahoma and half a year in Arkansas. I know that my teacher first kindergarten teacher was a large black woman that I adored. She involved us a lot with Show and Tell and often she’d bring us cookies. Cookies made with lots of sugar. And then they were sprinkled with even more sugar. Homemade. None of that boxed shit. We drank gallons of Kool-Aid in those days. Going home at 3pm with a purple mustache and tongue was the norm.
I remember having a girlfriend that year named Laura. I’m not really sure if she knew that she was my girlfriend. But that wasn’t the point. I guess at age 6, the point was whether or not she could color very well. She could. She stayed completely in the lines and wasn’t afraid to use the brights and the darks altogether on the same page. But more importantly, she liked Kiss. Not to kiss, like smoochy smoochy. And not making up kiss, but makeup Kiss. Real Kiss, like Ace Frehley Kiss. Gene Simmons, Kiss. And Paul Stanley, KISS! Eh... whatever.
In 2010, I don't really care for them, but in 1978, I didn’t know what Kiss was. I knew that it was what my big-boobed, 14 year old, hottie of a babysitter used to listen to. (She wasn’t that big-boobed, but she did wear a bra. Which was a big deal in those days.) That was enough for me. A nicely padded A-cup, probably. And the music was loud. Very loud. And with fireworks! I had no earthly idea who or why anyone would want to listen to anything that noisy. I mean really, CCR was about as loud as I could enjoy without really knowing what the words were. “Gimme song a green rib uh.” And if The Eagles didn’t sing it, it probably didn't need to be sung. I was a very smart kid that grew up on southern rock and jukebox country. I could pick out Don Henley lyrics before I even knew what their names were. I recognized Glenn Frey’s voice way before he ever appeared on Miami Vice. Those two went together. They made sense. The words were smooth and the feelings were right. I still don’t know what colitas are. But, putting all that I already knew aside, that particular day, I wanted to know more about Kiss than anything else in the world.
I remember Laura was talking one day to the young, more impressionable 5 year olds about wanting to watch Kiss Meets the Phantom on television that night. I butted my way in and said that I did too. (That was my first lie.) I had no idea why she liked Kiss. I was relatively sure I did not. It was not my style at all. But I remembered that one day, one day, with Kiss music would come the A-cups. Even though these were more of the “training variety”, she said she liked the music so I really wanted to know more about it too. She said that it was gonna be great and that I should really like it. So I said that I would watch. So… that night I went home and told my mother that I wanted to watch Kiss Meets the Phantom.
Our family had a nice, for its day, 13 inch black and white portable Magnavox that we all squinted toward nightly. Ironically, Microvox would’ve been a more suited name. But it was our window to the world, far off lands, love, hate and the agony of defeat; which was what I got next. When I asked my question, my mother immediately gave me her response before even completing her next thought. She said “absolutely not.”
And that was the end of that. There was no negotiation.
Oh my God! I’d already told Laura that I would. Oh well. What do you do? Maybe she’ll forget.
She won’t forget.
Maybe I’ll just wing it.
I’d never be able to wing it.
Maybe she’ll be sick tomorrow and not come to school.
Funny how the mind of a six year old works, right? I’m unintentionally wishing harm to come to someone that in 20 years or so could very well be the mother of my children.
The next day she met me at my coloring table after first break and asked if I had watched it.
I said that I had.
She asked me my favorite part and I stuttered and stammered.
She smelled my lie. Yes she did. Maybe the hesitation in my voice gave it away.
(That was my second lie.)

It was already the second time I ever felt it necessary to lie to a woman (girl) I really cared about. We had a deep emotional bond. I had pushed her on the merry-go-round. Now I’m twice a liar and I’m only 6 years old.
The next thing she did was say that it was ok because her mother had not let her watch it either. There it was. The little life lesson that I’d try again and again for many years to come. That was the very first time a woman (girl) that I really cared about showed me it was ok that I had just lied to her. I got caught. I was cold busted, but it was ok. From that day on, try as I may, it would never ok again.
Laura was ideal. But somewhere along the way, I got sidetracked. Because even more ideal, was her little sister, Holly. I knew that it was doomed, before it ever began. Holly was too young. She was 5 and I was pushing 7. That would never work. What if Laura found out? They were sisters for Goodness sake. Pretty soon I’d be in 1st grade with the big kids doing addition and she’d still be in kindergarten coloring Snoopy. There’d be the occasional rift between her and her big sister because I’d come by on my Big Wheel and ask her to go play kickball. Jealousy would surely ensue. She might not even be able to make it emotionally. It could scar her until 2nd grade. I couldn’t do that to her or to Laura. I should probably just back off before she ever even noticed that I was in the world. So I did. That was a big life lesson there too. I had probably unconsciously heard Billy Preston’s famous quote through the vocals of Stephen Stills, Love the One Your With. But I’d like to think I was able to make my own right decision.
I guess for a guy to think that your girlfriend has a cute little sister has got to be a natural trait that we all have. I’ve talked to lots of guys that have experienced this. One thing rings true every time. No matter how cute they appear to be. Just remember, they are all nuts. Very nuts. Not quirky nuts either. Not cute and I can deal with it nuts. I mean, ape shit crazy nuts. The kind that you can’t shake away. Keep that in mind. Now, most guys never act on this, thank goodness. But I still find it necessary to make the point very clear. It’s not a conscious decision we make to go out and think about how cute her little sister is. It just happens. But it goes away. Usually right about the time we have to listen to her talk about something. And especially when she starts voicing us her opinion. It’s similar to the thoughts we’ve had about our babysitters. Not our kids babysitters. I mean our babysitters when we were the kids. I’m sure that everyone’s got their own variation of that same story. The one where the very first boob they ever groped belonged to their babysitter. Right? I don’t know if we ever really planned to get to second base with our babysitter in between reruns of Three’s Company and The Dukes of Hazzard, but that’s just how it worked out. By accident? Maybe? Speaking of which, a few important things about The Dukes of Hazzard that have stuck with me over the years. First, I still misspell the word “hazard” to this day. Second, I love cut off blue jean shorts. And third, I still dream about ramping over a cow pond in a 1969 Dodge Charger. But back to the more serious note, if you didn’t grope your babysitter, you should have. It’s by far the only time in life you could innocently get away with it.
Then there was my second kindergarten teacher. She was very attractive in a Mary Tyler Moore sort of way. I didn’t have another teacher this cute until Ms. Hardy in 2nd grade. She was a cross between Valerie Bertinelli (of the One Day at a Time era, not the weight loss era) and Jill Whelan (that’s the Love Boat Jill, not the sick girl in Airplane! Jill.) Now that I think about it, I’m not real sure how those two will morph together in your mind. Maybe you should just take my word for it. In 1978, she wore plaid skirts and white shirts with the little rufflies around the choker collar. Those were the days. The height of fashion. I really liked my teacher. Well, I liked looking at her. That’s for certain. We didn’t eat as many cookies here at this school. We did a lot more school work than coloring. And it felt as though I had traded in my coloring books for work books. Therefore it was harder to tell if I really liked a girl or not.
But I knew it would work itself out.
I’d spend the next 30 years or so trying to figure out other ways.
And it’s taken all this time to get right back to the same mindset that felt so good in those early years of my life. Ironically, life is remarkably similar to the life that I had at age 6.
I still don’t have the hanging basket chair in the living room, but I do still eat a lot of instant grits. I have a wonderful wife. She can appreciate The Eagles on a level that pleases me. I still love sugar cookies. Occasionally, I will allow myself to have a purple mustache with my daughter when we’re being silly. I love metal lunchboxes. Today, TV Dinners cook in about 5 minutes, which is nice. I still forget how long to cook the rice, though. I don’t really care that much for Star Trek, but I do enjoy those black and white Superman reruns. And I never really learned to appreciate the lyrics of Kiss as much as CCR. But that’s ok. I still like boobs. And I still like fast cars. And I’ve had my fair share of both. But most importantly, I’ve got a wife that colors very well.

