'Midst the Hum

Revolutionary

2011-07-31T11:48:00.021-04:00

Why I'm suddenly interested in the American Revolution, I don't know. Perhaps it's the crap in Washington regarding the debt ceiling. Or maybe, as I get older, I feel a bit closer to those who started us on the path to revolution so long ago. Or it could also be as a result of my recent trip to Massachusetts/Vermont that sparked this interest. Whatever it is, I have been to the local library and checked out book after book on the period.
In the first 150 years or so after the Revolution, most of the major American historians of that event were from the northeastern part of the United States, particularly from New England. As a consequence, the story of the War in the South was given little emphasis. However, since the 1970's, a newer generation of historians have come to realize that the war for independence was actually won in the South. To achieve that victory, no colony paid a higher price than South Carolina. More than two hundred battles and skirmishes took place on South Carolina soil, more than in any other colony.

South Carolina was the scene of shifting American fortunes throughout the War. Just a week before the Declaration of Independence, South Carolina Whigs won a pivotal victory -- one of the first in the South -- at Sullivan's Island overlooking Charleston Harbor. However, four years later in May 1780, Charleston, one of the most important ports in America, fell to the British. Soon thereafter, much of South Carolina was overrun by British troops. In the summer of 1780, the tide of the war reached its lowest ebb for the American cause. In August, American forces were defeated by Lord Cornwallis at the Battle of Camden, suffering what some historians consider their worst defeat in any war. But only two months later, at Kings Mountain, American frontier militia claimed a victory that shifted the tide in favor of independence. Then, at the Battle of Cowpens in January 1781, Daniel Morgan triumphed over Banastre Tarleton. That victory greatly weakened the overall military position of Cornwallis and ultimately led to his decisive defeat at Yorktown, Virginia in October 1781.
Although I have read about the entire conflict, my main interest lies with the skirmishes and battles that happened right here in good old South Carolina. And, later in the war, there were many.

When I first moved to Newberry in 1984, I heard from some of the locals about a site called Tarleton's Tea Tables. Tarleton's Tea Tables comprise several table-like granite rocks, four miles north of the City of Newberry on the old Whitmire Road, 200 yards to the left of the highway as one travels in a northerly direction.
"The site is in old Cromer Township No. 4. These rocks are of historical importance because it was here that Col. Banastre Tarleton and his legion of British troops encamped on January 9, 1781, while in pursuit of Gen. Daniel Morgan and his men. Legend has it that these rocks were used as tables on which Colonel Tarleton was served tea and so for many years, they have been known as Tarleton's Tea Tables."
I was told another version of this incident. According to this account, Colonel Tarleton came to a home near the Tea Table Rocks and demanded that he be served tea. The lady of the house informed him that he could have his tea but not in her home. Instead she had the general's tea served outside, using one of the rocks as his tea table.
Other battles that occurred in Newberry County were Williams' Plantation, Dec. 31, 1780; Mud Lick, March 2, 1781; and Bush River, May 1781. William's Plantation was not much of a battle. A battle in Clinton, to the north, had taken place the previous day and the tories (British loyalists) had escaped to WIlliam's Plantation. After Lt. Col. William Washington and his regiment showed, the loyalists surrendered.
On March 2, a small Patriot force, commanded by Col. Benjamin Roebuck, who devised a plan to lure the Loyalists out of Williams Fort. This fort was situated a few miles northwest of what is now called Star Fort in Ninety-Six. Roebuck sent 150 SC militia riflemen, led by Lt. Col. Henry White, in front of the fort. This would hopefully cause the Loyalists to come out of the fort and give chase.
The plan worked, and Lt. Col. White led the Loyalists into an ambush that had been set up by Col. Roebuck at Mud Lick Creek. The fort was then easily entered and taken. Once inside the ambush, the Patriots fired upon the Loyalists.
The battle see-sawed back and forth for about an hour. The Loyalists finally fled back in panic to the fort. Col. Roebuck was wounded in the shoulder and captured, and Lt. Col. White was badly wounded. Ripley speaks of it being burned, but in a letter from Pickens to Greene of 8 April, Pickens mentions a force under Loyalist Col. Cruger retreating to it for safety.

Bush River was not so much a battle as a Tory encampment. The following is taken from "The Annals of Newberry County":
In 1781, a Tory regiment, part of General Tarleton's command, was pursuing a part of the American Army under
General Morgan, when they arrived at Bush River, where they camped.
"In the night, a great fall of rain took place and made the river impassable; there was no bridge across it, except at William O'Neall's mills. To unite the 2d battalion with the 1st, it [the battalion] had to descend the river, and after encamping for one night, at least, at William O'Neall's, it crossed at his mills..." Judge O'Neall seems to have had no love for the British
Army. "When a battalion at Tarleton's command ... encamped at William O'Neall's, everything was seized and
treated as if it all belonged to them, the fences were burned to make camp-fires, the cattle were butchered for beef, the officers billeted themselves on the unpretending Quaker family, without money and without price. When a part of Greene's [American] army, on their retreat from Ninety-Six, passed the mill, everything was paid for, and perfect order prevailed." Tarleton caught up with Morgan at the Cowpens, where, on 17 January 1781, Morgan defeated him.

I've visited Tarleton's table, but have yet to see where the other activities took place. As soon as the weather cools a bit, I'll be trekking through the woods to see where history played out.

The In-Laws

2011-07-06T14:13:00.010-04:00

I posted awhile back about a new tradition that we enjoy-the annual halloween gathering at Roger and Peggy's place on Main St. in Newberry. While I could also add several more to the list (Christmas Eve, 4th of July, etc.), I'd rather write about the reason why we have enjoyed these new traditions with these new friends.
When my son announced his engagement to Catherine a few years back, I was apprehensive about meeting the soon-to-be in-laws. Roger (a retired USC professor and current antique store owner) and Peggy (head of forensics for the state of S.C.) have turned out to be two of the nicest, most caring people that I've met. Roger loves his golf, which he plays almost daily, and shoots in the 70's. Peggy loves to pick up gifts for the grandchildren, and makes a killer casserole!
This July 4th, we met up with them, son Ryan and grandson Jack, Michael, Cat and Fiona to see the Newberry 4th of July fireworks show. The event was so packed that we ended up in the Lowes parking lot, along with a hundred others, to see the spectacular display provided by the Newberry Sheriff's Dept.
During the fireworks, there was much laughing and playing and oohing and awing by all. It was a regular family event!
And that's the word- family.
I remember when my parents met Laura's parents back in 1976. They liked one another just fine, but didn't really hang out together at all. Maybe it was the age difference, as my parents were several years older than hers. Or it could have been the geographical difference-my parents were upstaters, Laura's strictly mountain folk. Whatever it was, it laid a foundation of normalcy on the whole subject of in-laws. Roger and Peggy would turn this upside-down as they invited us to share in various family gatherings.
Without gushing too much, I just want to state for the record- Laura and I have been blessed in many ways. Added to those blessings are two wonderful new friends that we now call family!

The return of Fudd

2011-07-03T08:23:00.004-04:00

Shhhh....be vewy, vewy quiet.
I'm hunting sqwerrals....he heh heh.

I must say, when it comes to shooting at the myriad of squirrels that gobble up all the bird seed that we place on the deck every morning, I am much like Elmer Fudd. I always miss my target, no matter how close. They always hop from the deck to the tree, hanging on to the side to laugh at me. That little chip chip sound that they make translates, to me anyway, into “you couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if you were standing on it”. Perhaps they're right. I've filled the woods with copper while aiming at the little beasts.
Let me state that I personally harbor no ill will at the little monsters. I'm sure that somewhere in the evolutionary train these critters have a place. Wife Laura, however, is a bird fan. She places bird feeders all over the property, filling them to the brim to lure chickadees, robins, bluejays, woodpeckers, doves and the occasional partridge for a free, unworked-for dinner. It's only natural then, that the squirrels would line up for the welfare meal. And line up they do!
To me, they're kinda fun to watch, little tails shaking up and down, un-trusting heads quickly moving from side to side, surveying any movement for an enemy that might disrupt the meal. And I have become the enemy!
Since I've been cast as the Wyatt Earp to their Ike Clanton, my main part of the relationship is to try and fill them full of copper. And try I do! (I should add that my secondary duty is to keep the birdseed coming so that we keep our symbiotic relationship current).
To recap:
Laura or I place birdseed on deck rail;
birds come to eat;
Laura enjoys watching the birds;
after a few minutes, the birds take flight;
Laura yells “squirrel alert, squirrel alert”;
I drop what I'm doing and go for the gun;
I quietly open the back door and assume the position;
squirrel eats as long as possible before jumping to the neighboring tree;
I draw a deadly aim (deadly for the tree maybe);
squirrel enjoys dinner and a show as I fill the air with flying copper projectiles.

Lately, I've noticed that the neighborhood squirrels are lining the branches, passing acorns and birdseed amongst themselves. Animal bookmaking perhaps?

Dads

2011-06-19T06:25:00.018-04:00

When I think of Father's Day, I see returning WWII vets running down the gangplanks, hugging wives and children that they had not seen in years. Or the navy guys grabbing female strangers in Times Square, planting kisses on painted lips and celebrating till the wee hours of V.E. Day. I am a part of the baby-boomer generation. Though I didn't arrive on the earthly plain until 1957, I still identify with these men because I was raised by one of them. A man born before the great depression, wracked with polio shortly after birth, a man who lost his father at age 4 and had to somehow become a man himself at a young age, quitting school to work in the fields, the mills, and wherever else he might earn a nickel toward the support of his family.
Charles Hazel (Pete) Reid was this man. While my grandmother eventually remarried, my dad was still the man of the house, meting out the punishment to his younger step-siblings as his mom required. Even then, my aunts and uncle still refer to him as a loving and good man. I agree with them on this point.

He was a man who, although his disability wouldn't allow him an active wartime role in the military, hopped a train and 'hoboed' from Greenville, South Carolina to San Diego California, living on 'pecans and toothpaste' while helping to rebuild ships torn apart by those dreaded kamikaze attacks. He had to do his part for the war effort. My dad.
Growing up during this turbulent time in American history, as so many brave men did, his value system was worlds apart from the values we hold to today. Their main purpose was not only survival for their families, but survival for the very nation that provided them freedom and security. Many fought and died for these principals and we are still a nation today because of them.
Pete had many stories from those days, and for the days leading up to the births of moi and my brothers and sister. A favorite of mine was the time he drove a taxi in Greenville. Stopping at the train station on Washington Street, hoping to pick up a recent arrival as a fare, he parked in front and waited. Soon, another taxi pulled between him and the station and, lo and behold, the first person to exit the station went to the first waiting cab. My dad was livid! This upstart cabbie had stolen his fare! Later that afternoon, a cabbie was found murdered and robbed in another part of town. Yeah, it was the guy who stole dad's fare, saving dad's life.
Fate is a funny thing.
Another story involves my dad and a coworker at the shipyard in San Diego.
One of the jobs on board these ships was to clean and sand and weld inside the diesel tanks of these monsters. Sometimes fumes still permeated the air in these tanks. A black co-worker had been assigned duty with another man to do the initial cleaning on this particular tank. My dad, a smoker like most in those days, asked his black friend to join him for a smoke before they went back to work. While they were having a cigarette, the other man in the tank created a spark while sanding and caused an explosion, killing the man. Had dad not asked his coworker to join him for a smoke, the black coworker would have perished as well. This decision served my dad well. Later on, while out drinking with another coworker from the same yard, they ended up missing the bus back to the base and were forced to walk (stagger) back. They ended up in a large, predominantly black neighborhood where, especially in those segregated days, a white man shouldn't venture. His white coworker, emboldened perhaps by his inebriated state, or the fact that he was a white man, started mouthing off to a few of the neighborhood residents. Before long, a large crowd had encircled them and were about to tear them apart when a large black arm reached through the crowd, grabbed my dad by the shoulder and announced "I got this one". Dad was dragged to an apartment, where he half expected to see his last sunrise when he suddenly realized that this was the man whose life had been spared by an unexpected smoke break (odd, isn't it). "I don't know why you're in this neighborhood but you gotta get outta here now", said his black friend, who proceeded to smuggle him back to the base.
One good deed deserves another. Dad also mentioned that he never saw this particular white coworker again.
When I think of the circumstances that led up to my birth, I feel very, very fortunate to be here at all!
I identify with that generation, the one Tom Brokaw termed "The Greatest Generation", not because I was an immediate post war baby; after all, I didn't come along until the late fifties; but because I choose to. These men, the men I grew up with, and was influenced by, were my compass point. They projected onto me and my peers an attitude of toughness, of unmistakable grit and determination that I carry with me to this day.
Dad also taught us that a man was a man; not black or white, not christian or muslim, but a man. That he was worthy of respect until proven otherwise. Or in the words of Pete: "Not black or white, but is he an asshole or not an asshole-they come in all colors, ya know".
My friend's fathers were cut from the same cloth; textile workers mostly, they knew even then that it takes a mill village to properly raise a 'youngun'. We dared not get caught doing anything that we weren't supposed to be doing by any of the neighborhood dads, as we knew that their belts stung just as much as our own dads'. And, unlike today, our dad would always thank the other dad for 'taking care of this' and then proceed to beat your ass when you got home.
When I say 'beat your ass', I don't mean in an abusive fashion. It was purely a 'spare the rod spoil the child' mentality, where most whippings were followed by a frank and heartfelt talk. They, in their own way, reminded us that punishment was doled out with love and was always in our best interest. I believe that to this day.
I remember hearing war stories from Doug Norwood's dad about fighting the Japanese. I remember Larry Durham's dad's stories of old baseball games and various sports legends. Or the time David Baker's dad had my ass for throwing rocks at cars near his house (David's dad could just give you a look and a mild scolding, but you felt as though he had your ass).

