An homage

In my many years of schooling, I've been guided by several excellent instructors. From my aptly named 1st grade teacher, Mrs. Apple, to my grad school stats guru, Dr. Connerly. At the end of the day, though, the absolute best was Howard Bahr -- my lit instructor at Ole Miss. He was born to teach literature. When Mr. Bahr discussed a book I felt I was living the story. He had a wonderful habit of pacing the room and fiddling with his pocket knife as he led us through various pieces of literature. His analysis was excellent, but I've always remembered his personal comments more than any explicit piece we ever discussed. I know it's a cliche, but I always felt he was trying to teach us something about life rather than just trying to get us to memorize a bunch of character names, dates, and themes. I never ever missed one of his classes.

When I knew him, Mr. Bahr was a lit instructor and the curator of Rowan Oak (Faulkner's home). An academic cat fight, however, forced him out, or so I believed, and he ended up at Motlow State CC in Tennessee. Since he's been there, he has managed to write three critically acclaimed Civil War novels. While I'm not a huge fan of Civil War fiction, these books are excellently written and, as I'd expect from Mr. Bahr, are filled with the most wonderful words. They certainly capture the time period. The man has a way with words. His first one, The Black Flower, came out the same year as Cold Mountain and while there are many similarities in the two, I've always thought it a bit unfair that the lesser book (in my opinion) received gobs of attention while the better book went virtually unnoticed. Oh well, such is life.

Anyway, I got to thinking about Mr. Bahr again a couple of years ago when I saw that he had been included in The New Great American Writers Cookbook. Though it's a tad long, and I'm sure I'm violating several copyright laws, I feel the need to reproduce his entire recipe. Here, according to Howard Bahr, is how to make "Hopping John and Other Fables":

First off, I should make it plain that I'd as soon do long division as cook. I hate the art and all that pertains to it, and I do not practice it. Furthermore, I have little use for eating and would not do that either, save when I don't, I get peckish [a true Mr. Bahr word]. All who know me will be astonished to find me in a cookbook, but no more astonished than myself. In any case, I am honored to be among such distinguished company, whatever the venue. Now I can say, "Yes, Barry (or Larry, or Ellen, or Amy, etc.) and I worked on a book together." I can claim that it was nothing unusual, that we do it all the time, and so on. It would not be as big a lie as some I have manufactured.

And now, from the man who cannot make a grilled cheese sandwich, comes a venerable dish I have prepared almost every day since I was weaned more than half a century ago. The cooks of the U.S. Navy did not include it in their repertoire, so I went those four years without it, but I was young then and could suffer any hardship. In the Southern vernacular, the dish is known as "Hopping John," though in my family it was, and is yet, known as "Peas and Rice," or Le Pois et Riz. I use the French because it seems more ... chef-like.

To succeed, the ambitious cook must first master Le Riz Parfait, or "The Perfect Rice," a secret handed down to me by my good friend Dr. Randy Cross, who learned it years ago in the monastery, and which I now give to you. It is an important process, for rice is a staple in the Southern American diet, as well as that of China, Japan, and Southeast Asia. Think about that for a moment, then begin.

Prime: Buy a box of Uncle Ben's Converted Original Rice. I do not pretend to know how it can be converted and original at the same time. In any event, read the instructions on the side of the box and follow them.

Seconde: The crucial element is to cover le pot and let le riz simmer for 20 minutes -- no more nor less. Do not be tempted, as so many are, to lift the cover and look inside to see what is happening. Nothing is happening of any interest. Neither may you stir. Go away and occupy yourself at some useful thing until the 20 minutes is up, then set le pot aside for 5 more minutes. You still can't look. At last, in due season, lift the lid and Voila!: Le Riz Parfait!

Tierce: Open a can of Bush's Best Black-Eyed Peas. Put them in l'autre pot and boil on high -- no use fooling around.

Quatrieme: Put some of the rice on a plate and put some of the peas on top of it. Mix them together. Serve with bacon, Spam, Red Devil Potted Ham, or some other easily prepared side. Drink ice (not iced) tea (in French, simply The -- I do not think they have a word for ice).

I am gratified to be able to share with the general public this simple, but robust, dish. My present constitution is owed in large measure to it; I can only hope it may do the same for others.

While I realize others will not appreciate this as I do, it is vintage Mr. Bahr. Now go read (or better yet, buy) one of his novels. At the least you'll get karma points.