Eating the Dinosaur

2010-01-24T10:33:00.001-06:00

Page 162

Buffalo Nickels

2010-01-11T13:48:00.001-06:00

Buffalo Nickels
Dec 29, 2009

Life is full of things that fascinate me. Not so much the shiny or sparkly things we see from time to time, but instead, the things that aren’t seen by so many others. That fascination being in the “Webster’s #2” sort of way, yet still not devoid of #1.

–verb (used with object
1. to attract and hold attentively by a unique power, personal charm, unusual nature, or some other special quality; enthrall: a vivacity that fascinated the audience.
2. to arouse the interest or curiosity of; allure.

Most of the time it merely takes an instance of sillyness and I’m texting away to share the latest and greatest in today’s humor. My friends and I keep a list of “Schmidtlisms”, or malaprops as society calls them. For those of you that aren’t in arms reach of a dictionary, a malaprop, or Schmidtlism, as I call them, is a misapplication of words that, for the most part, can and will usually go unnoticed. Key words being “usually” and “unnoticed.” My perception is that it should probably read “usually” or “never noticed.”

But that’s just my opinion.

Maintaining a list of Schmidtlisms can take quite a bit of the monotony out of a stressful day.

It’s not uncommon for a phrase like “I saw her in my pervicular vision” to make the list. Or “She had a 3 carat diamond embezzled ring.”

You get the idea.

In my 10+ years of collecting Shmidtlisms, I’ve heard some great ones. I love them. They’re better than any joke you can tell because they’re real. Things that are real have more meaning. I know that Boudreax and Thibodeaux jokes are not real. I know that, although he could be my child, Little Johnny jokes aren’t real either. But Schmidtlisms are real. It’s a little like seeing a car accident on television. You may say to your self “huh” or “wow” or “ouch.” But if you witness an accident first hand, you can’t help but be shocked. You might rubberneck. You may even wreck your own vehicle from being distracted and not paying attention. That’s not because it’s good. No. It’s because it’s real.

So my buddy called me up today with something he thought was worthy of saving for posterity. It’s not a joke. It’s not anything that has a punch line. It’s more of a story than anything else. And it’s real.

My buddy asked me if, in addition to Schmidtlisms, if I also kept a list of reasons people use when they call in sick or can’t make it to work on time.

And, of course, I do.

Although, there aren’t that many of those. In fact, there aren’t very many at all.

Thinking back… Mutzie’s was probably the funniest. Mutzie called in one day, years ago. Apparently our boss at the time expected this one to be great. Afterall, Mutzie was, at the time, “in between” comedy gigs and working with us instead of doing his normal comedy shows. So our boss put the call on speaker and told Mutzie to speak up. Mutzie said in an unusually jovial voice, “I won’t be coming in today… be… cause… I’m sick! Yes, that’s what I am. I’m SICK! I’m verrrrry… SICK!” Our boss says, “you don’t sound very sick to me.” And Mutzie says “well I just got through fucking my sister! Is THAT sick enough for you?! Mister?!”

OMG! No… he… deh… unt….

But he did.

That was about the most inappropriate comment that could possibly have been made at that moment. The fact that it was on speakerphone just made it even more inappropriate. But I have to tell you. It got a laugh. In fact, it got several. And that little incident was the first to make the “Call-In List.”

The second one was when this guy called-in and said he couldn’t make it to work on time that day because at that very moment he was stuck in a long line down at the DMV trying to get his car tag renewed. He must not have thought this one through though, because the DMV is open Monday through Friday. And you guessed it. This was a Saturday. Once the boss notified him that it was Saturday, he immediately conceded and said “well, you got me.”

Today’s Call-In story is a bit more elaborate. But it’s worth it. It begins with my friend getting the call from a carpenter that works for him. This carpenter is described as a $6 an hour worker that won’t get out of bed for less than $15. So you can see that he doesn’t get much work.

This guy calls in and says that he can’t come in on time today because he’s got to go down to the post office and get a second PO Box.

Not that it really matters, but my friend asks, “So why do you need a second PO Box?”

“Because they won’t deliver but 5 gold coins to each address. So I have to have two addresses.”

Oh, yeah. And it gets better.

“Gold coins?” he asks. Now he’s intrigued

“Oh, I figured you’d already heard about them. I saw an ad on the TV that said they’ve got these gold buffalo coins. They are normally $50 a piece, but they’ll sell me 5 of them for $19.95 a piece. But that’s the most I can get. I can only order 5 to one address. So what I’m gonna do is, I’m gonna beat their system. I’m gonna get a second PO Box and order 5 to two different addresses. That way, when they come in, I’ll go down to the bank and exchange them for $50 dollars cash a piece. It’s a great deal! You should get in on it.”

I’m not believing my ears as my friend is telling me this. What makes it even better is that I’m picturing the look on my buddy’s face when this mathematically inclined financial genius is verbally vomiting his stupidity across the phone lines.

(Cell towers, rather. Who has a phone line anymore?)

Immediately, I go and Google “$50, gold, buffalo, coins” to see what this guy is talking about. Sure enough. The website is www.50dollarbuffalo.com. And it’s obviously geared to the slow thinkers of our generation. This website looks like a cross between the “Prayer Cross”, the “Snuggie” and the “Obama Plate.”

First of all, these are not gold. They are “clad in gold.” Which is the new way of saying “gold plated.” Second, they aren’t even coins. They are fake coins. You can’t spend them. You can trade them. You can maybe sell them (to an unsuspecting person that’s gotta be just a little bit stupider than this guy). Or you could throw them in a fountain and wish for $50. You could even skip them across a pond and probably get more enjoyment than you’ll ever get in cash for these little jewels. They’re lead, with a shiny finish. They are practically $20 paper weights.

Eventually, I saw the ad on TV. The TV ad really plays on the stupidity of the viewer. They actually show what they call “gold coin blanks” rolling off the conveyor belt. Gold coin blanks? Come on. There’s no such thing as a gold coin blank. It’s not like the people at the mint actually “strike” these bad boys into shape.

To make it even worse, the TV ad shows the infamous gold clad coin. And for this one, you don’t even have to look closely. It’s right there on the screen. It’s even enlarged! In plain sight on the indian’s pony-tail are the letters C O P Y. Yes, the word “copy” is stated directly on the coin. They don’t even try to cover it up! It’s great! How absolutely stupid do you have to be, not to see this?

This idiot is gonna deserve exactly what he gets.

Besides, this guy is SOLD! Do you hear me? He is convinced that this is an investment in his future! These are not even actual coins for crying out loud. What if this poor guy goes down to the bank? What could happen? The best that could happen is he gets laughed at. The worst that could happen is that he gets arrested for trying to defraud a bank teller. Probably 60 days in “the County” for that one… just sayin’.

So by this time, my friend is obviously having a hard time holding back his laughter. He begins to agree with this guy. “Yep. That sounds like a good one to me. So, do you think the bank will just do that for you like that?”

“They have to. It says right here “$50 dollar value.”

“Well in that case, maybe you should use my address too and get yourself 15 of them.”

I’m so glad that this didn’t happen face-to-face. My buddy would never have been able to hold back his laughter.

Just as I’m having trouble holding back mine.