So, on this Father's Day 2011, a day in which my sister reminded me that this will be our thirtieth Father's Day without him, I raise a glass (or a cup of coffee) to my father, Charles "Pete" Reid, and all the dads of that generation for being who they were: sometimes brave, sometimes lucky, always present dads waiting with a belt or an encouraging word, depending on the circumstance.

MASS-achusettes

2011-06-12T08:44:00.013-04:00

MASS-achusettes!

Like most great road trips, this one began as an afterthought.
Late May in South Carolina and the heat had already settled in, spring having pretty much run it's course. Memorial Day week was upon us and Laura had planned on camping with Mom and Jim in North Carolina for the week. I had plans to visit the family in Greenville for a couple of days and then back home for the duration of the holiday. This was not to be.
BFF Pamela, of Greenfield, Mass., is a motorcycle rider, a trait that comes a naturally to her as her culinary skills. Straddling a 600cc bike, Adams leans into curves like she designed each one, making slight adjustments as she anticipates the next. Of course, she knows these roads pretty freakin' well having lived in western Massachusettes for ten years. She began riding as a kid in Haiti. She was a dirt biker, navigating the sandy trails of the southern part of Haiti, jumping the dunes and more or less being the tomboy that she is. Now she rides the roads of western Mass. through hail and snow.
So, I'm on the phone with Pamela and she tells me how her partner Liz had just bought a Honda 650 and it needed breaking in. "It's spring here Reid", she says with that hint of a smile in her voice. Hmmm....spring, riding the Berkshires, historical sites, me and Adams together again looking for trouble. How could I resist?
So with a quick right turn I pointed the Jetta northwards for the 15 hour drive.
I made pretty good time, hitting Greenfield early the next morning. Adams had made arrangements for me to grab some shuteye while she worked and I took great advantage of it. Good thing. When I was awakened at 1pm by Adams, she was ready to get my visit officially started. Oh, did I mention that when I walked into my room, a fine bottle of scotch awaited on my pillow? Oh yes! This visit will be a good one! We fired up the bikes and headed out across the farmlands and small mountains of Greenfield. Since I hadn't been on a bike since I sold my KZ1000 in the late 90's, I was concerned that I'd lost my skills, but it came back to me within a mile of departure.

Anyone who hasn't visited this part of the country is missing a real treat, especially if you're into the early history of America. Hardly a curve goes by until you come upon a farm that has been worked for centuries, sometimes by the same family. Or top a hill and there's another house built in the 18th century. Historical markers abound, some describing indian massacres, revolutionary-era skirmishes or the exploits of former colonists. Pay your respects to revolutionary war soldiers at almost any cemetery you come across while riding the valleys near the Mohawk Trail. Or see the headstones of entire families wiped out by cholera or smallpox.
If shopping is your thing, Yankee Candle has a large store just outside of Greenfield,
or stop at one of the centuries-old apple orchards that dot the valleys. I had a taste of an apple that was picked from one of the first apple orchards in the country (it was pretty bitter).
During our ride, Liz's bike developed a carburetor issue so we took it back home and called it a day. Next morning, I jumped in the Jetta and headed up to Vermont to catch some early morning pictures of the countryside. Back to the house by 11am, Adams arrived home from work and announced another trip: "we're heading over to New Hampshire". And away we went!

There's much more to this journey, like the sojourn up Mt. Sugarloaf,
or the fine dinner at "The Ho" with local beer to wash it down, or meeting a couple of new friends down near Holyoke, and the candlestick bowling fiasco (she wiped the floor with me) but I'll leave these tales to memory.

SFA Segment.avi

2011-02-19T04:31:00.000-05:00

The 2011 World Beer Festival

2011-01-28T10:06:00.029-05:00

The Setup

Three years ago we decided to shoot our 'On The Street' show at the inaugural World Beer Festival in Columbia, SC. After all, what better venue could provide the comic relief that was the hallmark of that show, a question and answer format. We also decided (and we still question our good judgment on this one) to tape both the afternoon and the evening sessions – each lasting 4 hours.
While all this footage provided us with an interesting and funny show, we noticed that the attendees for the evening session were less the beer aficionados as their afternoon brethren, and more like the college-age frat boy beer lovers. This was brought home to me as I decided to volunteer for this year's festival.
At the volunteer meeting, held a few days prior to the event, it was brought up that the afternoon and evening sessions were as different as night and day, and our observation of the past audiences were spot on. It was with this knowledge that I walked into the Convention Center in Columbia on that cold, January morning.
My original plan was to be a captain of a group of volunteers, which would put me in charge of a row of booths, a support position at which I thought I might excel. Alas, all the captain positions were filled when I submitted the volunteer application, so I decided to leave my fate in the hands of the fine folks at the Columbia Opportunity Resource (COR) who were helping to provide volunteers for the event. When I stepped up to the table to get my assignment for the day I asked for anything in the VIP area. I thought that the area curtained off for the VIP attendees would be a quieter, more civil atmosphere for this young grandfather. Informed that all the VIP assignments had been handed out, I threw my fate to the wind and said to Kathryn (COR representative) “then just assign me anywhere”. Kathryn looked me up and down, scanned her assignment sheets and said “then I'm putting you in booth 143 as a pourer”. Assignment and T-shirt in hand, I made my way to the convention hall to find booth 143.
When I arrived at the booth, the first thing that I noticed was the sign which hung above the booth - “B. Necktar Meadery”.

I also saw below that a list of flavors – Orange blossom, Vanilla Cinnamon, Wildberry Pyment, Margarita-Style Melomel, Pineapple Coconut Melomel, Backwoods Cyser and Barrel Aged Dry Cyser. I was soon met at the booth by Ian, the young rep of the meadery.

We set up our booth by lining up bottles of the precious nectar along each side of the table, arranging the literature across the front and placing our large pan of ice at the back. We then hung the “B Nektar” t-shirts (yes, they also sold shirts) and women's tank tops across the back of the booth. Ian now gave me a brief history lesson on mead, his company's take on the product, and the wild success that this beverage is attaining in this new century.

What is Mead?

The wikipedia definition of mead follows:
Mead (pronounced /ˈmiːd/ meed) (also called honey wine) is an alcoholic beverage that is produced by fermenting a solution of honey and water. It may also be produced by fermenting a solution of water and honey with grain mash; the mash is strained off immediately after fermentation.
Depending on local traditions and specific recipes, it may be flavored with spices, fruit, or hops (which produce a bitter, beer-like flavor).
The alcoholic content of mead may range from about 8% ABV[4] to 18%. It may be still, carbonated, or sparkling, and it may be dry, semi-sweet or sweet.
Mead is known from many sources of ancient history throughout Europe, Africa, and Asia, although archaeological evidence of it is ambiguous. Its origins are lost in prehistory. "It can be regarded as the ancestor of all fermented drinks," Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat has observed, "antedating the cultivation of the soil."

Armed with this knowledge, and cases upon cases of corked bottles, we faced the morning crowd.
And so it begins.
The announcement of the opening of the doors was called out immediately after the ceremonial tapping of the keg, the official opening of the festival. It was only a couple of minutes later that we were swamped with people wanting to taste their 2 ounces of mead. Four lines soon formed and Ian and I were pouring and pouring and pouring into cup after cup after cup. After 3 hours of solid un-corking and pouring, we ran out of the morning session's allotment. The obvious disappointment of the remainder of the tasters was evident as we were chided for not bringing enough to satisfy all the attendees. Truth is-most of the tasters were rounding to the back of the line for another sip of a different variety. Some were even bold enough to hold up the line while they tried all the flavors.
The reviews were outstanding. A friend of mine dropped by for a sip and reported to me that the mead booth was the hit of the session. Our lines were longer and steadier than any on the convention floor. I could believe that as my arm was sore from pouring. I might also mention that, at about the halfway point of the session, Ian told me to start pouring one-ounce samples instead of the customary two-ounce shot. He thought that this move would help us to survive the entire session with our stock intact, but too little too late.

The Evening Madness

Let me first post the mission of the beer festival, taken directly from their website:
Our mission is to educate the public in beer appreciation and beer quality, and to build the local beer community. Every aspect of the World Beer Festival focuses on promoting the positive attributes of the growing beer culture.

Mission stated, the doors of the evening session opened and in they came- a motley crowd of 20 and 30-somethings, cute beer sayings on faded t-shirts, the obligatory torn jeans, cell phones glued to ears, smirking and pushing their way to the front of the lines. This is what I had observed three years ago when we were taping On the Street and I certainly wasn't looking forward to this crowd.
The line forms at the table and we begin again.
Ian and I had grabbed a separate break after the first session, Ian struggling with a far-away issue by phone. His wife had called from Michigan where she and their 2-year old had just been involved in an accident. Seems a guy had run
a light and rammed into their car, slightly injuring her but had thankfully left the child unharmed. I went to my car to sit and rest, listen to NPR and recover from the madness of the morning, When the second session began, I was a bit more confident of my pouring and presenting abilities and Ian, although obviously still rattled, had gotten the home situation in hand. We had opened several bottles to get ahead of the crowd and were now staring at our first customers. Let the fray begin!
Guess what?
These 20 and 30-somethings were polite, patient, cheerful and downright fun!
They were interested in anything Ian had to say about Mead, asking relevant questions and listening intently at his every answer, even amidst all the noise and madness. Color me pleasantly surprised and I dove into my duties with a renewed vigor. I had also been listening to Ian and was able to field a few of the simple questions myself, such as “what is mead?” or “which is your favorite?” (I choose the Orange Blossom (check out the description; Our orange blossom mead is made from the honey of orange and other citrus trees, and is aged on American oak. The flavor and bouquet will transport you to warm climates, where citrus groves stretch on for miles and miles. This mead will continue to mature wonderfully in your cellar.))
I had learned from Ian that they buy honey from Florida citrus-area beekeepers
for use as their honey base for Orange Blossom, which struck me as cool.
The second session was a carbon copy of the first – long, constant lines, inquisitive patrons, those who loved it and those who hated it. And, like the first session, we ran out; except this time a full hour and a half before the closing bell.
We only ran into a few assholes, one in particular who kept coming by to remind us that he had “to drive three states to be here, and by-God we shoulda brought more cause now he's not getting his money's worth!” After about the third time coming by, Ian pulled out a special bottle of B. Nektar that he had stuck back for a later purpose. After giving the obnoxious slob a full shot, the guy actually had the nerve to talk about how bad it sucked. I thought this funny. After taking care of so many people for so many hours, we finally had to endure this fucker-the one that we had waited for all day. Thankfully he waited till the very end to show!
After hanging around for another hour, I shook Ian's hand and wished him well-especially thankful for his home situation outcome, and headed for the door.
I must say that although I initially thought that volunteering for both sessions might be a bit of a stretch for this old man, I was feeling sort of elated from the day's events. I had met many new people, received an education about one of the oldest alcoholic drinks known to man, had my faith in 'today's youth' restored, been reminded that there will always be at least one asshole at any large event, and, best of all, I had survived it with a cheesy-assed grin plastered on my face as I drove back to Fort Reid!

Old Friends and New Traditions

2010-11-24T21:53:00.004-05:00

Old Friends and New Traditions

Recently, an old friend re-entered my life, via Facebook, of course.
I've known David Baker since grade school. We attended the same schools growing up, often in the same class or homeroom.
David is also a homeboy, growing up just up the street and over a block from me, and he figured into my life in a musical way.
As the 60's and 70's were a time of AM radio and hits on 45 rpm records, the lot of us would purchase the latest shiny record from the downtown Greenville drug stores, or at the record store inside Woolco, the new 'shopping mall' . The latest songs came our way via WQOK AM, and the DJ's reminded us that all that they played were the hits!
David had all the hits! He even had a bunch of records that were, to me, obscure. But he methodically cataloged every one of them and kept them safe from the dreaded "scratch syndrome".
I last saw David at our high school graduation. Shortly thereafter, I was off to Greenville Tech, marriage and children, and he set his sights on USC. The years passed and lo and behold, I had been married for 34 years and David had moved to Atlanta. Enter Facebook.
I immediately 'friended' David as soon as I saw his profile. What had he been up to? Did he still have that fantastic record collection?
We met for lunch in Five Points-Columbia one afternoon while he was in town.
He not only still has that collection, he’s added to it tremendously! And, to no one’s surprise, he holds a rather high position with the Atlanta public library system.
We’ve had lunch again since that first reunion at 5 points. He, like me, is a huge fan of the band Heart, and he handed to me several CDs of Heart ‘rare cuts’.
So, thanks to my very old and very dear friend David, I am in Heart heaven!