Zimbabwe

You probably don't know this about me, but every year or two I develop an interest in some far off country or region and try to become something of an amateur expert on the area. The most recent example was Hungary (thanks to this book), but a few years ago it was Zimbabwe. These days, of course, Zimbabwe is in the news for all the wrong reasons, but several years ago it showed promise. Now it's a disaster.

Though Zimbabwe hasn't received as much attention (in terms of media stories and a general sense of buzz) as Darfur, much of the West has been making a lot of noise about Pres. Mugabe's latest round of abuses. Strangely silent, though, has been the rest of southern Africa. South Africa (the country), the acknowledged leader of the region has claimed there's nothing it can do. Instead of pressuring Mugabe, a special summit of the Southern African Development Community (SADC) just urged the West to drop sanctions against Mugabe's government! I can only assume a misguided sense of group identity prevents other south African leaders from speaking out against Mugabe. The man is killing the nation. Literally. Average life expectancy in 1990 was almost 60; now it's in the mid-30s. Hence, I was relieved when I saw this column in today's Washington Post. Desmond Tutu and Madeleine Albright taking a stand against Mugabe! No one carries more weight in the region than Tutu. Now maybe something will get done.

First, Tutu and Albright list some recent examples of Mugabe's thugishness:

Zimbabwe, long plagued by the repressive leadership of President Robert Mugabe, has reached the point of crisis. Leaders of the democratic opposition were arrested and beaten, and one was killed, while attempting to hold a peaceful prayer meeting on March 11. Morgan Tsvangirai, head of the Movement for Democratic Change, emerged from detention with a swollen eye and a fractured skull. Several days later, Nelson Chamisa, the movement's spokesman, was stopped en route to a meeting with European officials and beaten with iron bars. Other activists have been prevented from leaving the country to seek medical treatment for wounds inflicted by police.

Okay that's a pretty bleak picture. What do these esteemed persons suggest as a solution to the Zimbabwe crisis?

We are suggesting that global and regional organizations and individual governments should make known their support for human rights and democratic practices in that country, as elsewhere.
[...]
As in South Africa, the solution to the economic, political and social quagmire in Zimbabwe is open dialogue -- perhaps facilitated by the SADC -- that includes all relevant parties and leads to an understanding based on support for democracy and respect for the legitimate rights of all.

So let me get this straight. Mugabe is brazenly kidnapping, beating, and even killing political opponents; his country has the world's highest inflation rate and lowest life expectancy (per Public Health News); and there seems to be no internal hope for change. What's the solution? Evidently it's an open dialogue leading to an understanding based on support for democracy and rights. I'm sure Mugabe is quaking in his boots.

So how worried is old Bob about this call for dialogue? Well according to Reuters Mugabe proclaimed "excellent meeting" as he left the SADC summit. Remember that's the summit where they called for the West to end sanctions. Yeah, I expect he'll be abdicating any day now. It truly is a sad, sad situation, but I don't honestly think there's anything the U.S. can do to help Zimbabwe right now. We have no international intervention credibility left. Until the other African leaders stand up to him, I don't see any hope. Given the SADC summit, though, it doesn't look like that'll happen anytime soon.

Sigh.

My kingdom for a rock

Since I moved to Decatur, I've had many interesting "wrong number" phone calls. Many of them are simple misdials, but several have been aimed at some person who had my number previously. I don't know Jesse Lockett, but he/she must lead a colorful life. For a while I was finding messages on my answering machine telling me someone was trying to place a collect call to me from a prison in south Alabama. I almost wish I'd been home to have taken one of those. I'll admit it, I was curious.

Now that I've had my phone number for a couple of years, though, those have slowed down. Pretty much the only guy left who calls looking for Jesse is one debt collector. Over the past year or so, though, I've had a series of wrong number messages that I just could not figure out. Every month or two I'd come home to find a message from someone in Maine wanting to ask questions about my rock shop -- I always assumed stones, not clangy guitars. Anyway, these people would leave long messages about burning rock issues they needed resolved. Two things led me to suspect these folks might have a few pebbles rolling around in their heads. First, they were calling from Maine and it was obvious they thought they were calling a rock shop in Maine, yet I obviously have an Alabama phone number. Second, my outgoing message on my answering machine is pretty clearly a private residence message, not a rock shop. I could write off one kook not putting those things together, but I was puzzled by the fact that I'd get calls from different folks over a long period of time. Hmm, ...