Oh, my… Oh my… The world needs stupid people. In fact, my hats are off to the folks that are running that scam. Here’s why. We called them up to ask if they realized that you can see “COPY” in plain site on the commercial. (That’s a lie. We actually called them up just to jack with them.) Guess what? There’s no human contact at all when you order. It’s all on a phone tree. Totally automated. I guess, that way there’s no way you can sue because “someone told me it’s real” or “they said it was real.” Hell, it says “COPY” right there in plain site.

Caveat emptor.

Just sayin…

The Weave – 11.04.09

2009-11-04T14:31:00.002-06:00

The Weave – 11.04.09

I think I'm an observant fellow.

I call myself paying attention.

I wouldn't refer to myself as "worldly" by any means. I've never been to a city bigger than New Orleans. I’ve never driven farther than the Mickey ears. But I've been around the block a few times. I even went back for more on more than one occasion. I like to drive around for no apparent reason and listen to music with the top down. I like to head down the beach, even if it’s the long route and smell the green water. I like to fly even when I don’t have to. I like surprises.

But today was different. I saw something I've never seen before. It wasn't a five legged goat or a man with a third nipple, however it was equally amusing. Wait. Let me take that back. What I saw wasn't that amusing. More like what I imagined had to happen for me to see what I saw was what was so amusing to me.

I don't usually go out to lunch. For that matter I don't usually even leave for lunch. It’s just not a habit I’ve ever gotten into. You rush down so you can hurry up and eat so you can rush back. Sorta defeats the purpose, in my opinion. I pride myself on the unique ability I've had since I came into this world to sustain life on instant grits, pop tarts and beef jerky. You know what I mean, the essentials.

Now, most if the time somebody from the office will leave and go pick up some little something. A hamburger from the old Jim Bob's or a slice of Heaven from Brooklyn's Pizzeria is a normal take-out for those guys. I love the way only Brooklyn's pizza juice can drip down your elbow. Yum MEE! But, for that "health conscious" side of me I will partake in take-out myself, every now and again.

Today was one of those days. For some reason I wanted Ben's Deli. "Bendelly!!!", as they say when they answer the phone for you to place your order. This is a fine establishment, I must tell you. A lovely little place. A "local joint", if you will. It’s a mere 3 blocks from my office in the wrong direction. It’s perfect!

Located on the outer edge of old Gulfport, it's nestled quietly on the corner, not quite in “the hood”, directly across from National Muffler. You can fix an exhaust clatter and receive indigestion within 50 yards of each other on this little section of Pass Road. It's a nice area. It’s very nice.

But, I don’t know of anyone that ever actually died there, I’ll put it that way. So it could be a worse area than it really is, I guess. But it doesn’t matter.

I’ve probably been here three times since the storm. Maybe four. That’s about one visit, if you want to call it that, every year or 16 months or so. That’s about all I can usually handle. Visit is not quite the right term for this either. It’s more of an “in and out” kind of deal.

Ok, I pull up to this place across from where I’m going and park. There’s literally no place to park. 2 o’clock on a Tuesday and this dump is packed tight!

So I go to park and then I’m in and I’m out. Simple, right? But there’s no parking places. This place does more business than a bookie on game day and they have about 5 parking places out front.

Ok. So I pull around to the side. No dice. So, I park next door in a section that’s obviously the other businesses “for our customers only” section. I really hope they don’t tow me, but I chance it. I’ve seen cars on the side of the road with that orange sticker on the side glass for a week that didn’t get towed. I think I’m safe here. I’m gonna be in. I’m gonna be out. No big deal. 2 minutes flat. So I park and walk across the way. It’s “over there” to the little hole in the wall with such local flair. I guess I’m a little conscious of where I’m at in town, because I bee line to the little establishment and really pay no attention to the ground or what’s on it.

I swing open the side door. There’s a man on a stool right in front of the doorway facing out the front window.

5 parking spots, at maximum, and smaller than the Blue Banana, yet there are 14 people in line waiting on their food. I did it again. Food is not the right word to use here either. Grub is more like it. 5 spots, no space, 14 people. There are 3 stools inside, all facing out the large window toward the muffler shop. So, do the math, 11 people are standing. I’m #12.

There is no “hello”.

There is no “how can I help you”.

It’s “WAT YOU ODOR?!?” And it’s loud.

“You caw in?!” she says, and I use the term she loosely.

“Yes, I called in.”

“Nay!?!”

“Mam?”

“NAY!!”

“Oh, Ron. Sorry… Ron called it in.”

“Combilation Swamp Fie Lice… uh… seba for for!!”

She’s so loud.

“Do what?”

“SEBA FOR FOR!!”

She’s sounding really pissed about sounding. It’s rather humorous.

“Oh, seven forty-four. Ok, and I’ll need a sweet tea.”

“Larsmall!?!”

“Huh?”

“LARSMALL!?!”

“Uh, lar! I mean, large.”

I’m getting good at this. Up until now, I thought I only spoke Jive fluently.

IF a fellow asks me if I can “front some ends till the man gets square and get you caught up on the flip side” and I know to say that I don’t loan money. But “larsmall” caught me off guard.

I’ve got it now.

But how, or why rather, is she getting my order and these other 14 people are hanging out and waiting? And where did they park? Did they all walk here? No way they are all together. Where did they come from? Well, this place is doing something right.

I have a mediocre déjà vu from last year when I came in and it was the same thing. People are lined up for days. And they have virtually no communication skills. Amazing, what a business model this is. Wish I could get away with it.

“Give me your money! Here’s your stuff! Now get out!”

That’s awesome! And apparently it works for them!

By this time, I’m grinning on the inside, even more than before. I’m actually enjoying this. But I don’t think anyone else in the tiny, close knit quarters is sharing in my joy.

Then the mean old samurai says “Ate lona do.”

Ok, backstep. “I didn’t get that one. Can you repeat that?”

“Ate lona do!”

I made out the “eight”, but I still don’t know what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry, what?”

She’s losing her patience with me.

I feel like George Costanza dealing with the Soup Nazi. I don’t want to lose my Combilation Swamp Fie Lice. It may sound nasty, but it’s actually quite tasty. I have no idea of the contents necessary to drop a more descriptive name and opt for “combination”, but shrimp fried rice is the way to go. I’ll throw caution to the wind every now and again. I’m not afraid. I’m a rebel that way.

So I think to myself, “You know what? It doesn’t really matter what she’s trying to say. I’ll just give her a ten. That should handle it.”

She smiles big. First one of those I’ve seen since I got here. She’s showing of her pearly white. Yes, only one. And I didn’t realize that oriental people had a fascination with gold caps that had an opening in the front shaped like a star hole, but I’m learning. And I’m also a little out of my element. A lot changes when you go 3 blocks in this direction.

So I’ve paid. I got Ron’s sweet tea. I’ve got the grub. I look back at the snarling faces that were there before me and smile with a farewell nod. I turn toward the door and notice a badly written sign on the door that also catches my attention:

“Close Tanksgiving 25 to 30”

You’ve gotta be kidding me. They aren’t from here. They don’t even speak the language. They treat their customers like crap. And they take 5 (actually 6, I guess) days off for our holiday??? Dude! I’m doing something wrong.

I almost dropped the tea.

So I head out the door and cross the street. Up until this point, none of what I’ve told you is even the remarkable part that I’ve been waiting to share. But it’s coming…

I step out and cross the street and notice something on the ground that looks like a dead animal.

Ok. Food place. Dead animal. Gross.

But as I get closer, I realize it’s not that at all.

It’s a large clump of hair that’s apparently stuck to the concrete on one end and flowing in whatever direction the wind happens to be churning around from the passing traffic.