On to new traditions.
My son Michael married a couple of years ago. He fell in love with a girl whom he had known for a few years, and they tied the knot in a beautiful ceremony at the bride’s family home. This home, located in Newberry, SC, is known as the ‘Summer Home’. It’s a grand old home situated on Main Street.

Our new in-laws are Roger and Peggy, are the owners of this splendid abode.
If we had placed a special order for in-laws, we couldn’t have done any better than Peggy and Roger! Friendly, down to earth and charitable, Roger and Peggy epitomize the definition of fun!
We have been to several gatherings at their fine old home, and have not had a better time in recent memory. The newest tradition involves Roger, Peggy, the family and Halloween.
Newberry, SC is a small town, and it’s holiday traditions illustrate this. When we moved to Newberry in 1984, we first noticed this ‘small town feel’ at Christmas when all the residents along Main Street (and Johnstone Street, which runs parallel to Main) lined the sidewalks with lumineres (paper bags with lighted candles). It was a community effort!
Halloween was no different as thousands of people prowled the homes in search of candy. This is unprecedented!
For the past couple of years, Roger and Peggy have invitied us to the ‘big house’ to celebrate Halloween in a big way. There are costumes, drinks, good food, and more candy than you could imagine. We sit out front with the Jack-o-lanterns, creepy cobwebs, and the bowls and bowls of candy. As the spooky spooks and the super-heroes make their way to the front of the house by the dozens, Peggy, Roger, or the invited family members pass out the treats one by one, until all the spooks are satisfied with their evening take. In all, about 1500 goblins come by the house, holding out their bags or plastic Jack-o-lanterns for a treat.
This has become our new Halloween tradition, and hopefully one that will continue for many years to come!

Penis the Dog and the Ghost Cat

2010-10-17T09:39:00.002-04:00

Who would name they’re dog ‘Penis”?
I’ll tell ya who- my neighbor. They live just above me, through the trees, so normally I hear more than I see. I know this…they have two dogs. One is named Jake-a dogley sorta name. You know the other one.
Later mid-life has changed my habits a lot, especially my sleeping schedule. I used to sleep like a normal person, going to bed at 10 or 11pm and awake at 6 or 7am. Not anymore. Now it’s asleep at 10pm and up at 2am…then sleep again until 4am.
I like going out on my front porch in the early, quiet morning, listening to nothing in particular while having my first cup of morning Joe. It was this very scenario that I found myself in when I first heard that name.
The couple next door always let the dogs out at night to run and ramble, not an unusual thing in this very rural setting. Since there isn’t much traffic on the roads around here the animals are relatively safe from human harm. And they don’t cause any damage in the hood as everyone locks down the trash cans to keep the raccoons at bay.
The male half of the neighbors would usually be out around 5:30, calling the dogs back in for the morning meal before the couple left for work. I had gotten familiar with the sudden sound of the front door of they’re small trailer opening, followed by the man yelling at the top of his lungs “Jake…P…come on boys”. Although it always shattered my early morning serenity, I dealt with the short intrusion with no ill effects. Then came the morning that rocked my world.
I’m sitting in my porch chair, a cushioned Adirondack chair that my butt really sits well in, wearing only my wooly robe. There’s a chill in the air as autumn is finally upon us and football is in full swing. I take my first sip of delicious, hot coffee and I hear the neighbor’s door swing open. Expecting the usual, I brace myself for the air-splitting sound of a male voice. Instead I hear a shrill, almost siren-like yell – “Jake!” “Penis!”
The dogs didn’t respond fast enough for her so again - “Jake!” “Penis!”
I didn’t really know what to think. Checking my robe to make sure I wasn’t accidentally ‘open’, I sat dumbfounded. I listened carefully to make sure I didn’t imagine what I had just heard. She screams again, this time calling for dog number two – “PENIS!!!”
I had to yell back – “Jeez lady…keep it in the bedroom!”
Well, what would you do?
While we’re on the subject of animals in a rural setting, we have been cursed with a ghost cat. Back in the heat of the summer I discovered a white Siamese cat about 40 feet up a tree in my yard. For five days this poor feline braved 105 degree weather with no food or water while perched on this lofty branch. I tried everything I could think of to get the poor thing to come down from the tree. I sat out food near the tree…the neighbor’s dogs loved it. I moved the pickup truck to the tree, placed a 16 ft. ladder in the bed and tried, to no avail, to reach the cat. This setup left me about 15 ft. under the cat. I then rounded up a couple of 8 ft. poles, taped them together to form a 15 ft. pole and tried to prod the cat from her perch. She hung on for dear life to the limb, leaving me out of ideas. I called the fire department – (didn’t I read a story somewhere called “Fireman-Save My Cat”?) only to be transferred to the animal control office. “She’ll come down when she gets hungry” was the reply from this office. By then, my brother had stopped by, so I enlisted his help with my quest. I attached a bucket to the long pole that I had fashioned and moved it up the tree while Brother Gary secured the ladder. Gary’s observation was “what the hell do you think the cat is going to do with the bucket?” “Hopefully, she’ll crawl into the bucket and I can then lower her down”, I replied. “Well, maybe you should put a note in the bucket so the cat will know what to do”, says the brother.
Of course, this brought me to the realization that this was a futile attempt which depended on the cat’s knowledge of engineering and escape opportunities. Our final attempt was to hopefully scare the cat down. I setup my pressure washer, turned it to low and directed the spray at the poor thing. She lapped away at the water that was pelting her, but stayed in the tree. It was decided to take the advice of the animal control guy and just let her make her way down on her own.
Two days later, I heard no more ‘meowing’ coming from the tree, but instead the sound emanated from beneath the deck. The poor cat was emaciated from not eating for days, so I fed her a hearty helping of cat food courtesy of Gomez. Bad move – now she thinks that she lives here. Not having room for another cat, I took her to the animal shelter – knowing these guys could find a good home for this lovely cat. Problem solved, right?
A week later, late one night Laura looks out the glass door and sees a ghostly figure shaped like a cat. “She’s back”, Laura says…”the white cat is back”. “Impossible”, I mutter, since I had personally escorted her to the shelter. She is back. I’m not really sure how this happened…did she stage and execute the great escape? Did another cat slip her a file in a cat cake? Did she morph into a mouse, slide between the bars and re-animate as a cat again? All I really know is that she is now on the deck again, purring and meowing that she now resides here, has formally announced her change of address to her feline friends and stares at us through the window, her eyes somehow saying to us “you’re mine now…you’re both mine”!

September 18, 1976

2010-09-18T05:59:00.007-04:00

September 18, 1976.
I am nervous as a whore in church. Matter of fact, I'm in a church. I'm standing at the front of said church with my dad. He is known affectionately as a 'best man' and the years have proven this true. Just minutes before, I was standing in a small room adjacent to the front of the church with my 'best man' and a minister. I was hearing the best man make an offer: "Son, if you don't get married now, I'll buy you a car...any car you want". Thoughts of a flashy new Corvette crossed my mind. I saw myself sitting in the sleek, leather seat. The wheel in my leather-gloved hands, I was driving very fast - driving away from the church. Next to me in the other leather seat was my beloved almost - bride. She was wearing her bridal gown, her veil blowing in the wind. She was crying.
"That's our cue...we need to go out now". The minister's words snapped me out of my daydream and I said to my father "I love her dad...I want to marry her". He wrapped those steel arms around me and said "okay son, I had to be sure. I love you boy".
Standing at the front of the church, I'm looking out over a sea of faces, some I had known for a few months, some I had known all my life. There were uncles and aunts, friends and co-workers, band mates - stoned off their asses on acid, old school mates - stoned off their asses on marijuana. I looked to the familiar faces of some of my closest cronies for a hint of support, the return look was one of stoned acceptance, as if they were thinking "I can't wait for the reception...I'm munching!".
I see my grandmothers sitting in the second row. Just a few years ago I was in awe of these women, their faces wrinkled, their eyes smiling. I wonder what they're thinking. Are they proud of me?
To my left I see my mom. She is sitting on the front row, dressed to kill - a suspicious look in her eye. She was never in favor of this - I was too young and it would never last, she had told me over and over again. I wondered if she might be right.
To my right I see my new in-laws to be. Laura's mom is wearing a big, floppy hat, as was the custom in the seventies. Two of three of Laura's younger siblings sit next to her, clearly wishing that they were anywhere else.
The music changes and down the aisle comes the bridesmaids. Laura's friends are lovely in their long dresses made especially for the occasion. Followed quickly by the groomsmen, my brothers, brother in law and an old friend (and co-author of this blog). They look as bleary-eyed as me, after a long night of bachelor-partying.
Everyone takes their place as the door to the vestibule closes - then reopens. And there she stands on the arm of her father. As the music changes once again, she starts down the aisle, hesitates, starts again...'what the fuck?" I think as she finally moves toward me. I later learned that she was so nervous that her dad had to drag her down the aisle. Thoughts of a new 'vette faded as she took her place beside me and the preacher asked everyone to be seated.
That was 34 years ago today.
Through the years we have survived parenthood, indiscretions, arguments, fights, separation, loss of friends and parents, and the heart-wrenching loss of our beloved daughter.
Through the years we have also shared the joys of friends and family, the great times at reunions and partys, the pride of seeing our children grow and become wonderful adults, and along the way we've shared a laugh or two.
Now, we are grandparents, watching little Fiona grow, take her first steps and share her first words.
Was my mom right? Will this marriage last?
We'll check in again in another 34 years and see, shall we?

Gomez

2010-04-15T08:17:00.008-04:00

Gomez

A little about Gomez, the family cat.
Gomez was born with a silver ball of catnip in his mouth. The runt of the litter, Mr Go struggled at first to find the hind tit. A little encouragement, and interference from Laura, and Mr Go was happily suckling said hind tit and began to develop, growing almost as fast as the rest, but not quite evolving as he should. You see - Gomez has no hind claws, a real disadvantage in a fight or flight situation. He doesn't have all his teeth either, another disadvantage in a full blown- scratch, claw and bite altercation with man or beast. Okay, the silver ball of catnip may have been a bit tarnished but he was lucky all the same.
Gomez came into our lives while we were building the cabin. As with any rural area, Go's mom was dropped off, great with kitties, by someone who couldn't care for her (or didn't care for her). Since we were in the habit of sitting on my mom's porch during breaks in construction it was only fitting for our newly-adopted cat slut to reside in a box on the porch, a safe place to do the spitting out of the litter, when time came for that. But cat slut wanted no part of the box. When nature took it's course, cat slut spat those kitties out on Laura's foot. Gracious Laura, Mama Laura, caregiver Laura just sat there and was awed by it (growing up on a farm, first hand accounts of animal birthings were no stranger to her). Me - I nearly puked.
So Gomez, Taz, Calpernia 2 and the other cat (who shall remain nameless) came into this world and were universally loved and cared for. Lucky them!
We chose Gomez, or he chose us because of two things- I have always been one for the underdog, and Gomez, clearly behind in the race, was already my favorite. The second thing was an incident which squarely put Gomez in the lead as far as I was concerned. The incident went as follows:
We were working in the cabin framing the interior walls, all the kittens had been moved here by their slut mom, and they were all sleeping peacefully amidst the noise of construction, all laying at the foot of the air compressor. The air compressor kicks on (and it made a hell of a noise) - slut mama cat and all the kittens scattered to the winds in a flash...except for one. Mr Gomez lazily lifted his tiny head, yawned and lay back down for some well-deserved shuteye. As soon as the compressor cycled off I told Gary and Laura that Go was our new pet. Mr Go...Meesa Go...Mr Gomezio! My buddy!!
Time goosesteps on and Gomez made his new home our new home. After we moved in with him in late 2006, he was a bouncing kitty, playing with Laura's yarn, chasing imaginary critters through the yard, and training us to be good stewards of the cat. He liked the way we talked, we liked the way he mewed, we got along pretty well, I reckon. Mmm hmm.
As he grew, he became more and more adventurous, despite his not-so-obvious birth defects. He chased real varmints, small though they were, across the yard and ended the chase by scurrying up the nearest small tree, looking like a wildcat. Unfortunately, because of the missing hind claws Mr Go couldn't stay up the tree for long...except for one morning...(dreamy flashback sequence here).
Go is scared shitless of lightning. One cloudy morning, as the storm clouds blew in, a sudden crack of thunder and flash of lightning upset the Go's world. Why he headed for the cedar tree I'll never know. Take a picture of this:
6:30am. I'm on a 16 ft. ladder in a 30 ft. cedar tree, shirtless, no belt on my pants, trying to rescue poor Mr Gomez. If he could come down to the limb below then I could reach him, but he seems to like it just fine right where he sits.
Another crack of thunder and I'm just about ready to let him sit in the tree, if that's truly where he wanted to be.
Then the rain starts. Heavy rain. Hard rain! Bad for me, but worse for Gomez as he begins slipping on the now wet limb. As he falls towards me, I let go of my pants (yes... holding them up because of the no-belt thing).
As I grab Gomez, my pants fall to my ankles, he's pissed and scared by the whole turn of events and starts clawing away at my bare chest. Lucky for me I only received half the agony because of the missing claws.
Gomez securely in hand, I pulled up my pants as best I could, scampered down the ladder, looked around to make sure no one saw the whole thing, or part of the thing, and ran to the house.