Well yesterday I sort of got an answer to the rocky issue. [Sorry, can't resist the puns.] I was sitting at home when the phone rang and I saw on the caller ID that it was a call from Maine. I decided not to answer, but as I listened to the message the caller was leaving I became intrigued. She said she was calling from somewhere in Maine and she needed to talk rocks because she was planning to do some sort of holistic fair in May and ... Well at that point I decided that I had to answer the call. I kind of got sidetracked and I never did find out just what goes on at a holistic fair in Maine, but I did get some insight as to why these folks are calling me.

This very nice lady said she found a phone number for this rock shop somewhere, but then she found a different number for it in the local yellow pages. Yet somehow her call got routed to Alabama rather than Maine. Okay, I thought, maybe she just misdialed, but like I said, this happens sort of frequently. I asked her for the number she'd dialed and she read it to me straight out of the phone book -- it was some 877 (toll free) number! Now I really don't think she (and numerous other Mainers) would misdial a number so badly that an 877 number becomes a 256 number, yet (some of?) those calls go to me. Though I now have a higher respect for the intelligence level of the folks in Maine, I really don't understand how this happens. The Maine lady had a possible explanation -- it must be a wire somewhere! Though simplistic, it's as good as any explanation I can come up with.

Unfortunately I didn't write down the number she dialed. I wish I had because I could maybe use it to get the phone companies to try to track down the source of the problem. As it's not a real inconvenience to me, though, I think I'd have been more likely to give it out to my long distance friends and see if they could use it to call me toll free. That'd be kind of cool, huh? Of course that'd mean I'd have to get some friends, but that's a minor detail. I'd kind of like to have my own toll free number.

Of course this could be a sign from above that I'm supposed to give up my current career path and go into the rock business. I think the frequency of the phone calls will have to pick up before I consider that seriously, but it is something to think about.

Larry Brown tribute

Though he died in 2004, this year's Conference for the Book (at my alma mater) was devoted to Larry Brown. While he was/is thought of as a legitimate Southern writer, I was surprised to see this honor bestowed on him this soon after his death. Regardless, I think it was a nice choice and I am especially pleased to see that the conference wasn't populated solely by academic blowhards (not that I have anything against academic blowhards). From the New York Times:

Like his characters Mr. Brown, a firefighter and largely self-taught writer, loved to drive around the county chain-smoking and drinking beer. On his car stereo he played Southern singer-songwriters like Robert Earl Keen, Alejandro Escovedo and Vic Chesnutt. As his fame grew, his passion was reciprocated. He became a patron saint and friend to alt-country, anthem-folk, hillbilly, banjo-picking, Southern soliloquizing, bourbon-poisoned, frat-boy-followed and/or cop-chased musicians. Tom Waits and Kathleen Brennan wrote a song, “Long Way Home,” inspired by Mr. Brown’s stories, and the country star Tim McGraw optioned some for movies.

On Thursday Mr. Keen, Mr. Escovedo, Mr. Chesnutt and others gathered here [Oxford] to celebrate Mr. Brown, play music in his honor and, as they say down here, tell stories on him.

Read the whole thing, if you can. I wanted to get this up today before the Times puts the story behind its "pay only" wall, but I'm not sure if it'll work. If you're a big Larry Brown fan and you can't read it, let me know and I'll try to figure out a way around it.

Anyway, what originally caught my eye was the opening to the story. Though the Times takes a lot of flak these days, they still employ some pretty good writers. Ms. Dewan opens and closes with one of Oxford's most baffling quirks -- the fact that stores (in the city limits) can sell beer, but they can't sell COLD beer. Here's the opening:

The minimarts in this town are not allowed to sell cold beer, and anyone familiar with Larry Brown or his fiction might reasonably think that he is the reason. Mr. Brown, who grew up in this area, wrote stories with many a compulsive drinker, many a winding road and nary a designated driver.

And here's the close:

Mr. Keen, who is from Texas, sprawled in the back seat of the van and grinned. The title of one of his songs, “The Road Goes on Forever,” is engraved on Mr. Brown’s tombstone. The song itself is about Sherry, a waitress with a reputation, a dollar in her tip jar and a pot-dealing, Navy-reject boyfriend.

It could easily have been one of Mr. Brown’s stories, except in the song, the six-pack she buys is cold.

Though some might consider it a little too "cute", I like it. The only objection I have is that the stores in Oxford would NEVER be called minimarts!

Way to go Chargers

I was enjoying Spring Break so I didn't blog about this at the time, but I want to give a big "shout out" to my former school's hockey team. Despite a long and mostly successful history as the only varsity hockey program in the South (really, I'm not kidding), this year was a down year for the UAH Chargers. Despite going in as the bottom seed in the CHA tournament, they somehow managed to win the tourney and capture the automatic berth into the NCAA tournament.