Ok. Food place. Hair clump. That’s gross.

But as I get closer, I realize it’s not that at all, either.

It’s a piece of clip-on hair.

And it’s a big piece.

It’s two feet long.

It’s a big, long piece of nasty clip on hair.

Now that is gross!

Wait a minute… there’s another one!

And another.

How did I miss this before?

I look out on the concrete ahead of me between where I am and where my car is and I can see many pieces of this nasty Lee Press On hair stuck to the concrete all around. It looks like it’s been there for days. And why wouldn’t it? Who would pick that stuff up? I don’t like picking up my own hair. And my hair is clean and in little, small pieces. This stuff is borderlining on rodent.

By the way, there is no hair salon, barber shop or crack house in site. And I’m in the parking lot of a small time money lender, called Coastal Credit.

So my wheels are turning now. And I will ask you the same thing I’m wondering myself.

What in the hell has to happen for somebody to be walking down the street, in between the muffler shop and Benderry, of all places, that they literally, begin to pull their hair out?

And apparently, they don’t stop until they’re done. They pull all of it out at once. All within a small area.

Was there a fight and the girl with fake hair lost?

Did Coastal repo their 1986 Cutlass and they don’t see how they can go on living this high profile lifestyle?

Did they get turned down on a loan for the rest of the weave and just said “screw it”?

Did they see the muffler shop and realize that since they have no car, maybe walking would be easier if they were bald?

Was the heat getting to them and they thought that no hair would be a little cooler on the scalp?

Did they have an allergic reaction to the imitation faux meatlike incredients that constitute the “combination” label on the shrimp fried rice at Ben’s Deli?

Were they, all of a sudden, just in need of a change?

Were they thrown out of a moving car, kicking and screaming, and simply lost part of they shit?

Did they run into an old acquaintance on the street that threw some smack down about them sleeping with their man?

As you can well see, the possibilities are endless.

But what’s really funny, is that the real truth is probably boring. Some kid prolly yanked out his auntie’s weave and was playing with it out the window and the next thing you know, Bob’s your uncle.
I guess it’s one of those things that really doesn’t matter at all.

But, similar to a car accident, I just want to know what happened.

Wouldn’t you?

How does this happen in our society. How do we walk by random weave on the sidewalk in this age that we live in?

Are we going backwards? Just a little bit maybe? Do you think that just maybe, we’re, at best, going in the wrong direction?

I’ve seen wigs in traffic. They were a tad humorous, but not like this. Somebody can try to cross the street too fast and lose a wig. They can be searching for honey pots on a blustery day and lose a wig. But not an entire hair weave! Not that straight hair with the clippie do’s on the ends. That stuff is firmly attached to your scalp when you leave the place. Supposedly, it brings on more than “a little pain” if it’s removed incorrectly.

Amazing what some people will go through to change themselves.

Not me. I’m the same old thing I’ve been for years. Some people may say I’ve changed, but I really haven’t. I’ve just reverted back to an older, more stable, version of me. It’s one that I like a lot better. So that’s not changing “me”, right? Nah, that’s growth.

Changing involves hiding something, whether it’s a sincere thought or feeling or maybe a head of bad hair. But growth is positive. It’s doing a little better with what you’ve got than you did yesterday.

Speaking of yesterday, for lunch, I had a bag of those little orange snack crackers and a Texas cinnamon roll from out of the machine at work. But today I’m having Benderry. And tomorrow I’ll be wiping the grease off my elbows at Brooklyn’s.

I think that is growth.

Maybe I do need some change.

Halloween Memories - 10.30.09

2009-10-30T17:35:00.002-05:00

Halloween Memories – 10.30.09

That feeling around Halloween time has changed for me over the years.

“Ghosts, goblins, skeletons and such,
They give you fright
On Halloween night.

And if you say BOO,
The pumpkin will too.

Better be careful,
Or bats will get you!”

That was written as a contest entry in the second grade. I must have re-written that thing 8 or 9 times to make it the “Honorable Mention” masterpiece that it was.

Why kids aren’t reciting it annually this time of the year is beyond me. Literary genius is what it is. I’m sure Mrs. Ezell must have meant to send it to Reader’s Digest or The Ladies Home Journal or Family Weekly or some place worthy of such literary prose. But time has passed and I have forgiven her.

Did you ever have that teacher in elementary school that really got you to notice how beautiful a woman’s figure could be? No? Me, either.

But then again, Miss Hardy wasn't actually a teacher. She was Mrs. Ezell’s assistant during the 1980-1981 school year. Oh, my goodness. She must have been created on a Saturday, because I’m sure that the Good Lord, Himself, took a day off just to admire His handy work when He was done with her.

She was a woman, I tell you!

I was 8 and she was 20… it was perfect. She was finishing up college. I've always had a thing for college girls. The University of Whatever. It doesn't matter.

She had long, straight, brown hair. And brown eyes. Beautiful brown eyes. And a smile straight from the Heavens.

She was an active assistant. And on that day she had worn her costume to school for our Halloween Party. And we had a party, let me tell you. A real party. No Play Dough treats. No stickers. No combs shaped like an orange skeletons. No healthy snacks. No sir! We had spider-rings, homemade fudge and chocolate candy bars! We had black and orange cake that made your teeth look like you’d been eating dirt. We had grape Kool-Aid. Well, it was actually, most probably, only Flav-R-Aid because the “ghost” kid brought it. But we had something nobody else had. We had Miss Hardy! And she was in her costume too! It was like she was our age!

I do believe that was the first time I’d ever seen multi-colored knee-highs under a short skirt. Knee-highs were one thing. And quite common, I might add. Knee highs and skirts weren't that big a deal in those days. They were usually thick and warm looking. But hers were different. They were sleek and shiny, kind of see-thru. They didn’t look warm at all. In fact, the way she was dressed, she looked like she might have taken chill soon. Now, keep in mind, I was 8. I didn't know what I was feeling. But I liked it. And I've never forgotten it.

I don’t have any recollection of her costume that day back in 1980, other than those knee-highs. But I can tell you this… I remember the feeling I got that day. It’s a feeling that a young man doesn’t forget. It moved for me that day. Uh… um. I mean. I was 8 for crying out loud. “It” being the pedestal I’d used for women. I had grown up on Pinky Tuskadero and envisioned her dropping Fonzie for me after I won one of those famous Malachi Crunch things she was so well known for. But Pinky was on television. Miss Hardy was in my classroom. Miss Hardy was a tad bit more accessible. Just in case, I mean, really, I’m 8 years old at this time, right?

I only wonder where she is now. I’m sure if you could draw a straight line from the tip of Heaven to the most beautiful place on Earth, she’s somewhere on that line, still making jaws drop.

So, I mention all of this to say that, for many, many years Halloween had only one meaning… costumes. For some reason, the candy was never much of a big deal. It was the costumes for me and the other kids. The costume made the kid the kid. It’s a big deal for a kid to be cool. And a cool costume could make you or break you at that age. It’s that simple. We didn’t have cars. We didn’t have money. But we had costumes.

Any old kid could roll into homeroom on November 1st with a brown paper sack full of candy. But you could get that all year long if your parents let you. A “case quarter” and two little grubby fists could pull out a lot of penny candy out of the boxes at Myatt’s. But the costume was different. What really mattered was the costume.

Making memories with all your friends on Halloween night was fantastic. And everybody talked about everybody the next day. Good and bad! Trick or treating in small town Mississippi during the late 70s and early 80s was a little different than it is now. Trick or treating back then usually meant piling up about 7-9 kids deep in somebody's grandma's old station wagon and driving out to King Subdivision. Our mama’s turning us loose for about an hour and off we'd go! There was a lot of running. A lot of sweating. And a few scabbed knees.