He was named after Gomez Adams, after the Adams Family TV show patriarch. His most recent moniker is "Meesa Go", spoken with an oriental flavor. I was on the phone with a bill collector, who was trying to convince me that I had missed a mortgage payment of which I had proof that I had made, and the conversation went on and on. Meanwhile, Gomez was darting in and out and around my feet, making it difficult to walk. The oriental lady was getting on my last nerve, Gomez was busy trying to trip me- I don't know what came over me but in my best oriental voice I shouted out "Meesa Go". The lady on the phone replies "No Meesa Go...meesa payment!" From that moment on...

The missing teeth and hind claws were brought to our attention by our vet, who assured us that he would be a great house cat, but not so great at security detail. And by security I mean the annual blue jays nesting in the tree right in front of the porch and the protection of pedestrians as they wander under or near the tree. Do not count on Mr Go to to come to your rescue. Blue Jays are notorious for protecting their area, and they dive on and peck the heads of anyone who comes too near the nest. Mr Gomez had a curious, but painful fascination with the jays. He got too near, they dove in and pecked his little head, he hit the ground as if someone had just yelled "grenade!", and they laid in on him like the peckerhead he can sometimes be. The first couple of years saw him blindly making his way into the house, head all scarred and bleeding from the vicious attacks, to find a place in the corner to 'sleep it off'.
By the third year, Gomez had grown into a handsome young fellow. Laid back, reasonably undemanding, he took to his neutering like he had been born nutless. I remember the day he got his balls back. Spring morning, Gomez is chilling on the back deck, I'm there in my chair having my morning cup of joe, the birds are singing and flying onto the deck bannister for a seed breakfast. A small bird takes a wrong turn, swoops a little low as he corrects his heading, and in one fell swoop Gomez leaps and comes down on that poor bird like Shaq making a mighty dunk. In a story as old as prostitution, down comes Gomez with bird in paw, slams it to the deck and claims it as 'his kill'. Yes son...you're a man now!
After that incident, he learned how to deal with the blue jay situation. Now, instead of hitting the dirt when they attack, he runs as fast as his little paws will carry him...across the yard to the porch...where he lies, looking up at the jays as if to say...'one day, my friend...one day!'

2009-12-31T12:00:00.003-05:00

So, it's back in with the old. I wrote this last year as the new year dawned. Hope you enjoy the music from Casting Crowns.

It's out with the old and in with the new. Yeah you're gonna lose that 20 pounds this year. You gonna start that novel that 's been rattling around your head all of your adult life . You gonna start looking forward and stop looking backward. Pray more. Laugh more; frown less. You're going to...change. And not a phony baloney Obamassiah kind of change, but instead, the real McCoy. An actual brunette to blond, fat to muscle metamorphosis. You've given up on Poe and you've adopted Sam Clements. Or maybe the other way around. In any event, another year has flown by. With the new year you sense something big on the horizon. Something life altering. For you? For all of us? You pray that we'll all still be here healthy, happy and making the same tired and unfulfilled resolutions this time next year. You take inventory of your life and realize with profound reverence that life is good and that, despite your moments of doubt, the mercy and grace of God is enough to sustain you. Regardless of kings, queens or tyrants.

Happy New Year Blogosphere!

What Christmas is all about...

2009-12-24T16:30:00.002-05:00

This will get posted at a gazillion blogs today. Merry Christmas one and all from the boys at MTH!

I'm my own grandpaw...

2009-12-11T21:15:00.005-05:00

Once upon a time I met a lady who married her late husband's brother, who, as it turns out, was also her second cousin. She had three children by her first husband (the late one), and two more by her second husband, the former brother in law. So effectively, her kids were cousins and half brothers/sisters. Throw in the fact that she was also a cousin to both husbands and the whole thing becomes to difficult to decipher. I always hoped to be invited to their family reunion, but alas, it did not come to pass.

Which brings me to this: I am my own Grandpaw. Grandpaw is one of the great novelty songs ever recorded. Written inn 1947 by Dwight Latham and Moe Jaffe, Granpaw has been recorded by damn near every novelty singer and then some (Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, etc). Below is the Ray Stevens version complete with diagram. Enjoy.

And here is an added bonus: What else would you expect from MTH? Don't answer that.

Re: Of Pond and Drought

2009-12-09T20:33:00.003-05:00

As I told Reid the other day, I thank almighty God for a peeable back yard.

Which reminds me of my first real estate deal.

I represented a guy down in Fountain Inn who was looking for a "double wide out in the country". Well Fountain Inn is the Shangri-La of double wides out in the country, and, as it happened, I found the fellow the perfect set up: An 1800 square foot, brick underpinned palace perched on 3 wooded acres. Why it was the finest tin-dominium in Laurens County. At least he thought so. As it was, my client was a good ole Fountain Inn born and bred country boy, devoid of any city slicker pretense. After a while, I grew pretty familiar with his laid back demeanor and a little of my own mill hill refinement just couldn't help but ease it's way into our conversation. We were standing out in the back yard, checking out the lot, and before I could stop myself I said: You know, you've got a lot of privacy here. This is the kind of back yard you can whizz in any time you want to. Well, needless to say, that went against everything I learned in Real Estate School; but after hanging around with the guy all day, I knew he'd appreciate the comment. We both had a good laugh and two hours later I had my first signed contract. Sometimes you just have to be yourself.

And again, thank Heaven for the leaf and the piddle.

Of Pond and Drought

2009-12-03T08:24:00.000-05:00

The Pond and the Drought
Larry Reid

There is a pond
In a depression below
Into it tiny springs
and rainwater flow
While sits up above
a log cabin on high
Which sits on the hill
between pond and sky

And each was at home
in it's own little spaces
and pond top reflected
smiling, happy faces

There is a well
at the top of the hill
a cold-water well
500 feet they did drill
And said well feeds
the log cabin on high
which finds it's place
between pond and sky

Over the years
the drought settled in
rainwater stopped and
springs trace grew thin
and proud, mighty pond
once teeming with life
oh my goodness started fighting
the fight for it's life

And I in my cabin
constructed a perch
A high, lofty deckwalk
home to cardinal and finch
from this perch I spied
the pond and it's woes
I began to get worried
"What if away it goes?"

I concocted a plan
decided course of reason
pond level depends not
on hot or cold season
It counts on the input
of H2O bounty
a scarce, scarce commodity
in this midlands county
So how would we feed
the pond down below?
Wait for some rain or the springs to start flow?
No! I surmised
And said "what the heck"
I whooped out the hoser
and peed off the deck

The steaming stream ran down
toward pond with no sound
but alas disappeared
swallowed up by dry ground
"More", said I. "More!"
And started to swill
I drank and drank water
which fed from the well
So it became habit
to look out beyond
and pee from the deck
to try and fill up that pond

I peed through the winter
In summer's warm eve
I peed by my lonely
Or with Gary and Steve
I peed when entertaining
Or when I arose
I peed off that deck until
pond level rose
I peed and peed
from that deck it did flow
and pond level topped out
as fat as she goes

Satisfied with level
I cut off the flow
Now I pee like a socialite
in porcelin bowl
At times I get lonely
for natural relief
to stand out in nature
to piddle on a leaf
I resist the temptation
because of one thing obscene
the once proud, proud pond
is reclassified a "Peend"

The End

Re: The White Horse Drive In

2009-11-05T04:05:00.003-05:00

I always envied Reid's Drive In connection. It lent him a certain savior-faire. And at last he allows us a peek inside the DI culture. Yet, I can't help but think that Reid is holding out on us. His briberies surely involved more than Snickers Bars.

Speaking of theatres, Reid probably used those free passes to the indoor cinemas to catch a flick or ten at the Fox (I'm pretty sure that's where I saw Godzilla Vs. the Smog Monster - riveting entertainment!). The Fox had big Red curtains that opened and closed in front of the screen. Many a time I saw a youthful Kurt Russell promo through the red hue of the Fox's curtains. About the floor: it was covered in a fine sheen of Coke and that buttery substance used on the popcorn. It was easy to bust yo ice if you weren't careful. And that would be tragic: who would want a broken ankle to ruin an evening of The Computer that Wore Tennis Shoes? As for the buttery substance: If you ordered a large popcorn you'd get a fairly large tub. The concessionaire would shovel in the popcorn, hold it under a container and then squirt in a huge amount of buttery ectoplasm. By the time you had eaten down to the bottom of the tub (about the time it took for Godzilla to whip the Smog Monster's ass; or about the time in The Graduate that Dustin Hoffman screamed "Elaine!, Elaine!), you would discover an inch deep puddle of the stuff. Ultimately, gallons of the buttery goo found it's way to the floor of the Fox theatre, hence, the cinematic slip and slide.

Awesome post Reid. When they took down the screen to make way for the reconfigured White Horse - Hwy 123 intersection, I knew that an era had passed. The last image I remember seeing on the screen was Mary Tyler Moore wearing a Habit. Sad. Just sad. Hi Ho.

Drive In Memories

2009-11-03T05:25:00.006-05:00

The White Horse Drive In Theater

The Beginning
I first remember going to the White Horse Theater, one of several we attended growing up, when I was probably 8 or 9 years old. Mom would pop a big, brown grocery bag full of popcorn, make a gallon of Kool-Aid in a glass pitcher and pile all the kids into the old station wagon for an evening at the picture show. Dad would pay the lady at the box office the standard admission (kids under 12 were free...we remained under 12 until we were probably 14 or so), then he'd pick out a good spot near the restrooms and park us. After rolling down the window to pull the speaker box inside the car, mom and dad would encourage us to go to the playground, always located under the big screen. And we would play there until the cartoon lit up the jumbo screen over our heads.

The drive in was about five or six acres of asphalt paved berms and a concession stand/projection booth in the middle of the lot. It was a flat-roofed affair built of brick and built low so all behind it could see the screen. The box office was located at the rear of the lot so that late-comers to the show would disturb customers as little as possible. A painted wall at the entrance reminded you to “use parking lights when entering”). The berms were designed to raise the front of your car just enough to see the huge screen while leaning back in your spacious front seat (back then, most front seats were spacious bench seats). As you pulled into the space, you minded the speaker post so as not to pull too close and block your exit from the car. After parking, you rolled down the window and pulled in the huge aluminum speaker with the single volume knob. (A short film trailer at the end of the evening would remind customers to replace the speakers on the posts so as not to break your window or rip the speaker from the post.
The car horns would signal to the projectionist inside that it was damn well dark enough to start the picture. It always started with one car horn and before you could count to three the entire field was ablaze with a cacophony of Oldsmobile and Buick horns, Chevy horns, Ford and Dodge horns, the occasional and always hilarious VW horns, an 'ahooogah' or two and the loudest and most obnoxious – the old Cadillac hood-mounted horn, with a dual and sometimes triple horn arrangement.
At the playground, we tried to meet girls. Our dad and uncles would always be teasing us about pretty little things having “the sweets for us”, which encouraged us further. We weren't sure why we needed to meet girls, but meet them we did. More than once I remember holding hands with a strange but fine young lady under the towering figure of Jean Seberg or Raquel Welch playing on the giant screen overhead. In my mind, I was holding Raquel's hand. We would show off on the swing set, walk the plank on the seesaw, surf the slide and monkey on the bars, all to call attention to ourselves and gain favor with the girls. And then the cartoon would ignite the screen and we would sit down by the playground speaker, hold hands and wonder 'what comes next?'. The standing rule in my family, the unwritten Drive In law was pretty much standard fare: be back at the car before the feature started. This would give me daylight/dusk time to meet her, horn time to be allowed to hold her hand, coming attractions and the cartoon to continue to hold hands and find out something about them, and then skee-daddle to the car just as the opening scenes of the feature unfolded...throwing yourself in the back seat just in time for Mom to fuss about your lateness and how 'you were lucky that the movie hadn't officially started 'cause if it had she would be dusting britches, now sit back and be quiet'.
The movies were usually second runs, so called because they had first run in the walk-in theaters, then would make their way to the drive in circuit. We saw titles like Beach Red (War), Blood Feast (Horror),
The Pink Panther (Comedy), Zap-In (Adult), John Wayne movies out the ass and Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns. We stretched out in the station wagon, popcorn bowl and Kool-Aid on the seat next to us, only the occasional sound of a kid whining “I can't hear it – turn it up” drowning out the film's soundtrack.