Unlike the more popular NCAA tourney, the hockey tournament only includes 16 teams, so UAH earned a spot in a select group. Like the basketball competition, however, there are some automatic qualifiers, such as UAH, that really don't belong. As a result, UAH was seeded 16th (last) overall and slated to skate against #2 Notre Dame (#1 Minnesota played the #15 rather than the #16 seed for geographical reasons). Despite the Chargers' claiming they could skate with ND and ND's comments about how they were taking the game seriously, everyone knew it was going to a cakewalk for the Irish. Then they played the game.

Unfortunately UAH was not able to pull off the upset, but they did extend the game deep into two overtimes before falling 3-2. Given that college hockey is not as popular as college football or basketball it's hard to explain how monumental the Chargers' effort was. I know there have been a few cases of 15 seeds beating 2 seeds in the hoops tourney, but this is different. ND was the second overall seed in the tourney (probably Ohio State or NC this year) and UAH was the little team that had no business being there if not for an automatic berth given to a weak conference (akin to the winner of the "play in" game in the BB tourney -- this year it was Niagara). For the record, Niagara lost its opening round game by 40 points! But UAH fell behind 2-0 within the first 5 minutes, then managed to fight back and push ND through 1.75 periods of sudden death overtime. While the national implications wouldn't have been as great, it wouldn't have been too far behind (in my opinion) the Miracle on Ice in terms of just a pure hockey upset. [Okay, that's probably hyperbole, but it would've been huge.]

Regardless, the Chargers came up a little short. While I am suspicious of "moral victories" when a team loses a game, I think this might have been one for a program that may find itself without a conference in a couple of years. Hopefully this'll get the Chargers some more national attention and open up some opportunities for them in one of the more established conferences. So congrats to the Chargers. You'll get 'em next year!

Hey, Vol ...

care to share any of your expertise on this:

Just in case you thought that sports related cost over-runs only happened in the US, or Greece, a recent report from the UK indicates that the London 2012 Summer Games will cost three times the initial estimate. The original cost estimate was 3.4 billion pounds, but the most recent estimate is 9.3 billion pounds. Of course the 2012 Games are still five years away, so there is still plenty of time for more unanticipated spending.

I didn't click through to the actual "report". Stories like this just depress the hell out of me. Time after time we see that big $ investments in sports are not good "public investments", yet we keep falling for it. Sigh, good thing it's SPRING BREAK for me!

Rumor has ...

I have not received official notice of this, but the word on the street is that my status has changed and I am now tenured. To quote a quirky sitcom character, "Coolio!"

Southern ailment

It's taken a couple of years, but I've now found the perfect "old man" barber shop in Decatur. I detest having to get my hair cut, but I love barber shops. At least old man barber shops. You just hear the most interesting things.

I'd been to this place once before and yesterday I went back for my second cut. The same guy cut my hair as last time. He's obviously the less popular of the two guys there because both times I've been, he's cut my hair while others, who were there before me, continue to wait. It doesn't matter to me; I just want to get in and out as quickly as possible. Anyway, the first time I was there, this guy asked if I worked at one of the local plants. This time he wanted to know if I was a doctor with an office nearby. I'm not sure what changed to elevate me from plant worker to doctor, but both times I told him I teach at the local college.

What really amused me yesterday, and led to the title of this post, was a guy who was waiting for the popular barber. I'd noticed this guy while I was waiting my turn. He was holding his hand in a funny way and he had a bloody band aid on one of his fingers. When it was his turn for the chair, the barber asked him if he'd cut his finger. The guy replied, "Naw, I just mashed it." He went on to graphically describe the finger mashing, but it wasn't really necessary. Southern people "mash" fingers -- his was in a truck door, though they can be mashed other ways. Now I'm sure people injure fingers in other parts of the country, but I just can't imagine a New Yorker, for instance, complaining about "mashing" his finger in a cab door. (What do they say in other parts?) Yet it's a perfect description. When I hear one has mashed his finger, I get it. The only extra information needed is what particular implement did the mashing. Vehicle doors and farm equipment are the two most popular mashers, it seems to me.

Anyway, I got perverse pleasure from yesterday's discussion of finger mashing, so I think I'll be going back next month. I wonder what profession the barber will guess then?