We didn’t have a Party City in those days. There wasn't a Wal-Mart. You got your costume one of only a couple of different ways. If your mom or grandma could sew, then you were lucky. They'd go down to the Salvage Barn and buy some odd pieces and you might be a scarecrow, a witch or a cowboy. If there were no seamstresses in your gene pool, then you might just be a ghost. It sucked being a ghost. That plain white sheet draped over you. You couldn't breath at all. Always falling down, because you can't see shit in that get up. At that age, we didn’t really know what poor meant, but we did know that the ghost kid was the poor kid. What ever poor was. Or that he just had lazy parents. (For further clarification, reference the Kool-Aid analogy above.)

Then there was the kid who got his costume from T-W-L. “Take What’s Left” we used to call it. T-W-L was like a Dollar General, but not nearly as nice. I can say that with a sincere smile.

T-W-L used to carry a wide assortment of vinyl costumes in a variety of colors. Most notably, all of them were “one size fits none”. They must have been made for midgets because the super heroes never had any boots. The army man never had any legs. Those costumes only covered the front half of your legs down to about your shin. Then, they tied with a hard, little vinyl string (for lack of a better word) thingie in the back. And if you tied it too tight, that string would break. And if it broke, it would usually be early in the night, and one of your legs would be flipping and flopping in varying directions until it was time to get back in the station wagon. There’d always be this shwick-shwack sound as you walked too as that leg flapped awkwardly. The wind could be blowing in the middle of a rainstorm and they could hear you walking in that thing. You’d walk up and the porch light would come on, like a lighthouse bringing in a ship to the shore.

Shwick-shwack, shwick-shwack, shwick-shwack. Here came the kid that comes in on the Halloween costume hierarchy just under “ghost” with his crappy ass, noisy, no boot having, “one size fits none”, plastic, shwick-shwack outfit and a plain brown paper sack that only had an apple in it. No orange, plastic pumpkin Jack-O-Lantern, candy holding barrel for this guy. He's got a grocery sack. What a loser! A big time loser with is Tough Skins hanging out under the knees of his (quote/un-quote) super hero costume. His knockoff Keds, which were actually called "Kads" to avoid a trademark infringement, coming in just below the flapping shin that up until now has had a mind of its own. His big toe sticking out from the top of the Kads because he’s running too fast. Not too fast, in the “quick like the wind” kind of too fast. More like the “out ran the shotty craftsmanship in those shitty shoes” kinda fast.

And that mask on those things. “Golly-gee wil-a-kers, Batman. Those things would kill ya!” Could anybody really breath out of that little pea hole? There should’ve been this big, bright, yellow, square sticker on the inside of those things that you couldn't miss when you held it up to your face and pulled that old rubber band back around your head. Remember those rubber bands as they'd tear your hair out of your skull, follicle by follicle. The sticker would be like what’s on the visor of every car made since 1999. And instead of “Wear your seatbelt” or whatever, it would read “Don’t wear this for fear of suffocation” or even better “Don’t wear this if you ever want Miss Hardy to think you are cute”.

Poor kid.

You may ask yourself how I know that kid so well.

It’s easy.

He was me!

But only for that one year.

I learned my lesson that year.

Kids are brutal. Thank God. As well they should be. It gives our little egos a chance to learn and grown before we become grown up.

There was a lot less violence back when kids could be mean and people could be made fun of. It made us tougher. Nowadays, it’s a crapshoot as to which kid is packing heat just in case someone is honest with him. Tough times we live in, man. Tough times.

So that day I did what any young kid should do after a night out on Halloween town like that. I made sure that the next year I would not be that kid!

I learned to plan ahead. Next year, I was something. I don’t know what it was, but it was not a ghost and it did not come from the T-W-L store.

Nowadays, it’s a little different, though. I’m busy. Too busy for Halloween. Too busy to have fun like I used to. It’s a shame, I guess. Because, after all, I’m really good at not being a grownup. I’m exceptional at acting silly. I’m above average at being funny. I enjoy being funny and making others laugh. And I’m fantastic at being a dad.

You know, I should put all that together and give it a shot. Maybe I should dress up for Halloween next year. I could do it. I’d probably be a hit! That’s the way I am. I would either totally succeed and then tout how great I am or I would crash in flames from failure. I’d probably succeed.

Every year around July, I think to myself how cool it’d be to dress up for Halloween. You know, show the kids how it’s done. Then around August, I think I better get started. Then by the end of September, I’ve lost track. And a couple weeks into October, it’s too late. It’s not actually too late. It’s just too late to not be the grownup in the ghost sheet.

Oh, dear. Could you imagine?

The grown up in the ghost sheet…

with the Flav-R-Aid…

and the apple…

and my toe sticking out of my Kads.

I couldn’t live through that as an adult. I’m not tough enough any longer.

If my toe pops out my shoe at this age, I buy new shoes. I don’t get tougher.

So nevermind…

I’ll just leave Halloween to the professionals, the 9 and under crowd.

Phones - 10.23.09

2009-10-23T16:39:00.002-05:00

Phones – 10.23.09

Do you remember back as a kid when portable radios only had the one speaker? And you had to turn that dial ever so slightly to get it tuned in the station. And then, once you had it tuned into the station as best you could, you had to make sure you didn’t bump the table for fear of losing the signal or, even worse, it might start blaring out nothing but static so loud that it’d wake up the dead? Ok, then. Take that staticy sound and morph it into a very bad rendition of Axl Rose’s hard-core, 80s, mullet sportin’, Trans-Camaro drivin’ fight song, “Welcome to the Jungle”. That was the sound I heard coming out of the man’s pocket.

This guy must have his cell phone ringer turned up as loud as it would go. This is obviously necessary, considering just how important this guy thinks he is. Or isn’t, as reality would have it. You be the judge.

It wouldn’t be bad if this guy’s phone only rang once or twice a day, but he, who barely eeked past the Darwinian Theory of Natural Selection, has more people calling him than a drug dealer on check day.

Making matters worse, he uses the exact same annoying ring tone for text messages. So whether he’s getting texts, or getting phone calls, it doesn’t really matter, the entire floor knows he is being welcomed to the jungle.

Well, I hear this noise come out of this guy’s pocket. He puts the donut down. That white powdered sugary dust falls gently from his mouth to his shirt and pants like dandruf, where it’ll stay all day. With a full mouth of cakey matter, this guys mutters “Hello”. Of course, that’s loud too. Then, comes the surprise.

I hear him say, and I quote “Peace of shit!” and he tosses the cell phone on his desk. “This peace of shit phone won’t hold a charge for nothing” he exclaims.

What?!?

Won’t hold a charge? You’re on the damn thing all day long! It can only do so much!

He’s on his cell phone 3-4 hours a day. Straight! He’s checking stocks he doesn’t own. He’s checking items that he’s not buying on eBay. He’s forwarding texts containing nudie pictures or racially inappropriate jokes. He’s playing Brick Breaker for hours on end. He’s on the thing, virtually all day long.

Yet he throws it down because it won’t hold a charge?

The battery can only last soooo long, for goodness sake.

This guy is barely 21 years old. He’s young, dumb and full of (something that also rhymes with dumb). He’s the Grand Poo-Bah of today’s non-contributing zeroes. This arrogant little shit has got to be the most spoiled little excuse of brat vermin that I’ve ever met.

I wonder, do all young people think this way?