Working Man

My sister Linda was the first in the family to start working at the White Horse Drive-In Theater. She took a job collecting money at the box office, which lent an air of power to my sister for the first time in my life. Not that I needed the services of a free pass into the theater, my age would take care of that for another couple of years. I was impressed, however, that she had the power to get you in free to the movies. So imagine how I felt just a year later when I replaced my older brother Steve in the popcorn room next to the box office, popping corn by the crate-loads, hauling it to the concession stand and keeping the heated box filled with buttery-tasting, fresh-popped corn. I've had many a WWII veteran tell me that the only reason they chose to come to the White Horse over another drive-in was because of that popcorn.
One of the perks of working in a movie theater in the early 1970's in Greenville, SC was a small card called the “employee pass”, which allowed me to present it at any theater in town and see a movie free of charge. I really liked this perk! I used this card at least twice a week for about three years, catching up on all the classics I'd missed, as well as first run features like “2001-A Space Oddesey”, “The Graduate”, and “Godzilla vs. The Smog Monster”.
One of my other duties at the Drive-In, after coming into work early to pop the corn, was to make my way down to the concession stand just before intermission and man the soda fountain, pumping drinks for any and all. Another perk was all the soda I could swill. When the rush was finished I could be found in the projectionist's booth, learning the ins and outs of screening film. While I never officially ran the booth, I did pickup enough knowledge to be able to switch out projectors during reel change.
On occasion, the Drive-Ins would have the all-nighter – a five-movie extravaganza!
Shows would begin at dark and play until dawn. I had to get special permission from my parents to work these events. Instead of my usual five dollars per night, these film-fests would net me ten bucks.
I probably took home around 30 bucks a week working at the WHDI.

Girls
Certainly the best part of working here was the sheer number of fine young ladies who would frequent the drive-in with their folks. Since I was working there, I felt a sense of importance that delivering the newspaper never brought me. Here, I could slip the young lady a box of popcorn, give them a free refill of soda, or even afford to buy them a Snickers bar.
It was at the drive-in that I met Donna, my first true love. Her mom worked in the box office and Donna would keep me company in the popcorn house until I got off work. Then we would go to her mom's car and do what young teens would do...kiss and hold hands until her mom came and kicked me out of the car. Good times.

The End
The White Horse Drive-In is gone now, along with almost all drive-ins across the country. Although there are still a few left, their heyday has long since vanished.
You can still find one here in SC – The Monetta Drive-In, or “The Big Mo”, located between Batesburg and Aiken. Last summer, Laura and I went down to see a flick and enjoy a gut-bomb hot dog.
As soon as I pulled in to our space I saw all the kids running around the playground, the line to the concession stand backed out the door, “These are my people”, I whispered, and felt truly at home.

The hope I don't Fall asleep Classic...

2009-10-28T23:25:00.003-04:00

As I hunt and peck on the keyboard, the World Series is on the tube...and I can't help but think that the Series ain't what it used to be. First off, I'll likely be sound asleep long before the game ends. Gone are the days when they played the games during the day; when half of America called in sick to stay home and watch. Sure, productivity in the States crashed and burned the week of the Series, but at least we weren't rendered into a vegetative state by games that dragged on forever...or by the incessant ramblings of Tim McCarver. I'm not sure which is worse. In any event, the Series is Prime Time now and Heaven forbid the game go into extra innings or you'll find yourself waking up at two AM...and the damn game will still be on. Or, at the very least, Ron Popiel will be jamming a turkey into a flimsily made rotisserie oven.

Oh yes, regarding the daytime World Series: I recall rushing home from school in 1967 and watching Bob Gibson mow down the Boston Red Sox. There was no Sports Center in those days...just memory and pouring over the box score the next day in the local newspaper. Who knew that Gibson's catcher would be the same over explaining, long winded, Tim McCarver who today bleeds the viewer dry of interest by the time the 4+ hour game ends?

On the off days when the teams traveled, the village kids would be in the park pretending to be Tony Conigliaro, Yaz, Curt Flood, or Lou Brock; arguing about who would win the next game and plotting fake illnesses that would be realistic enough to fool their parents into allowing them to stay home from school and catch the entire game - usually with no success. Although one year I had strep throat and was able to stay home and watch the A's and the Reds. I must admit that the relapse I had at game 5 was not completely on the level. I think Dad knew I was faking, but he knew how much I enjoyed the games, so he overlooked the fact that my untimely deterioration carried with it no symtoms at all.

The Series was part of the American experience. In those days there were no roided up, pierced and tattooed gazillionare athletes; there was limited hype, and the games ended before dinner time. Folks were actually interested in the games. Now, I doubt half the people watching will stop tweeting long enough to even feign interest, and the other half will switch over to The Real Housewives of Outer Mongolia after 3 or 4 innings of Tim McCarver explaining the nuances of the hit and run as if he's talking to an audience of 5 year olds. Hey Tim, we've seen baseball before.

So the Damn Yankees are facing the Phillies in this year's Fall Classic. Frankly, I share brother ECI's hatred of the Bronx Bombers (a pox be upon their house) and hope that the Phillies beat them senseless. I've been a Braves fan since they moved to Atlanta when I was a wee lad. The Bravos play in the same division as the Phils; therefore, I'll go with the National League team despite the fact that I pretty much hate the Phillies too. So here I am, watching the World Series, already feeling drowsy, and cringing with every syllable uttered by Tim McCarver. Maybe I'll wake up in time to see the end of the game...or to catch the 800 number I need to purchase a can of that spray on hair. Hi Ho.

Note: It looks as though the game is going to be finished before midnight. Miracles - and Tim McCarver's mouth - never cease.

On The Street Halloween episode 2009

2009-10-21T07:05:00.001-04:00

Our latest spooktacular

Really nothing to get hung about...

2009-09-20T13:20:00.005-04:00

I loved the Beatles; they had an adventurous spirit did the lads. They were so adventurous that they even sang songs about the weather- at least in a metaphoric sense - So, loving the weather as I do, I dug up a favorite from the boys that just fits the bill for a rainy day in the deep south.

I rarely make a link to Wikipedia, but this one concerning the song Rain is as good an article as any. I've probably said here before that I found the smacked up Yoko worshipping Lennon to be a little hard to take. Looking back, I think he was a bit of a phony baloney (sometimes). Sure John, let's give peace a chance and imagine there's no Heaven; but would not the end result of that prescription be slavery and hopelessness? Actually, I've come to believe that a lot of Lennon's pontifications were the guilt trip induced ramblings of guy who couldn't believe his luck. But it's not my intention to pile on John. He was a soulful singer and he was, after all, one of the Beatles. I particularly loved his work on The Beatles cover of Mr. Postman - and all of the Second Album.

Be careful what you wish for...

2009-06-23T10:07:00.008-04:00

Welcome back to Midst The Hum, a blog that covers a little bit about everything but not a whole lot about anything. You might even say that this blog is holding up the Seinfeldian tradition by being a blog about nothing. You know you've gotten pedestrian when you've lost count of the times you've blogged about the weather. I have particularly pissed and moaned about the great draught of 06-08 and the great browning of the deep south landscape. In my defense, watching the lush green scenery drain from Greenville has been traumatic. I'm a home boy - and Spring and Summer means drenching thunder storms, tornado warnings, and getting hammered by the remnants of tropical storms; not weeks without rain, humidity in the 20's and rationing water. If this is what it's coming to then I may as well move to Arizona.

But for now, the draught is over; and it's death throes were violent and tragic. Storms passing through last week knocked down trees all over the place (due no doubt to draught weakened root systems), resulting in the complimentary property damage and power outages. The airport recorded a 75 mile per hour wind gust which, of course, has the capability to do things like push over a 75 foot maple tree into a swimming pool.

And what good summer storm is complete without some dime sized hail?

With as much complaining as I've done about our recent arid conditions, I'd be foolish to begin complaining about too much rain. Bring it on I say... for now; but should the weather Gods decide to be kind, we could do without the hurricane sized wind uprooting everything in sight and leaving us in the dark. A nice gentle, steady rain that tempts you to grab a good book and throw open the windows would be nice. Meanwhile, back to the vortex.

Snow Queen of Texas

2009-06-05T14:05:00.011-04:00

Oh yeah, we're getting into dangerously low pulse territory here.

I'm sure John, Michelle, Denny and Cass weren't strictly lude and weed types, but they did some pretty mellow stuff. The cover of People Like Us shows just how glassy eyed the Mamas and Papas had become...and today's selection was surely a product of those sessions. Be that as it may, Snow Queen of Texas has a special place in my musical heritage. The boys and me (Peace, Wilder, T. Durham, Reid, etc) used to get together in my Augusta Road apartment and sing like drunken fools to the M&P's; and Snow Queen became a favorite of ours...and most likely cause for my neighbors to roll their eyes and turn up the TV.

The first time I heard Snow Queen was on a local AM radio station (WFBC to be exact). The DJ for that station was a local TV/weatherman/kids show/radio guy name Monty Dupree. Thinking back, I doubt if Mr. Monty was hip to the obvious drug references in SQOT; he was, after all, a pretty square peg. I think, like me, he just dug the song. He may have figured it out if he had bothered looking at the Album cover that depicted the M&P's in various altered states of mind. You would think the lyrics would have been a dead giveaway:

Snow Queen of Texas
Left Paris in a cloud of smoke
They say she may be beaten
But I say that shes not broke
She's living in a cool green farmhouse
If you go to Houston, be quiet as mouse

In any event, when Denny Doherty died last year, I couldn't help but think back to my living room in 1984, stereo turned up considerably past neighborly consideration, and Peace styling out Denny's smooth baritone:

She's living a fairytale

Mending her heart (ooh, ooh, Deborah forever)

That's a good motto

For some junk man's cart

For the record, Peace can do a mean Johnny Cash as well. He'd have us rolling on the floor with his rendition of A Boy Named Sue.

The Mamas and Papas Snow Queen of Texas

Sha na na na na na na na na it'll be alright

2009-06-01T17:45:00.001-04:00

In my ever increasing lurch toward the hills and hollows of the mellow lands, I give you BJ Thomas. I saw BJ in Greenville, South Carolina circa 1972. Every blue haired old lady there waited breathlessly on Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head which was made famous in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (remember the bicycle scene with Paul Newman and Katharine Ross). In those days BJ was as well known for his various substance abuses as for his awesome baritone voice; and I suspect he was pretty buzzed at the beginning of the show. Thankfully, that night he sobered up in time to perform a haunting rendition of Rock and Roll Lullaby, which is what I remember most about the evening. I stood with the the blue haired old ladies and cheered. 35+ years later T. Durham and I saw BJ again at the Newberry Opera House...and Rock and Roll Lullaby still sounds as sweet as it did back in 1972. Now I haven't attained blue haired old lady status...yet, but I did give a slightly arthritic standing ovation as the last notes of RARL drifted through the opera house balconies.

I can hear you mama,

my, my, my my mama.

Nothing moves my soul

like the sound of a good old

rock and roll lullabye

Laughter in the Rain

2009-05-18T22:01:00.006-04:00

After two of the driest years in recent memory, I'm happy to report that the Piedmont section of South Carolina is finally getting some rain. Thankfully, the lake are filling back up and the grass is greening up nicely. And speaking of rain...

Some years ago (33 to be exact), fellow MTH author Larry Reid and myself made the short drive up to Charlotte NC to see the old piano pounder Neil Sedaka. At that time, The Captain and Tenile had a mega hit with one of Neil's tunes, Love will Keep Us Together...and Neil himself had reemerged from his early rock and roll days to once again hit the charts. Teaming up with Elton John he released the bouncy hit Bad Blood...which he performed that day in Charlotte with two gorgeous blonds instead of EJ. Definitely better on the eyes. But the song that brought the house down was Laughter in the Rain.

A movement is afoot to get Neil into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I can think of several inductees right off the top of my head that haven't had the impact on popular music that Neil Sedaka has had. Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen, Calendar Girl, and Breaking up Is Hard To Do are just a few of Neil's hits. But none as sweet and melodic as LITR. If paragons of music such as The Sex Pistols are in the HOF, then Neil Sedaka should be in there no questions asked.

Monday Musical Interlude

2009-05-11T09:22:00.003-04:00

When visiting my Aunt Velma, cousin Ricky would let me listen to his records while my parents and various aunts and uncles played Set Back in the dining room. "You bored buddy? After I leave you can go to my room and listen to my stereo. Be careful with my records, don't scratch em' up". So, after cousin Ricky split for places unknown, I'd wander back to his room and peruse his collection. Iron Butterfly, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (Deja Vu), The Who (Live at Leeds), Smokey Robinson, and James Taylor to name a few. I always like the long haired, freaky, married to Carly Simon, James Taylor. Sweet Baby James had just been released and the AM radio stations played the hauntingly beautiful Fire and Rain frequently. I heard the song this morning as I took my daughter to school. It took me back to 1970 and the uncertain days of becoming a teenager. Sadly, Fire and Rain also reminds me that about a year later, in the summer of 1971, cousin Ricky died in a shoot out at an apartment complex. RIP Ricky. This one is for you.

The Brandon File: The Boys of Summers Past...