Interesting marketing strategy

You may not remember, but about this time last year I had a romantic encounter that didn't work out well. I don't even remember if I ever mentioned this, but during that time I sent her a bouquet of flowers for her birthday. Have you ever sent flowers out of town? It's expensive. They say you can't put a price on romance, but the Jackson, MS florists sure exceeded mine. Anyway, I found one of those internet florists that delivered her flowers to her via UPS. She was very impressed, for a little while.

So back to my marketing story, ... Over the past year I've gotten occasional emails from the internet florist, informing me of their wonderful deals for special occasions, etc. For the most part, I delete them unopened. The other day, though, I got one that caught my eye. The subject line read, "Bxxx's Birthday Reminder!" When I opened it, the email reminded me how I had sent Bxxx birthday flowers and asked me if I didn't want to send her some more this year? Now this didn't cast me into a great black funk, but it did get me to thinking. I'm sure there are lots of folks out there who sent flowers to someone in the past year, but they don't want to be reminded of it this year. Relationships that just never took off, true love gone sour, the recipient might even have died between then and now. It just seems to me the emails could reopen some painful wounds.

On the other hand, I figure there are more people who would like to make a repeat order (at least if reminded of the occasion) than those I've described, so I guess maybe it is a good marketing strategy. Regardless I just thought it was an interesting question -- and it gave me another chance to take a shot at A for setting me up last year!

Movie surprise

I've seen more movies over the past year than I saw in the previous 5 or 6. Some of the movies have been wonderful (Little Miss Sunshine), some have been awful (You, Me, & Dupree), most simply have been okay. This past weekend, though, I did something I haven't done in a while: I went to a movie by myself. I used to love doing that, but it just hasn't been necessary since I started hanging out with movie people. Being alone, however, was not the most unusual part of the movie experience.

No, the strangest thing was that I'm not sure if I liked the movie or not. Now I'm not talking about a movie that leaves me indifferent -- eh, it was okay. No, this time I left the movie thinking, "Either that was a great character study or it was the stupidest thing ever." Now that I've thought more about it, I have to go with the former. I really think it was a solid, worthwhile movie. Whoops, I just realized I haven't told you which movie I saw. I saw Black Snake Moan.

Now given my (perhaps) unreasonable fear of snakes (and Mr. Jackson's recent foray into snake movies), I laughed and said I'd never go see a movie called Black Snake Moan. Then, though, I got to reading about the movie and it intrigued me. If you don't know it, the basic story is, ... Samuel L. Jackson plays a broken down former blues man who has just been abandoned by his wife. Christina Ricci plays a seriously messed up white trash slut (sorry, there's really no better description). I won't give away anything, but Jackson ends up nursing Ricci back to health and attempting to "reform" her wicked ways as well. It sounds cheesy as hell and maybe it was, but I think it worked.

First off, the movie is a wonderful example of Southern Gothic. If you like the way the "local color" is an essential part of movies such as "Deliverance" or "Slingblade" then you'll get what I mean. Even though the temperature was very comfortable in the theater, I swear I could feel the humidity and the sweat of the movie. Plus, the extensive and loud blues music in the movie really gave it a sense of verisimilitude (I like that word and rarely get to use it). Oh, about the blues stuff. There's a scene in the movie where Jackson's character plays a set at the local blues bar. As he was on the stage playing, I noticed the two guys playing with him -- it was R.L. Burnside's grandson and adopted son. I thought that was a nice touch.

So to this point, it's clear why I liked the movie so much. Why, then, was I so "undecided"? Well it was just a disturbing movie to watch. There was a good bit of brutal violence (especially early in the movie) and lots of raw sexuality and nudity. I'm no prude and I'm not going to claim I shut my eyes when Christina Ricci exposed herself, but parts of it were very hard to watch. Actually as the movie went on I had a realization. I'd never seen a less sexy movie with that much nudity. Seriously, she was so casual about sex and her body, eventually her nakedness lost its eroticism. I'm sure that was one of the "themes" of the movie, but the movie didn't insult me by knocking me over the head with that "lesson". It was just part of the story.

So once I got past the disquieting nature of the movie, I really enjoyed it. Jackson and Ricci were excellent. [More on my appreciation of her work in a later post.] The setting and the music added to the movie without getting in the way (too much) and the story kept my interest. That being said, there were some problems.

First and foremost, what the hell was Justin Timberlake doing in this movie? Ricci was very believable in her abused sex kitten role and this was one of the best characters I've ever seen Jackson play (well outside of Pulp Fiction), but Justin Timberlake? His buddy was pretty good, but I NEVER, not for a single minute, "bought" him as a good old boy from Tennessee. Maybe I'm biased, but that's not what good old boys from TN look and (especially) sound like! It just didn't work. Fortunately, he was only in the beginning and end of the movie. The meat and potatoes were, thankfully, Justin free.