He’s 21 and I’m only 36. But I do know just how far we’ve come. When I was a kid, we had to go into the room that had the phone. Back then, you had to plug the phone into the wall jack and only certain rooms had those wall jacks. Once in there, you’d pull up a chair because the cord was about as long as your forearm. And you’d pick up this 12 pound block of metal and plastic and move it closer to you on the stand.

You’d put this cold, heavy, black receiver handle to your face and listen for a dial tone. Invariably, there’d be someone talking and you’d have to wait until they got off. And it might not be someone at your own house either. It may be the neighbors that were using the phone, because back then we had party lines. Different people shared a single line called a Party Line. They had their own ring, similar to a modern day ringtone. One household’s ring may be short short. The other’s may be long short. Then yours may be short long. It was fairly common to answer the wrong line, so most people would let it ring an extra time to make sure they heard it right. It’d ring. They’d walk in to the room with the phone. Stand there with their hand on the receiver. Then it’d ring again. And then they’d answer it. And there were no such things as Call Waiting, Call Forwarding, or Answering Machines. There was only the ring.

And if nobody was home, it just rang. No blinking, red light showing anyone had called. Just a cold, black, hunk of plastic and metal that weighed about as much as a small boat anchor. And when it wasn’t being used, it just sat there, waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

So no one is on the line and it’s time to dial the number on the “rotary dial”. The rotary dial was this little, thin disk that you turned with your finger. You’d put your finger in this shallow hole that usually didn’t quite fit your finger tip and you’d drag it all the way around to dial the number. The wait time between dialing each digit depended on which individual number you were dialing. For instance, a 1 was one tick and a 0 was ten ticks.

And the old phones didn’t have power steering either. You’d have to put some umpff into it to get it to go all the way around. And they were loud. And if you were eating potato chips or something, forget it. The grease would make your finger slip out and you’d have to start all over. It never failed, the person you were trying to call had a number like 794-8890. You’d put your finger in the 7 and pull it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked. Then put your finger in the 9 and pull it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked back around. Then the 4. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Then the 8. And your finger would slip.

Awe, shit! You had to start over. You’d put your finger in the 7 and drag it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked. Put your finger in the 9 and drag it around… then wait as it tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ticked back around. Then the 4. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Then the 8. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. The next 8. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. The 9. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

And your mom would yell for you. “Who are you calling in there?” she’d say. “I can hear you dialing!”

“Nobody, Mom.”

“I can hear you dialing. Don’t lie to your mother!”

“I’m only calling (insert random friend’s name here)! His mother doesn’t care!”

“Well, don’t stay on there long. I’m expecting an important call from (fill in the blank).”

Then, you’d put your ear back against the receiver and realize that you waited too long and had a dial tone again. You’d have to start over.

It was irritating, but that was the way it was. It was a normal every day thing back then.

We were lucky. We were a little above average in the area of technology when I was a child. We had a CB Radio in both of our automobiles and we had Walkie-Talkies. And it was awesome! It was sort of like having a telephone, but it was mobile. I loved it!

And if you’d ever have told me that one day I’d carry around the equivalency of a house phone with the portability of a Walkie-Talkie, I’d have told you that you were nuts.

But, in actuality, that’s what we have with cell phones. Now, what gripes me to no end is when the selfish, inconsiderate, non-participating zero throws this technological marvel down and makes the comment that it’s worthless because it won’t hold a charge. It upsets me.

This thing you carry in your pocket, lets you call from anywhere. Anywhere! Not the just from the family room. Not just from your parents bedroom. From anywhere! You don’t even have to type in their number. You don’t even have to remember their number. You just scroll down in your Address Book to the name you want to call and it knows the number for you. You press the green button. Then this little thing the size of a box of office staples sends a signal into the air. Sends it through your house or building. Sends it up over the clouds. Sends it out into space, for crying out loud! It touches a satellite that’s orbiting the Earth. And then it returns the signal directly back to your small, handheld device. And WHAMMO! You’re connected! Everytime! There’s no waiting to use the phone. There’s no Party Lines. There’s no nothing! No one can listen in on your conversation. It’s very private. You just simply make the call!

Ok, you’re on the phone talking and another person tries to call you. This little device not only alerts you to that, but it’ll send another signal to outer space that let’s you put the first person on standby, or hold, and then it will let you immediately talk to the next person. All with one single touch of one single button.

You used to go months or years without talking to family or friends because they lived so far away or didn’t have a house phone. Now you can just call them, anytime! Also, in the old days, if you wanted to send them a message, you had to write a letter on paper. With handwriting! Then you had to buy an envelope. Then you had to buy a stamp to put on that envelope. Then you had to either drive it to the post office or put it in the mailbox. Then, as if that weren’t enough, you had to wait a week for them to receive it and another week if you were to get a response.

But it’s not that way anymore. Today, you take that same tiny, little device that talks to the satellites and type your message directly on it. And then hit the button to send it. Within seconds, the other party has your message. That used to take a week. Now it’s literally in seconds. You also get a reply within seconds. You can hold entire conversations without ever saying a word or buying a stamp. But, remember, this piece of crap won’t hold a charge!

Oh, you want to take a picture? You can use that little device for that too. You don’t like that picture? Delete it. Then take another one. It wasn’t all that long ago that you had to buy a camera, buy film, buy batteries, load the film, take the picture, hope it was straight or that they didn’t blink or that the lighting was good enough, take the film to the PhotoMat, wait a week and then pay to be able to see the, usually bad, pics that you took. And usually you’d found out, after paying for them to be developed, that they were crooked, dark, or overexposed anyway. But this piece of worthless junk won’t hold a charge! Ungrateful idiocracy, is what it is.

Say you want to “camcord” an event… then do that with your phone too! It will let you! Record away! But this junk won’t hold a charge, right?!

Want to play a game or use a calculator? Then do it! Right there on your phone! But remember, this thing won’t hold a charge! Sheesh!

You would never have been able to, or even wanted to, carry a telephone, a CB Radio, a Walkie-Talkie, a camera, film, a video recorder, a video tape, batteries for all those things, any type of card game or board game AND a calculator all at once with you. But nowadays, it’s there for the using, if you want to use it. It’s just there! Use it or not. It’s just there!

Then, on TOP of all of that, if you want to browse the internet or look up some facts or visit porn sites even, you can do all of that too! Right there! Right here! Right now! And it’s at your fingertips. But you throw yours down because you say it won’t hold a charge! What a loser reaction to a modern day marvel!

Ok, so you want to listen to some jams! It’s a jukebox in your pocket. 10,000 freaking songs and a runnin’ ton of videos, right there for you to enjoy! But it’s frustrating you because the battery’s going dead.

You want to see a movie while waiting on whatever? It’s a miniature portable movie theatre that doesn’t have sticky floors. It’s always with you, Mr. Ungrateful!

Oh, and you wish you could tell when it’s your phone that’s ringing instead of someone else’s in the room, you can even personalize the sound of your ringer. Who’da thunk it?

So you want to complain about how bad you have it, Mr. Zero? In between this moaning and wailing about how awful his cell phone is, I tell him to give it here and let me take a look at it.

I pick it up. Wait a minute. It’s holding a charge after all! There’s nothing wrong with this thing. Oh, I see what it is. It’s out of minutes!

This loser, low life, ungrateful no account, whose about as useful as a wet tampon, has run out of minutes. I guess he needs to rush back down to the washateria and buy some more. And he’s even more of a loser for not even realizing it!

Amazing! This has got to be the most unaccountable generation this world has ever seen!

He should have gone with the awesome new Cellular South unlimited plan that gives you unlimited everything for only $79 for the first phone and the second one on the account for $39. Thanks to Cellular South, I don’t have to worry about anything. I get to call and text who I want, for as long as I want, as much as I want. It’s great!