2009-05-05T22:39:00.006-04:00

"Hustle Phil! Get on it boy!" bellowed James, "Speedy" Landreth as the base runner touched third and headed for home. "Get the bat out of the way!" "Hit the dirt!" But the bat boy had failed and the bat lay guarding home like a tree. As he had gone into his slide, Phil's cleat caught the barrel of the bat which sent him head first into a waiting catcher's mitt. "You're out!, growled the umpire, followed by Phil's groan of pain and embarrassment. With his face covered in dirt, the stocky, curly haired base runner glared at the cowering bat boy as he limped to the dugout. His teammates greeted him with merciless laughter and pantomimes of his clumsy effort. Meanwhile, Speedy continued his lambaste at the chubby bat boy. "Didn't I tell you to get that bat! You need to get your head in the game or I'll get somebody else. Hustle damn it!"

I assume they called him "Speedy" owing to his unhurried demeanor; for he never actually "hustled" anywhere himself. Perhaps T. Durham could put up a tell all post that could shed some light on our little league coach and further verify the sleazy side of mill hill life. Lord knows, concerning the hill, I've written about nothing but murderers and drunkards.

Summertime in the Brandon Ballpark: It was broken bats and exuberant parents. It was rain outs and base clearing doubles. It was road trips to Pelzer and late inning rallies. It was the last days of teen aged innocence and it was the end of the textile era. Before long the hum of the mill would be silenced and many of the kids would soon go to far away places to take on the responsibilities of men.

A couple of years ago I passed through Cleveland Park and I saw that the City had erected a marble wall memorializing Greenvillians killed in the wars. There I found the name Paul Charles Hamby Jr, sp4/Army. "Buddy" Hamby lived across from the Baptist Church. He was killed in a helicopter crash in Vietnam. I scanned the black marble for another name. Gary Lynn Pace, 1lt/Army. Gary didn't live in Brandon, but his parents owned the Jewelry store in West Greenville. Most Parker High students had a school ring from Pace's. Like Buddy, Gary was killed in Vietnam. I then looked down only a row or two in search of his name; and there it was, Phillip Allen Page cpl/Army.

I remember that day in the cemetery standing on the hill across from the funeral. I watched as they laid Phil to rest; his grave not a quarter of a mile from the park where he played baseball a few short years before. I flinched as the seven guns fired their salute; and as the bugler played TAPS, I felt a sadness I had not encountered in my 11 years. The games of youth now in perspective, we walked away leaving Phil in youthful repose.

Bustin Loose in South Carolina

2009-04-22T22:48:00.002-04:00

About five weeks ago I ventured down to the bottom land, that hallowed ground coveted by Alvin York and dirt farmers everywhere, to snap a few photos of impending Spring. That day I went in search of the deciduous Magnolia, a rare find in this neck of the woods. Most of the Magnolias here are evergreen with big thick, shiny leaves that in Spring produces a big, fragrant flower. A right of being a Carolinian is the aroma of the Magnolia flower drifting through a raised window in late April, catching you unawares and taking you back to mama's biscuits and gravy. Honeysuckle will do that too. When I catch a scent of Honeysuckle it's like time travel. Instantly, I'm shagging fly balls near the outfield fence, shielding my eyes from the western sun and trying to avoid the "sticker bushes". Honeysuckle has enormous transportive capabilities. No matter where I am, if I catch a whiff of Honeysuckle, I can roam the streets of the villages...and never leave my chair.

Now back to the deciduous Magnolia. They bloomed in early Spring and they were pretty. But now, the Bauer Garden is alive and I promised I'd be there to witness the event. We're a month in and the Rhododendrons are opening up big time.

As you wander the paths of the garden, occasionally the fragrances blend together in one powerful bouquet blast.

Here is a view of the garden from the eastern end. Those trees in the foreground are 100 foot poplars.

Here is a shot coming out of the Western edge into the future home of the croquet court. Notice the logs. That's what is left of 4 big trees that I had dropped to make way for the greensward. When completed, I think it will be a nice compliment to the Botanical garden; and a great place to punish my adversaries (may Allah keep them three ball dead).

More to come...

It's Rock and Roll Monday!

2009-04-20T15:27:00.003-04:00

Chuck at CTR put up a bunch of old geezers (a couple of them dead now) scrubbing one off circa the 90's and it got me to thinking about old Roy. Here is one of my favorites. Enjoy!

Box Painted Blue

2009-04-09T05:44:00.007-04:00

My friend Bonnee' is a singer-songwriter, and a good one at that! In the intervening years between her personal hardships, Bonnie was led to write and record a slew of songs which are inspired, to say the least. Living near Nashville, good musicians were pretty easy to find, and Bonnee' and her producer found the right combination of soul, gospel and blues players to carry out her vision of the music. The result is "The Eyes I Cannot See" (c1996 Bonnee'music). The songs are a mix of blues, 'jukin', feel-good blues, gospel and ballads, and she performs them with an energy which has to be sent from above. The CD opener "Jesus, He's a friend of mine" hits you in the gut right from the start and let's you know that this is no typical gospel album.
"Catch Me when I fall" features a wall of sound usually not heard in this genre', and the title track shows a softer side of Bonnee' which draws you in and makes you sigh.
If these songs seem highly personal in nature, it's because they are. Bonnee' has lived these songs and the experience comes through in the beautiful "Box Painted Blue", my favorite from the album.
"Box Painted Blue" is a timeless number and will be the first from the album to go to video. Bonnee' and I have decided to create a music video based on our shared vision of this beautiful number and pre-production begins in a couple of weeks. We'll be filming around the Nashville area, the spectacular Tennessee mountains, and maybe a couple of South Carolina locations.
Stay tuned as we embark on this first project...we'll keep you posted!

Re: Hallow's Eve

2009-03-27T22:35:00.003-04:00

Those parties were a blast. I do regret some of my costume choices, but I had a couple of good ones. I think I made a damn good Mark Twain. I had the bushy hair and mustache ready to go.

So, it was you that gave me the flu...dayum!

The photo at the bottom shows t. durham portraying an eerily realistic Alexander Dularge flogging...me. As I said, I regret some of my costume choices. I think Tony and me watched C.O. about 20 times that year. His costume was a no brainer.

Then there was the party at Deb's when the old geezer next door set fire to an enormous, old stump in his backyard. The resulting blaze shot a plume of flames and sparks that drew quite a bit of attention...including the Belmont Fire department. I do remember yelling encouragement to him as he doused the the thing with gasoline. HI HO!

I think the party you infected with the Swine flu took place in Liberty (hwy 93) at the house of a guy named Raymond. I think that is where the jar of Jiff showed up too.

If we revived the party, today I would come as myself: a middle aged geezer with failing eyesight and dwindling bank account.

Nice post.

Hallow's Eve

2009-03-27T21:32:00.000-04:00

It seems so long ago now. All our friends would plan for the evening to come, imaginations flowing like a spooky wine. It was time for the annual Halloween costume party and we would all gather at a predetermined location to drink, party and impress one another with our choice of costume.
The characters portrayed were eclectic and amazing, from the pregnant nun to Moses, Mark Twain to Jim and Tammy Baker, a Roman soldier, a pimp and his ho, the list goes on.
I don't know why we stopped having the parties – I suppose age and reason caught up with us.
I remember the first one we attended. I decided to dress as an alien, complete with a glue-on mask. As fate would have it, I was sick as a dog and needed to be home in bed but I wouldn't have missed it for the world, so I drug myself to Powdersville and tried to party with the gang. My fever was rather high and the resulting sweats had my alien mask flopping on my face after only an hour or so. In hindsight, it wasn't a great move on my part as I had the potential of making the entire party ill, but I was young.

For us, the tradition eventually died out but it did last long enough to see my brother Gary as a dog, Debbie as the Bride of Frankenstein, Tony and Larry as Paul and John, Laura as a sheep, my mom as a hooker (that one required a couple of years of therapy), Dwayne as a zombie, some chick even came as a jar of Jif peanut butter!
Sometimes I wonder what choices of costume my 50+ year old peers would choose now?

32 in 24 (or Bonnie Knoxville)

2009-03-23T08:14:00.010-04:00

I'm exhausted! Worn slap down. Walking slow, thinking mo. Beat to the socks and draggin-ass.
But while my butt is waxing the floor, I am grinning from ear to ear. My jaws ache from laughter, I'm hoarse from conversation and singing and I can feel a nap coming on, although other plans will hold said nap at bay.
Laura and I just returned from the first annual Hollis Junior High School class of 1970, seventh-grade science, classroom 7A, front/center desk reunion. It was attended by two alumni and a spouse and was held just outside of Knoxville, Tennessee at the plush (well, acceptable) LaQuinta Suites at exit 398 off of I-40. You see, this was the weekend when Bonnie, my seventh grade sweetheart, and I would actually lay eyes on one-another after 32 years. After our short pants romance had ended, Bonnie and I remained friends throughout high school and up to my marriage. Then we lost touch. How would I feel seeing her after all this water over our respective dams? How would we look to one another after all the years and miles? Would this meeting be awkward and strange, and end after a short but polite lunch with half-hearted guarantees of “we'll have to plan a trip up your way”? Would she see this pudgy, bald, clean-shaven 52 year old man and take off running back to Nashville faster than you can sing “Nashville Cats-clean as country water-Nashville Cats...”?

Bonnie and I have put probably 50 hours on our phones over the past four weeks. We've talked into the wee hours about God and the devil, life and death, love and loss, triumph, tragedy, happiness and otherwise – a veritable Billy Shakespeare drama in the making. We've seen recent pictures of one another and were both pleased that we were “still home”, so to speak. These conversations built a base of trust which allowed us to take the next step of meeting in person again. And I was wanting Laura and Bonnie to meet since they shared so many common traits (both are down to earth-plain spoken women who see only black or white, are easy to love but hard to handle!)
We agreed to meet at a Cracker Barrel just across from the hotel at noon on Saturday, with the additional agreement that if either party decided to chicken out of the rendezvous, we'd each have the decency to call the other and back out gracefully.

The drive to Knoxville, through the North Carolina and Tennessee mountains, was absolutely perfect on this second day of spring 2009. The temp was in the low 50s as we made the last mountain pass and breezed past Sevierville a little ahead of schedule, leaving the clouds over the mountains behind us
Laura and I arrived first, pulling into the lot at just before noon. I called Bonnie to get her e.t.a. and chatted with her as she made the last few miles to our exit. Finally, this excited and smiling old boy saw her as she pulled in and parked, her looking all fine in her black Lexus! We were on the phone with one another when she stepped out of the car and only hung up the phone when we hugged hello. God she looked great! Her blue-green eyes shimmered in the noon-day sun as I bear hugged her and she responded in kind. At least her grip hadn't changed much over the years . Bonnie and Laura hugged and said hello and we headed into the restaurant for brunch.
I knew that our first few minutes together would have us staring at one another, studying each other with eyes steeled by tragedy and loss. And we did. After satisfying ourselves that part one of the reunion had gone over well, we ordered soup and salad and commenced reunion-ing.
After brunch, I rented a two-room suite and we settled in and continued our talks.
How do you cram 32 years of memories into 24 hours? You don't. You can't. All you can do is identify the important topics (Family, family and family), touch upon those and belch whatever comes to mind. We had in common that we'd both raised two kids, a girl and a boy so we had plenty of stories to share on that front. Sitting in the living room of the suite, Bonnie and I picked up on earlier phone conversations and completed each story – this time with the added bonus of seeing facial expressions that rose and fell with subject matter. Tears for the sad or proud moments, laughter, lot's of laughter for those moments that only parents of teenagers can grasp. By now, Laura had tired of the lane of memories we had tread and went to get a good night's rest. Bonnie and I sat on the sofa and talked and talked and talked. Then, as evening turns to night turns to early morning, the other important subjects are discussed. Music! She produced a couple of her early recordings on cassette and it was decided to go to her car and listen to these rough gems. It was good to hear her first recordings, but after listening to her latest CD I could hear when the trained, sweet voice of these early cuts became the powerful, soulful voice of the latest. It was an amazing transformation and one I'll not soon forget.
The sillies began at about 2:20 am. We discussed again our innocent past together and our resulting friendship. Then we laughed about why I had left her alone at the seventh grade dance (this stupid move on my part lead directly to the breakup...I was too shy to tell her that I couldn't dance).
At this point Bonnie starts the Lexus and drives away from the hotel parking lot, her music playing on the car stereo, her singing right along with it. We drove the 30 miles through the black Tennessee night to Gatlinburg and the high mountain peaks which rise above the small town. After driving up a long and steep road we settled on a dirt patch on the side of the mountain which overlooked the town on one side of the road and the dimly lit valley of resort homes on the other. Above, the stars twinkled brightly.
And on this chilly, beautiful early spring mountain night, this amazing woman took me by the hand, and in this dark roadside parking lot taught me a slow dance while she gently sang my favorite song of hers to me. The years melted away and for a shining, brief moment we were no longer on a Tennessee mountaintop. We were two innocent 12 year olds dancing across the gym floor at Hollis Junior High School, not looking back but looking forward. It was a moment that will be with me always, and the thought of it will always bring with it a smile.