As much as I was disappointed with Mr. Timberlake, he wasn't the biggest problem I had with Black Snake. No, the biggest problem was the way they hurried the sort of unbelievable ending. I was completely caught up in the story and it seemed to be appropriately paced. Then they realized they had to end the thing. Some critics have complained about the ending itself, but I wouldn't go that far. I think the ending would have been okay if they'd just taken 10 minutes or so to develop it. As it was, it feel forced. [Oh, I also had a plot problem with the "young boy" scene, but that wasn't important enough to make it into this rant.]

So anyway, I think I really liked this movie. It's weird, though, because it's a movie I'd be very reluctant to recommend to others -- not just because of the nudity and violence, it was just a hard movie to watch. I'm sorry I can't explain it any better, but ... Well, I just can't. Regardless, Black Snake is my favorite movie, thus far, of 2007, but I won't encourage you to go out and watch it. If you like Southern Gothic movies and you enjoy reading Faulkner and Tennessee Williams, I think you'd like it. If your idea of Southerness is Gone With the Wind and Harper Lee, you probably won't want to see it. [Note, I like both GWTW (sort of) and To Kill A Mockingbird, but they present a much different South than Black Snake Moan.]

While I haven't done a good job describing why I like this movie, it turns out I'm not the only one having trouble doing that. I'll close with a quote from that esteemed reviewer Mr. Ebert:

"Black Snake Moan" is the oddest, most peculiar movie I've seen about sex and race and redemption in the Deep South. [...] You have never seen a movie like this before. Then again, you may not hope to.

Birthday news

I'm sure you're all terribly concerned about how my birthday went, so I'll share. The day itself was remarkably calm. One old high school pal called to wish me a happy day (damn her, she remembers every year) and a current friend dropped off a present and took me to dinner. All-in-all, a good day. I was a bit nervous, though, as my coffee shop crowd did NOTHING -- not even a Happy Birthday wish. It's not that I wanted fanfare, but I know how they are and it made me suspicious. Still, Friday came and went with no surprises.

Saturday morning, though, was a different story. As usual, I headed to the local coffee shop to while away the morning. Gradually, the regular crowd drifted in. I noticed that attendance was a little larger than most Saturdays, but I thought nothing of it. At least not until it was too late. Suddenly it became apparent they were throwing me a surprise party Saturday morning. This would have been bad enough, but they weren't going to let me off with a small, dignified affair. No, they hung streamers and various other decorations, brought out a cake with candles, and made the whole coffee shop grind to a halt to sing Happy Birthday! Did I mention it was business as usual at the shop itself? That means total strangers were coerced into singing to me as well!

Then there were the presents. Now I've got no complaints about presents (still waiting on blogosphere presents) and I did appreciate the crossword puzzle book (Will Shortz is my hero) and beer mugs. That, though, wasn't good enough for the coffee crowd. No, they had to get cute and adopt a theme. What was the theme? Wrinkles! No, no the facial kind -- the clothes kind. You may not know this, but some folks say I have a "wrinkled clothing" problem. My contention is that I don't have a problem with wrinkles -- everyone else has a problem with wrinkles. I'll just say it; I don't iron. Whenever I have this discussion, other folks always want to give me hints (buy certain fabrics, put your shirt in the dryer with a wet cloth when you get out of the shower, etc.) about how to avoid wrinkles without the hassle of ironing. They miss the point. It's not the ironing per se, it's just that I don't care if my clothes are wrinkled. Sure, on certain formal occasions I might try to be less rumpled, but on a daily basis no one has convinced me that smoother is better. I tell people that, but they still don't get it. I even had one person jokingly offer to do my ironing for a month as a Christmas present. Even if that offer were made, I wouldn't accept it. I honestly would be no more happy if my clothes were ironed totally free of charge every day. It's weird, I know, but I swear it's how I feel.

Anyway, my friends don't accept that, so the "themed" presents all reflected my "wrinkle problem". First, I got an ancient (looked like 1960s) travel iron. Then there was a portable steamer thingy from the same era. This was followed up by a more modern iron, that happened to not work any longer, and a can of heavy starch and a bottle of wrinkle release spray. The highlight, though, was a nifty polyester leisure suit -- no wrinkles to worry about there. They were all really tickled with their efforts. I'm just biding my time until the opportunity for revenge presents itself. I wonder if they ever saw the South Park episode where Cartman plots his revenge on Scott Tenorman. Hmm ...