(Little plug there for my buddy, Josh @ Cellular South!)

I guess this turned into a modern day version of how hard it was to walk to school, uphill, both ways. But it’s the truth!

Bottom line… don’t be a non-contributor and get a decent data plan.

End of story.

The Cleaners - 10.22.09

2009-10-22T18:42:00.006-05:00

The Cleaners - 10.22.09

I would like to share with you all what happened this morning at the cleaners. I'm not going to elaborate. I'm not going to try and make it funny. I just think it is funny. All by itself. I'm not going to do anything, but simply share the conversation I had there.

Now, for the full effect, you need to realize that I've been going there for years. I am always polite. I always make the normal conversation with them. "Good morning." "How are you." Blah blah blah.

They should remember me. If they have 2,000 clients that come to them for their clothes to get cleaned, out of that 2,000, they should remember me, of all people. They always talk to me. We always have a little mini-conversation of sorts. But when it comes time to put my name on the receipt book, they never remember me. Ever.

So, I enter. And there she is, the same bearded lady that's been there for years. And I'm in no way, shape, form or fashion, making fun of her. She is what she is. She's been sporting a 6 o'clock shadow for years. It's like her trademark or something.

She's always nice to me. A little spacey, but always nice. And they do great work there. But they NEVER remember me. It's a little disheartening, but I can handle it. What I can't handle, is the unnecessary psychobable that reared its ugly head this morning.

I entered with a double arm load of shirts and pants.

CASHIER: "Good morning."

ME: "Good morning."

CASHIER: "What's the name?"

ME: "Slade."

CASHIER: "Blade?"

ME: "No..., Slade."

I wonder if she's ever shaved that thing?

CASHIER: "A?"

ME: "What? No mam, Slade."

CASHIER: "Yes, but is it 'A' Slade?"

This particular cleaners only goes by your last name, first initial.

ME: "No mam, it's 'J' Slade."

She has to have a mirror in at least one room of her house.

CASHIER: "What are you picking up?"

What am I picking up? First of all, this place has a large sign with big letters above the counter that clearly states "You MUST have your receipt to pickup your order!" So, shouldn't you be asking me for my receipt if I'm picking up? Second of all, I've got an arm load of clothes. You do the math.

ME: "Nothing. I'm dropping off."

CASHIER: "So you're not picking anything up?"

I look down at in my arms at the pile of clothing I'm bringing in and plop it over onto her counter.

ME: "No. Just dropping off."CASHIER: "Are you sure?"

ME: "Yeah... I'm sure."

CASHIER: "So what have you got there?"

ME: "Shirts and pants."

Do other people stare at her beard?

CASHIER: "How many?"

ME: "I don't know. Aren't you supposed to count them?"

CASHIER: "Oh, I'll count them."

ME: "Well, there you go."

P.T. Barnum would have a field day with this gal.

CASHIER: "One. Two. Three. Four. Wait, that's rayon. Three and one. Four. Five...."

(You get the picture.)

CASHIER: "You've got 12 regular shirts, 1 rayon shirt and 1 pants."

One pants? I will keep that smirk to myself, for now. No need to nit-pick her grammer.

ME: "That sounds right."

CASHIER: "You don't want any starch do you?"

I'm at the cleaners. I'm about to pay close to $3 per shirt and $5 for a pair of pants. I'm thinking the answer should be obvious. But it appears she's trying to talk me out of starch. But I want starch. So I say...

ME: "Yes, I want starch."

CASHIER: "Oh, you do? What kind?"

That was easy.

ME: "Whatever the little yellow tags mean. My clothes always have the little yellow tags on them."

CASHIER: "That's light starch."

ME: "Ok, then. Light starch it is."

And I smile.

She fills out the little receipt book with all my info about how many I have of each and what kind of starch I want. And then she writes 'Slade, A' at the top.

ME: "It's 'J' Slade."

CASHIER: "That's what I put."

ME: "No, it says 'A' Slade, right there."

I know I don't have a lisp.

CASHIER: "Well, what did you say?"

ME: "I said 'J' Slade."

CASHIER: "Oh, you did, didn't you? What was I thinking?"

ME: "I don't know."

I smile.

CASHIER: "Well, we have an 'A' Slade, a 'J' Slade, another 'J' Slade,"

That's not counting me, I assume.

CASHIER: "... an 'E' Slade, an 'L' Slade. We've got alot of Slades."

ME: "Well, that's good."

I point down at the 'A' on the receipt book she's writing in.

ME: "But I'm 'J' Slade."

CASHIER: "Yes, you are. I will change that."

She does.

ME: "Did y'all ever think about using the person's entire first name instead of just the first initial?"

CASHIER: "No. It gets too confusing that way. This way works fine."

ME: "Oh, I see."

CASHIER: "And, there you go."

She hands me the ticket.

I ask the obvious question.

ME: "When will they be ready?"

CASHIER: "Whenever you want to get them will be fine."

I grin.

ME: "Ok, I want them now."

CASHIER: "But you said you weren't picking anything up."

This is classic.

ME: "No, I meant I want the ones I just gave you."

I smile again because she's really getting confused now.

CASHIER: "But they're not ready yet."

ME: "But you said 'any time'."

She is really puzzled.

CASHIER: "Well, you just dropped them off."

ME: "So when will they be ready to pickup?"

She smiles and shakes her head a little with that 'duh' look on her face.

CASHIER: "Anytime's fine."

Even though I'm dragging her along this road of confusion, I'm still very surprised that it's this hard to get a straight answer.

ME: "So tomorrow is ok?"

CASHIER: "Sure. Anytime after five."

ME: "Ok. Tomorrow after five. I can do that."

CASHIER: "Are you sure you aren't here to pick something up?"

ME: "Yes. Unless my wife brought something by here that I wasn't aware of, I don't have anything to pickup."

CASHIER: "Well, I could've sworn that I saw an 'A' Slade back there."

Ok. There's a thousand shirts back there and she miraculously remembers that one of them probably had a name on it that was not mine. I'm intrigued, to say the least.

ME: "But I'm not 'A' Slade."

CASHIER: "Well, I guess you're not. Otherwise, you'd be picking up your stuff."

ME: "Are we done here? Can I go now."

CASHIER: "Yes. Thank you. Come again."

ME: "I will. I've still got to pickup those shirts."

CASHIER: "The one's your wife brought?"

ME: "My wife didn't bring any."

CASHIER: "Ok, then. Thanks."

I'm thinking that if this place is turning a profit at all, then I should be a millionaire.

Newk's - 10.06.09

2009-10-07T14:16:00.002-05:00

Newk's - 10.06.09

The Promenade, pronounced prah-men-odd if you live in Bayou View and prah-men-aid if you live in Diberville, opened up recently. It's a few acres of the latest and greatest in shopping and food for this area.

There's a Best Buy, an Olive Garden, a couple hotels, an AT&T store,
several random shopping village type stores and variety of restaurants all nestled around a winding strip of roads that surround the headliner, Target.

All up amongst the middle of this spaghetti junction of turn lanes and crossovers and four-lane nastiness, that's sure to be programmed in the favorites section of your local ambulance's Garmin, sits a little restaurant that, quite frankly, I'd never heard of before. I guess I don't get out enough. Newk's is a great little secret of this new Promenade. It's owners are local folks. It's founders are the same group of people that started McAlisters Deli. So that should at least get you in the door the first time.

Before I get started, I must say that the atmosphere there is nice, the food is great, the service is exceptional. Kudos! We have eaten there a couple of times already. I highly recommend it, if you get the chance to go by.