A rainy day preview of Spring in South Carolina

2009-03-14T15:55:00.000-04:00

So I ventured out today like a redneck ranger. Sitting astride my eighteen horsepower lawnmower, I headed to the bottom land and the Bauer Garden...more about this piece of Heaven on earth as the Spring unfolds. The sky was a somber gray, which, when visiting this Eden, intensifies the solitude you feel there amongst the rhododendrons, azaleas and viburnums. Yet the gloom provides the perfect light diffussion - and a few rain drops couldn't stop me. I was wearing an orange poncho to protect me from the cold drizzle falling from an obsidian sky. I was in search of the blooming deciduous magnolias visible from my back porch. I was not disappointed.

The real burst is yet to come. I'll be there to welcome her.

So...where've you been?

2009-03-10T22:58:00.021-04:00

It's been over thirty-two years since I last talked with Bonnie. A chance Facebook encounter reunited us and we have spent the last couple of weeks sorta catching up.
Funny thing was, we picked up our conversation as we left it all those years ago, as if time were suspended and the intervening years were only a wisp of memories. We found that we shared many commonalities, even after veering off into different directions with our lives.
Bonnie was my 7th grade sweetheart, my first true love. We met at Hollis Junior High School (no middle schools back then) in Mrs Robinson's homeroom. She was my deskmate in homeroom, as well in as Mrs Robinson's science class. I'll never forget the first time we held hands...a boring science movie playing on the 16mm projector, a darkened room and a 2-seater desk with those little cubbyholes for your books at lap level. We both reached into the same cubbyhole at the same time and clasped hands.
I was in heaven! She had hair as long as Rapunzel, the most sparkling blue eyes I'd ever seen, and to a gangly seventh grader, she smelled real sweet. Most days after school, I would walk her home, taking the mile-long walk very leisurely and lovingly. We sometimes stopped by the Drug Store at Judson Crossing for a soda, although I seldom had money to buy anything. The romance ended, alas, with a misunderstanding - probably just as well as she and I would attend separate high schools, leading to new relationships. Although we had ended one relationship, I always felt that Bonnie was a friend. We would stil talk on the phone about new girlfriends/boyfriends, she took the time to tutor me in algebra and helped me pass that course and we kept in touch throughout high school.
Bonnie was (is) an excellent singer and, although I had never seen her actually perform, I always knew that she would excel in that area. I do remember a time when we were hanging out at her house on Virginia Avenue, circa 1974, and she informed me that she was singing in a talent show at school. Her choice of song was Roberta Flack's "First time ever I saw your face". We were in her room and she was rehearsing, the only time that I had heard her sing. I knew then that this girl had something, her voice flowing through her old home like an angel lightly touching the ground and then soaring again. I was taken with the sweet soulfullness of her voice, a controlled, emotional outpouring of love wrapped up in a song.
Fast forward 32 years.
I had often thought of Bonnie and how life had been treating her. As it turns out, a series of tragedies in the early nineties left her scarred, scared and having to be the strong one.
Our first phone conversation was polite and tender. We revisited each other's past and it was like hearing an old Sinatra album - filled with tears of sadness and joy, much laughter and sorrow, and the common bond of enduring the things that life tosses at us. One of the first things that I asked her was "recorded anything lately?", assuming that she had indeed recorded something. "I have a CD", she answered. "Please send a copy to me-and don't forget to autograph it for me please". We ended the conversation on a note of "great catching up...be well...hope to talk again soon".
I soon found that I could not get my fill of Bonnie. She sent me her CD and I plugged it into the CD player in the car and listened to it while I drove to work.
Awesome! I soon found myself listening to it everyday - a funky blues song followed by a soft, sweet song followed by yet another bluesy number - all telling of a love for God and from God.
Next I knew we were talking everyday. Our conversations would go on for hours. And when we weren't talking by phone, we were text messaging or communicating by Facebook.
And our conversations continue. Laura and I are planning a trip to Tennessee to visit my dear friend, allowing us to cement a relationship that started so many years ago. We have so much in common, so much ground left to cover and so many things left to do together.
I am blessed, fortunate and inspired to have her fall back into my life...and I'm sure that this friendship will continue for a very,very long time.
Thanks Bonnie.

The Brandon File: The Skatin' Rink...

2009-03-10T12:51:00.006-04:00

Of all the mill villages in Greenville County, Brandon, as far as I know, was the only one to have a combination skating rink/bowling alley. The Mill owned and operated the place and William Donehue was the manager. William ruled the "skatin' rink" with an iron fist...and a whistle that helped convey his absolute authority. One short "tweet" - you still had a chance to avoid his wrath provided you ceased whatever foolishness you were in to. One long, shrieking warble - and you were on the way to expulsion. And the expulsion could be lengthy depending on the offense. Of course, being a good little boy, and having the good fortune to live next door to William, I rarely ever felt the sting of his admonishment.

Sherry, Sherry baby Sherry,
Sherry baby Sherry,
can you come out tonight?
(come, come, come out tonight?)

Outside, kids are milling around with their skates hung around their shoulders, getting in a quick smoke before hitting the rink. "Give me a drag off that Lucky". "Get ye own." "Dayum, you got a whole pack!".

Inside, the hum of the florescent lights is barely audible over the din of eager kids lining up to rent skates or bowling shoes. A long shriek of the whistle is followed by William scolding a fat kid he spies on the approaches without said proper shoes. "I'll throw ye ass outta here"! As I said, William Donehue drew no quarter and took few prisoners. The fat kid's bad judgement is followed by stares and condemnation from the older guys. "Hey boy, am I gonna have ta stomp you"? Across the way in the rink, a pretty girl wearing bobby socks is gliding solo on the hardwood , flawlessly switching from forward to backward skating in a graceful pirouette. Soon, her performance is marred by a gaggle of R.A. kids from the local church, pushing and shoving one another; their chaperon oblivious to their roughhousing. Before long, the chaperon was in William's office getting an ear full. A few minutes later he appeared on the rink, red faced and warning his hellions of their impending doom.

The pin boys are showing up now, talking the usual nonsense about girls they didn't know and money they didn't have. "You setting up for Gazaway?" "No, I got Sorgey." "What did he roll last time?" "Bout 275". "Did he tip ye"? "50 cents". "You a lying dog"! By the time the league bowlers start to arrive the place is smelling of buttered popcorn and lane oil. Donehue is spraying the shoes with disinfectant when he spots a boy and girl in the shadows of the rest room engaged in a lip lock worthy of Bogey and Bacall. The sharp warning of the whistle is followed by, "now yall cut that stuff out! This ain't no damn hotel. Yall's mamma's know yall down here doing that?" A group of giggling mill hill girls surround the jukebox and feed in enough nickles to saturate the evening with Soldier Boy, Leader of the Pack, Down in the Boondocks and the entire Four Seasons song book - whether you like it - or not.

They called her, Rag Doll. Pretty, Rag Doll.
Such a pretty face Should be dressed in lace.

The crash of pins signify the real beginning of the evening's festivities. The league bowlers go first and they are serious. I loved to watch theses guys; the pained expression of seeing the 7-10 split, the contortions of body English, and their under the breath cursing (William allowed no outward profanity - save his own). The frivolities are shattered by Benny Sorgey yelling down lane number 1 at his pin boy who has done the unpardonable: He has pulled the string on the automatic pin sitter just as Benny had released the ball for his spare attempt. The clang of the ball hitting the metal framing brings Donehue bounding from his office with veins popping. The pin boy hunches in horror as a stream of profanity hurls toward him from up the alley (the league guys did have some latitude with William concerning their language). "I guess you won't be gittin' 50 cents tonite you dumb aice".

Going to the chapel
and we're Gonna get married

As the evening dissolves into night, activities slow and William counts up the register, readying the place to close. A small kid with a stutter sweeps the rink and cleans the bathrooms. "Wh-wh-where's the dang Pine-S-s-sol?" Two older boys sweep the lanes and apply the oil whose ever present fragrance lingers forever and always. The passionate pair that drew William's ire slink from the shadows of the rink and walk hand in hand towards West Greenville. The pin-boys rack up the pins and clean up after themselves; their alleys littered with soda bottles, uneaten nabs and dozens of Viceroys smoked down to the butts. After rolling a 263, Benny Sorgey changes his shoes, bags his 16 pound ball and leaves the building, still cursing his "worthless" pin sitter who, as predicted, went home tipless this night.

10 minutes later Donehue locks the door and chases away a teenage boy loitering outside the building."We're closed now, you can go home", William says with authoritative urgency. Cutting through the mill yard, I walk home with William and listen as he tells the story about seeing Ted Williams play baseball against the Yankees. I had heard the story many times, but I never tired of hearing him tell it; or of his trips to New York with Fred Mcabee, and their ribald post war exploits in the "apple". It was hard to imagine so much world out beyond the village.

Two hours later, homework finished, I was fast asleep and dreaming of impossible spare saves and bobby socked girls swaying to yet another song by Frankie Valli. My small slice of the world fast asleep with me.

Report from Molly's Rock

2009-03-06T08:19:00.000-05:00

Like my esteemed brother-in-mallets Mr D., I'd like to take a moment to comment on the latest (and last?) of old man winter's assault.
This snowfall was supposed to be a big event here in the midlands. The weather report from Columbia on the eve of the projected storm was dire: WINTER STORM WARNING.
Columbia school officials took this warning seriously and called off the Monday school bell by Sunday evening. Alas, the expected 4" of snow never materialized. In fact, the area served by said school districts never saw a flake, due to a troth of warm air from the south. The area most affected was just north of Molly's Rock in Newberry county. While we received a ton of snowfall (and it was gorgeous!), we only saw about 1 inch on the ground, with roads as clear as a summer day. Anything north of us (Clinton, Laurens, Greenville, etc.) got a respectable amount.
Columbia parents of school kids were pissed because of the early call. Most had to lose a day's work to stay home with the non-snowbound kids. Letters to the editor of the State newspaper lambasted school officials for this meat-headed call.
Need I remind those irate parents about their previous letters to the editor of a few years ago when, after an ice storm forecast, the school board failed to call school early, which resulted in kids being on busses during the storm, which in turn resulted in accidents involving school busses, which in turn led the irate parents to lambast said school officials with the charge of incompetance.
What's a homey to do?

The last vestige of winter down south...

2009-03-05T20:16:00.005-05:00

The March sun is doing its damage to Sunday's snow. By tomorrow the temps will be hitting 70 and even the protection of the Hemlock's shade won't be enough to forestall the inevitable. The little patch of snow seen here is all that's left of our unusual March "blizzard". On cue, the days are getting longer. Soon, the fragrance of honeysuckle will drift through open windows and "lightning bugs" will illuminate the balmy Summer nights. I can hardly wait.

Feeling a little bit like Robert Frost...

2009-03-01T18:26:00.006-05:00

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Stopping by woods on a snowy South Carolina evening....

Update at 8PM: stopping by the refrigerator on a snowy evening too.

Update II: lights flickering...power will likely be a goner soon. 3 inches so far of heavy, wet snow. Trees (in the woods in photo above) are snapping like matchsticks under the weight of it. Oh the humanity!

The Brandon File: July 1966...

2009-02-17T18:53:00.009-05:00

It was a typical summer day in Brandon. It was 90 in the shade and the mosquitos were nibbling at exposed ankles like starving vampires. All the neighborhood kids were out and about; some on their bikes popping wheelies and showing off; the rest playing pick-up baseball in the park. The games went on perpetually and were played with World Series concentration: "You're out! The hell you say, I beat beat it and you know it!" Three kids were crossing the field with fishing rods heading for the mill pond. "If the cats ain't a-bitin', maybe the brim will be", said one of the boys. "We gonna need some more tadpoles", said another.

A passing afternoon thunderstorm rattled village windows and temporarily sent the all the kids scurrying for home; but as soon as the rain stopped and the thunder became distant, the convergence began again and the park area teamed with kids carrying bats and gloves, spitting Day's Work and arguing about who was at bat when the rain came: "I was up. Bullshit, Carlton was up and he had two strikes! You full of crap, I ain't even took a pitch!" The boys going fishing returned from their house just across the park and waved to a chubby kid splashing around in a freshly filled mud puddle. The gate leading to the pond was locked, but that rarely stopped a kid with dreams of reeling in one of the pond's big catfsh. The boy with the bait bucket yelled at his buddies, already over the fence, "hey idiots, hold on to this bucket whilest I crawl over"!

Twenty minutes later a millyard watchman quickly removed the chain that locked the gate just outside the pond. A woman crying hysterically ran from the house just across the park ignoring the shallow creek and the briars that grew along the banks. Within minutes, an ambulance appeared and slowed in search of the gate that lead to the pond. The watchman who had just opened it frantically gestured for the driver. Spotting him, the driver sprayed gravel as he gunned it for the mill yard.