So that was my birthday. I won't say it was my favorite, but it was memorable.

Kind of a shame

I read something similar a couple of months ago, but here's another story about the Grand Ole Opry and how some feel they are squeezing out the faithful old-timers in favor of the younger glitzy group of performers.

The Grand Ole Opry showcases old-time country music every week, but some older country stars complain they are being shuffled off the stage at the historic radio show.

Charlie Louvin, Stonewall Jackson and others say they joined the Opry cast decades ago with an understanding: Faithfully make appearances at the Grand Ole Opry at the peak of your career for less than you could earn elsewhere, and the Opry would offer security and a place to perform when the hits stopped coming.

Now they say the Opry has reneged on that unwritten deal and is pushing older stars out. Jackson, 74, has filed an age discrimination lawsuit against the owners of the Opry, the storied home of country music.
[...]
“The only ones they want to see in the audience and on stage are young people,” said Joe Edwards, a musician in the Opry’s house band for about 45 years before he says he was asked to leave along with a number of other veteran musicians in 2000.

Now I'm sure there are two sides to the story, but any policy that results in Charlie Louvin and Stonewall Jackson being bumped from the Opry in favor of Trace Adkins and Brad Paisley sucks. Yes, I know the latter are more popular today than the former, but I don't think of the Opry as the place to see the hottest contemporary country stars. I think of it as a place to hear Charlie and Stonewall. Of course I realize that's what Gaylord is trying to change, but I just don't like it. I do realize I really have no dog in this fight as I don't think I've ever purchased a single ticket to, nor watched a telivised episode of, the Opry. Still, I have fond childhood memories of the radio show. I'd listen to it most every Friday and/or Saturday night (in season) riding home with Caffeine Dad after a night of coon hunting. [He'd hunt, I'd hang out with my aunt and cousin.]

Of course I may not be the best judge of all this as I tend to resist "nudges" to the future. I don't have a cell phone and I still use a chalkboard in class. To quote from my favorite episode of Newhart, "The country's goin' to hell; I move we secede!"

What'd you say?

I don't know why, but the other day I got to thinking about misheard song lyrics. The most famous example, of course, is Jimi Hendrix's, "Excuse me while I kiss this guy." If you thought you were the only one stupid enough to "mishear" certain lyrics, fear not. There's practically a cottage industry (here's one example, here's another) out there in identifying "mondegreens" (see here for an explanation of the term). Personally, I thought I remembered another name for such lyrics, one with more of a contemporary pop culture origin, but I can't seem to find that term. If you know the term I'm thinking of, please share.

So anyway, I got to thinking about those and I thought I'd share my two most infamous "mishears". I've done a bit of digging on this and it seems I AM the only person to have misheard these lines in these ways, but I'm used to being "unique".

1. Ever since I was a little kid, I've loved the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song, "American Dream." You know it, it's the one that goes:
   Voila! an american dream.
   Well, we can travel girl, without any means.
   When its as easy as closing your eyes
   And dream jamaica is a big neon sign.
   Problem is, I always heard that last line as, "And dream Jamaica is a pygmy on side." Yes, I realize my version makes no sense, but that's what I always heard. To this day, I still have trouble NOT hearing "pygmy on side."
2. A more recent example comes courtesy of Sammy Kershaw. Though "Queen of My Doublewide Trailer was is his best song, I always had a small problem with "Cadillac Style." The actual lyrics are:
   Well I ain't Goldfinger and I ain't Joe Fashion
   And you can't buy much with the checks I'm cashin'
   Now that makes sense, but I always heard, "And you can't buy much with a check signed Kashen (or some other last name)." See, to me the guy was complaining about some skinflint boss named Kashen. He didn't pay much, so you couldn't buy much with a check he'd signed. Yeah the intent is roughly the same, but I now realize my version is unnecessarily complicated. Still, it's what I heard.

So those are the two I've always had trouble with. Surprisingly, I never thought CCR was singing about a "bathroom on the right", nor did I really think Hendrix needed a minute to lay one on some dude. Heck, I was even pretty sure it was a DEUCE that was "another runner in the night." What about y'all? Got any good ones?

Oh, I also want to point out that tomorrow is St. Caffeine's birthday!!! Presents should be tasteful and, what the heck, let's try to keep them under $500. I'm waiting.

Whew

Okay, I finally have a little free time. Last week was just crazy busy.