However, you've got to know this. Once again, I was both shocked and amazed during my most recent visit. It blows me away the rollercoaster level of service we get here on the Gulf Coast. But Newk's does it right!

There are two ways to enter. First there is the main front door. Then, there is a side/back door entrance that requires you to walk through past the fountain machines and through the crowd a little to get to the order counter. This time we came in the front.

The restrooms are to the right and I thought it was very fitting to have a sink out front in plain site to wash your hands before placing an order. That was a nice little touch. Since I had not been in their restrooms before, I thought I'd check that out first. I always like to see how clean the restrooms are. It's amazing how similarly restaurants maintain their restrooms and their kitchens. You can't always see how clean the kitchen is. But you can always check out the restrooms. I opened the door and was blown away.

As I said earlier, this is a fantastic little secret in Diberville. You simply must go! But I wish I had not gone into the restroom first. It's very poorly designed. I will explain. (You may want to skip down a couple or three paragraphs.)

I opened the door and took a step forward. The main stall there inside is facing the entry door. And more importantly the gap between the door and the facia where the latch is, is about 3-4 inches wide. Get the picture? If someone is sitting there doing their business, and this time they were, then they are in your exact line of site as you enter, and this time they were. And if they react, as human nature would have us, they might look up, as they did this time. And if they look up, like they did, they will, without a doubt make complete and total eye contact, just like this guy did last night.

Talk about uncomfortable. What was I to do? I made eye contact. I didn't mean to. But I don't see how it could be avoide. I'm sure he didn't want to see me any more than I wanted to see him, but our eyes met. It was uber uncomfortable. I didn't want to make eye contact with a guy doing his business. That's private. And to make it worse, I said "How ya doin'?"

How ya doin'? How ya doin'? Not only do I already know how he's doing, I also know what he's doing. And even though it's a perfectly natural occurence and everyone does it all the time, it's just one of those moments I wish I could take back. But I couldn't. Then he said "Not much, man." Now, I knew he was uncomfortable too. Just like me. I asked "how ya doin'?" and he answered with an answer that didn't even make any sense. I guess in a way it was kinda funny. So I did what I went in there for and left. That was the longest 1 1/2 minutes I've lived through in quite some time. Just awkward.

So I meet back up out front with my wife.

She asks "So how are the restrooms?"

"Oh, they're nice" I say. Apparently I had this shit eating grin on my face because she said "Oh, ok. Alright." And then she smiled too.

Of course, I'd have to tell her later. How could I not. I guess I'm still a 4th grader on the inside.

I've only been here once and I've not done any menu research. So I really don't know what I want to order. Pizza? Salad? Soup? I'll just get a suggestion from the house. I'm actually expecting, "Oh, well what are you in the mood for?" or "It's all good" or "I'm sure you'll like it all." I've already prepared so that I don't have a repeat of the C&G incident. I'm standing at the order counter, tapping my hands in nervous rhythm and looking over my right shoulder trying to read the ill placed menu. And that is where the amazing part kicked in.

The girl at the register asked "Hello and welcome to Newk's. Can I take your order?"

The following happened in the course of about 30 seconds. I was not as prepared as my wife.

She ordered first...

"I think I'll have a sandwich."

"Chicken Salad, Club, Grilled Chicken, Shrimp Po-Boy, Italian, Newk's Q, Pesto Chicken, Pimiento Cheese, Roast Beef, Smoked Ham, The Wreck, Turkey Breast or Veggie Club?"

I stand a little closer to listen. This is gonna be good.

"Can you describe the Italian?"

"Sure. It is capicola, mortadella, pepperoni, salami, provolone, mayo, spicy Creole mustard, lettuce, tomato, yellow onions, hot sliced cherry peppers and Italian cheese."

This girl really knows her stuff.

"What's on your Club."

"Ham, turkey, cheddar, swiss, Applewood bacon, tomato, lettuce, our original honey mustard and mayo."

She didn't miss a beat! Wow! This girl is flawless!

"I'll take that. No mustard. No mayo."

"One Club, with ham, turkey, cheddar, swiss, bacon, tomato and lettuce. No mustard. No mayo. Would you like a drink with that?"

"Sure, what do you have?"

"Pellegrino, Evian, Acqua Panna, Coke, Diet Coke, Coke Zero, Sprite, Diet Sprite, Mr. Pibb, Powerade, Iced Sweet Tea, Unsweet Tea, Bud Light, Michelob Ultra, Coors Light, Miller Light, Heineken, Amstel Light, Orangina, Fresh Ground Coffee and we have a list of wines available bye the glass or by the bottle."

Holy moly! And all this is from memory. I'm still looking over my shoulder trying to double check her work. It's spot on!

"Unsweet Tea."

"Would you care for a desert? We have Banana Cake, Big Krispy (regular and peanut butter), Brownies, Caramel Cake, Carrot Cake, Chocolate Cake, Pineapple Cake, Red Velvet Cake and Strawberry Cake."

"No thank you."

"And you sir?"

I'm not really sure that I am prepared to answer with all the choices. But I'm so enthralled with her ability to quote directly without using a cheat sheet. I'm taking a step closer to the register to make sure I can accurately hear her and I'm still trying to look over my right shoulder to see the menu. Not that I will need it. This girl is fantastic!

I stare at her in awe for just a second becaue I've never, and I repeat NEVER, come in contact with such an efficient young person to take my order. This is great!

"I will have a salad."

"We have Black & Bleu, Caesar, Chef, Cobb, Greek, Newk's Favorite, Shrimp Remoulade, Simply Salad, Southern Salad and Ultimate."

"What's on the Newk's Favorite?"

"Mixed greens, grilled chicken breast, gorgonzola cheese, dried cranberries, grapes, artichoke hearts, pecans (pronounced 'puh-cons', so I know she's a local) and croutons tossed with Newk's sherry vinaigrette."

I want to hire this girl.

"And the Ultimate?"

"Mixed greens, grilled chicken breast, ham, turkey, bacon, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheddar cheese and croutons tossed with Newk's original honey mustard."

I could do this all day long. She doesn't miss anything.

"I'll have that without the tomatoes. No cucumbers. Axe the honey mustard. I'll take something close to Italian."

"That would be our Greek Dressing. It's clear like Italian, with a tangy kick."
"That works."

"Ok. I have an Ultimate Salad with mixed greens, grilled chicken breast, ham, turkey and bacon. No tomatoes. No cucumbers. Substitute Greek for Honey Mustard."

"That's it. Exactly."

"Would you like a drink with that?"

"Coke."

"Regular, Diet or Zero?"

"Regular."

"Any cake, krispy or brownie?"

This gal is efficient.

"No thank you."

"Your total is $16.02. Will that be cash, credit or debit?"

"Debit."

"Please swipe your card and enter your pin."

I did.

"Please press ok."

I did.

"Ok sir, your number will be 180. Please take this and place it in the holder located on the top of the table of your choice and we will have someone bring it right out to you."

I'm still smiling. Never once, did she say "oh, it's good" or "oh, you'll like it". Just short, direct and to the point. That's my kinda deal.

"I will. And thank you very much. I don't think you know just how pleasant that was. They are lucky to have such a great employee."

"Thank you, sir. (pause and smile) Can I help the next person in line please?"
We walked over to the only open booth. This place is packed. The table is clean. The tabletop is not sticky. The food came out momentarily. And it tasted great!

Quite honestly, the food could have been less than par and I'd still want to do business there again just because of the treatment we received and the good service we got.

I'm still not all that excited about the restroom set up.

But I can go before I go next time.