First and foremost, Granny Caffeine passed away. It was sad, but not unexpected. Today would have been her 90th birthday and she hadn't been doing real well the last couple of years. On the other hand, it was sudden. They took her to the hospital last Sunday (I think) with severe stomach pains. She was then taken to another hospital where they performed some sort of surgery. Though she had a few brief moments when she almost came out of it, she never really woke up after that.

Of course when your family is as large as mine and the hometown as small, funerals tend to be big affairs. I saw family members I haven't seen since the last time someone died (I think that's a Lyle Lovett line) and I even "reconnected" with some of the cousins I don't normally talk to even at reunions and such. I ended up making my cousin who does missionary work in Asia very suspicious. He primarily works in former SSRs (Soviet Socialist Republics) so I was asking questions about the languages, customs, and even alphabets of these countries. I thought we were having a nice conversation, but he stopped and asked, "How/why do you know this stuff?" I explained that I did NOT know this stuff; that's why I was asking. He said he understood that, but he was surprised that someone was even asking these questions. I told him I was just a naturally curious guy who liked to read a lot. That seemed to satisfy him, but I'm still thinking he might have reported me to the proper authorities by now. Yep, I'm not going to be surprised if I get asked to go to the special line the next time I try to fly.

Of course I also spent some time with the cousins I usually hang out with. As usual, we tried to make tentative plans to get together more often. As usual, I don't think it'll work. Still, it's important, I guess, to go through the motions. On a related note, I'm now convinced that Cousin Becca will be the responsible one for our age cohort. She arranged and collected the money for a big floral arrangement from the grandkids. I wouldn't have thought of it, but even I could have made the call to get some flowers. What impressed me, though, was Cousin Becca put enough thought into this that she came up with a reason for selecting the style and the number of flowers the grandkids sent. I was impressed.

Did I mention there was food? God was there food! It seemed sinful to waste it, so I ate until I could eat no more. It seems an odd custom, but I find it touching how people, many virtual strangers, respond to deaths in small towns.

On a happier note, I also got to see my old pal, and sometimes commenter, Ang last week. She was in Birmingham for a conference so I drove down to meet up with her. Though we're a good bit older, it was like the old days. We went to dinner and a movie. I know that sounds boring, but Angie and I spent much of our years together (well, not "together", but living in the same town) doing one or both of those things. It was fun.

Though the basic game plan was familiar, we did discover one thing that has changed -- our discretionary incomes! See one of my favorite Angie stories involves my 21st birthday. Being as that is a biggie, Angie decided she wanted to do something special for me. Essentially I had a weeklong birthday. Each day I'd come home to find a present she'd left for me in my apartment. One day it was a scale model Ferrari with a note about how she would have parked it in the driveway, but she didn't want it to get scratched up. Another day there was a baseball theme. One day it was a stack of legal pads on which I was to write the Great American Novel (back when I had aspirations). Anyway, there was a week of that stuff. It all culminated in a room FULL of balloons, streamers, and a banner of sorts on the actual day. It was nice.

To wrap up the "week of St. Caffeine", we decided to splurge and go to dinner at a "fancy" steakhouse in the Oxford area. It wasn't much to look at, but once we were seated and opened our menus, we were in for a shock. I don't remember the exact prices, but I distinctly remember Angie's reaction. One word. GWAH (okay, I can't spell what she said, but I can hear it)! Needless to say, I'm pretty sure we ordered the cheapest entrees and water to drink. [Whoops, Angie drank nothing but Coke (the real stuff) in those days.]

So, anyway ... As we were having dinner the other night in Birmingham I commented on how life has changed. As I said, I don't remember the prices at the Oxford steakhouse, but I'm pretty sure P.F. Chang's was a good bit pricier. Yet we never batted a lash. Heck, we even ordered an appetizer. Of course I'm glad things aren't so tight as they were a decade-and-a-half ago, but I do sometimes miss those simpler days. Sigh.

Okay there's my maudlin reminisce. I'll try to stay more "up to date" this week.

Weather, weather, ...

I've been looking forward to Thursday afternoon all week because I figured it'd be the first time I'd have time to start catching up on all the stuff I've already fallen behind on. Y'all get that? Now, though, severe weather has led "them" to close my school today at 12:3o. I'm already pushing things by hanging around till now. I have a couple more things to take care of, but then I'm clearing out.

So how severe is this weather? Well if you listen to certain meteorologists in the area, you'd already have evacuated. In reality, I don't know. I do, though, LOVE this cool new map from the Weather Channel. I don't, however, love all that RED to the southwest. Oh well.