The boy had fallen in attempting to catch more tadpoles. Unable to swim he had struggled momentarily before sinking to the murky bottom. One of the boys with him had called to a nearby watchman for help who summoned the ambulance and sent word to the boy's mother. Two mill hands, still in their overalls, dove continuously for ten minutes until one of them came up with the boy's lifeless, bloated body. The ambulance driver and his assistant pulled the boy from the diver's arms and immediately began to try to save him. The frantic attempts went on for twenty minutes. At last, the activity stopped and a quiet dejection settled over the crowd that had gathered. All that could be heard was the stiffled sobs of the boy's mother.

In the park, the game had stopped. The chubby kid splashing in the mud puddle was now standing beside his mother who wiped tears and said fervent prayers. As the ambulance carrying the boy's body made it's way from the mill yard everyone stopped and watched it as it disappeared from sight. By and by, the game restarted, but without the chatter. That evening, neighbors descended on the little house across the park with food, drink and somber condolences. The flashes of far away lightening promised another thunderstorm - which hit with ferocious intensity in the middle of the night.

They came, we saw, we conquered

2009-02-09T12:04:00.007-05:00

The team of Ridgeway/Wilder received a brutal beating on Saturday afternoon. The estimable team of Reid/Durham delivered said brutal beating 3 games to zip. All the players involved survived the pelting of sweet gum balls and thoroughly enjoyed the 70 degree temps. The croquet Gods are smiling and the world once again spins in greased grooves.

In the photo, notice the downward cast mallets of the vanquished...heh heh.

Next up: Ridgeway/Wilder ponder the meaning of life after such a thrashing.

Look at all the pretty beer

2009-02-08T07:23:00.011-05:00

We arrived at the Convention Center at a little after noon, dropping our gear and talent off at the door and then I was off to play the Columbia, SC hell game of finding a parking spot - never mind a good one - any spot will do. After lucking out (and flirting with a tow), I walked the short block back to the Convention Center and gathered gear and talent. Giovanna had already made some contact with the hosts and secured our press passes and we zoomed in to the big hall.
The layout of the place was cool as two entire floors were filled to the brim with brewers, food vendors, more brewers, beer-rights advocates, and brewers as far as the eye could see. And these brewers all stood at their booths, anxious to ply you with two ounces of the finest beer known to man. And to a beer lover, every single one of them were the best beer in town. There were pilsners and stouts, wheat beers and berry beers, beer that energized you, beer that relaxed you, beer that cured all sorts of disease and plagues, and beer that didn't do anything special, it just tasted good going down.
We decided to dive right into the interviews before people got too, shall we say, involved with the tasting. We'd shoot the opens/closes and interstitials later.
Gio always carries the handheld microphone which is tethered to me via the camera, so I am constantly being led around like a dog. After being led to the center of the lower hall, Gio, Tony and I posted ourselves front and center and awaited our first interview. Our initial fear was that we'd have to beg interviews. We couldn't have been more wrong. Within minutes of entering the hall, we not only had our first interview but had a line of eager interviewees awaiting their turns as well. After the first interview, we had another line of people just wanting a picture or phone-video of Gio saying "I'm Giovanna and I'll see you on the street". Next thing I know, I'm taping Gio in a true fanfest...she's surrounded by people of all ages chatting about the show, telling her that their moms, or brothers, or boyfriends, or name your relatives just love her and the show. They mentioned parlor games that revolve around the show - how many times will she high five this episode, or do they know the answers that Gio's posing, or make up their own "On The Street" trivia games. I was, needless to say, almost floored by the recognition and adoration Gio was receiving and, since I was almost floored anyway, I decided to go ahead and slip off from the lovefest and try a couple of sips of beer. I disconnected the Gio lifeline (mic cable), allowing her to float free in the limited space of her fandom while I started downing 2 ounce shots of amber beer, wheat beer, wheat and berry beer and Amber Bock. Realizing that I had just downed eight quick ounces of beer with a higher than normal alcohol content, I decided to return to the job at hand.
We shot continuous interviews for close to three hours. Before we knew what was happening, a flock of Columbia's finest started clearing the hall. Everyone must go (and this included us). Shit! We hadn't shot an inch of b roll, interstitials or a decent close.

We rushed around the hall taping our questions, some b-roll and an open before the police politely demanded that we clear the hall. Gio, Tony and I looked at each other like "what to do now?" It was then decided that we would come back for the evening session and complete our task. After a great dinner with Tony and Libby, I headed back to Irmo to meet Gio and her husband Micheal, leaving Tony to head to his job.

The evening session was wild. A packed house provided us with more of the same, half-drunk guys leering at Gio and stepping into our shots, partially-inebriated women whispering naughty things in my ear as I struggled to maintain my shot, one girl even grabbed my ass just as the interview was ending. I spun around to see who groped me and saw a blonde chick leering suspiciously at me. When she saw that she had been busted, she approached me and offered to "take care of me" for the evening, if you catch my drift. At one point, some idiots got behind Gio and her interviewee and flipped me off. Micheal, along with a volunteer that he'd been talking with, actually kicked the guy and his friends out of the convention center. When Micheal told me about it, I thanked him and asked how he was able to accomplish this without the authority - "Authority is in the mind of the beholder", he said. "Because the guy thought that I had the authority to remove him, his perception gave me the authority".
Wow. Go Micheal!
I must, at this point, give credit where credit is due. The organizers, planners, implementers and volunteers for the World Beer Festival were magnificent! Not a detail was overlooked (from my perspective, through a 1.5 inch b&w viewfinder).
The event was professionally staged and well-run. Another tip of the hat to All About Beer magazine for giving us this interesting opportunity. Soon, another edition of On the Street will be dropped in the can. And a special bow from Tony D and Micheal for their valuable assistance as line directors. Good friends go to work with you!
The evening finally came to an end, just as it had begun - with a crowd around Giovanna. We were truly ecstatic in the knowledge that our little cable show was such a hit...at least with beer afficionados.
Now, the editing will begin! Poor Andy.

Wating on the heating & air guy to come:

2009-02-02T12:22:00.004-05:00

I've gone back and watched the entire On The Street archives and I must say it was enjoyable. Giovanna is quite lovely, and the fact hat her husband is a west Greenville boy shows that she has impeccable taste and that he is one lucky cat. My hat is off to our esteemed compatriot for a job well done.

In this blooper video of the show we learn the proper signal for a right hand turn. My cautious driving technique evokes this signal from my fellow travelers with some regularity.

Now I return to shivering and cursing.

Beer, baby-doll's and buffoons.

2009-01-25T18:11:00.003-05:00

This saturday I was lucky enough to be invited by our esteemed compatriot and fellow Brandonian Larry Reid heretofore referred to as LR to the World Beer Festival in Columbia,SC. My duties were simple, carry a clipboard holding release forms for people to sign so we could use their statements and their image. My real job was to sample as many beers as I could and still remember my duties to the team. A job I was born for. Novice as I was to the world of media, I am a professional in the world of beer drinking. I thought that interviewing ten to twenty people might be tough sell...never more wrong.When people saw a camera they"com a runnin". Andy Warholls fifteen minutes of fame and all. Also I didn't factor in the Giovanna fan club members. Men from eighteen to sixty-five stampeded over me and anything or one in their path to talk to the incomparable Giovanna. I must say after watching her work a crowd of hammered buffoons I might join the club myself. The interviews started off slow but progressed at a steady volume as more beer was consumed by the "tasters". Some of the guys became a little amorous towards Giovanna after a beer or twelve. I thought to myself ..."this could get ugly". Not to worry, Giovanna handled them all with style and poise without any embarrassment or fisticuffs. I was delighted, a brawl might ruin the atmosphere. Now the baby-dolls.One might think that at an event such as this there would a drought of the fairer sex...not so. Actually there were as many women there as men. As with the guys the gals were not immune to camera infatuation. One of the female "guests" became enamored of our cameraman/boss LR and proceeded to intrude on nearly every shot with other baby-dolls by dancing like a twelve year old at a pajama party. Her flirtations with LR are unsuitable for print in this post. However will be used for blackmail in the future. A lot of footage was shot and interviews taken but I don't know how much will be used or could be understood without drunk interpreters. All in all I had a great time and will tune in to Cable vantage if I can find it in my viewing area thereby boosting their viewership to an even dozen.

Busy Busy Busy

2009-01-25T13:11:00.017-05:00

Wow.
What a season.
For those that don't know, our company produces commercials and sells airtime on about 60 cable networks for several cable systems across the southeast. We are the largest third-party cable insertion biz in the states, although we are either a dying breed or a model for our parent company, Raycom Media.
I serve as Creative Services Manager, which allows me the choice of scheduling production for our producer staff, or I can choose projects for myself that interest me. For those, I'll conceive and write the spot, pitch it to sales or the business owner or marketing rep, light and shoot it, edit and then send the spot to above mentioned 60 networks for air. Not a bad gig, if you like this sort of thing.
A lttle under a year ago we began producing a local question and answer show called "On the Street" where we roll all over town and ask pertinent local questions of people on the street (think Jay Leno's Jaywalking).
Our initial goal was to produce a show featuring the very people who watch our networks and then air this on our local channel. Our local channel had been in the doldrums the past few years and needed a content shakeup to attract newer and more eyes to the channel. It was my position that featuring locals, who would tell their friends to watch for them on our channel, would create a buzz prompting more to tune in, prompting more conversation, which created more buzz, and so on. We are getting more, much more than we bargained for.
Enter Giovanna.
It was my task (and a pleasant one at that), to audition and chose our on-air talent. With all the corporate cutbacks, my headhunter advertising budget was almost nil so I turned to the best resource for hiring I could find for the money: Craigslist. What an Alice's Restaurant of sites! I placed an ad under "Talent Gigs" for a local show host and laid down the criteria. It was to be a show with an uncertain future and low pay with some exposure (we currently have over 180,000 subscribers).
The first email I received was from a chick with a funny and unusual email address - grandpas cough syrup. Her reply was charming and funny and I was immediately struck by her sense of humor. I emailed back and setup an audition. Giovanna arrived at the station promptly at 10am on a Wednesday. We exchanged pleasantries and, after giving her the nickel tour of the station, we sat down for a chat. She had this look about her that said 'fun, unpredictable and camera-ready". We talked about goals, personal and business, favorite pastimes and our mutual backgrounds (she grew up in the upstate too). We decided to interview a few more possibilities, but I knew that she was the one as soon as she said hello. She's gorgeous, has a playful and mischievous side and charms most everyone she comes in contact with.
The first couple of shows were a learning experience for her as she grappled with the concept of shooting out of order, multiple retakes, getting direction from Andy and I, and not having to stay hard on the script. In light of this, she was the queen of adlibs and had us rolling with her humorous asides. She was indeed the one.
And in this moment, at this place in time, we have just taped our eleventh On the Street. And we had the great fortune of planning this taping around a festival. Not just a festival...but a beer festival. Alas, not just a beer festival but a WORLD BEER FESTIVAL. As ole Barney Fife woulda said - "this is big! This is BIG big!!"
And indeed it was.
I contacted the sponsor, All About Beer magazine, for permission to tape at the event. We received a prompt and excited reply from Julie Johnson, our contact with the magazine. After getting permission from the sponsor, we were put in touch with event co-ordinator Ola N. and it was 'game on'.
Up next-THE BEER FESTIVAL (big-really big!)

More government?

2009-01-24T14:48:00.003-05:00

Perhaps this refresher will clear things up for those clamoring for "hope and change" per the ruling class. Then again, maybe not.

Hat tip to Liberal Fascism on NRO:

Past or future past.

2009-01-23T09:24:00.003-05:00

This was a more innocent and probably more fun time.

We would all be better off if we could remember it from time to time.

From cheezy to sleezy: The music is all that's changed...

2009-01-20T21:17:00.003-05:00

The Democrats of my father's day celebrated the party's victories by playing this song.

Happy days are here again

The skies above are clear again

So let's sing a song of cheer again

Happy days are here again

Pretty sappy stuff in it's own innocent way; but not nearly as deluded as the propaganda that the hopers and changers are actually buying into with the Obamatron. As one of Obama's hip-hop supporters might say, happy mother@%&*#!^ days are here again, mother@%&*#!

So, In honor of bloated, Rooseveltian Democrat Party politics:

BHO's inaguaration transcript with snarky comments

2009-01-20T12:34:00.015-05:00

You have to read between the lines a little with poiliticians...especially politicians with a God-complex like BHO. I took the liberty to finish a few of The One's sentences and to throw in a few of my own myopic interpretations. My rants are in red.

My fellow citizens:
I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors (that would be ancestor for you). I thank President Bush for his service to our nation , as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition (take a hike bubba!).
Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office (actually despite the lack of skill and vision of those in high office), but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents ( I thought we needed to rewrite those pesky documents).
So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.
That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood (invented, caused and exacerbated by the government). Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred (that's all you can say about ass backward, 6th century living, freedom hating head choppers?). Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some (all the enron guys went to jail or committed suicide, but Frank, Dodd, Gorelick, Johnson etc are still roaming free), but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly (just wait til Uncle Sam starts running it!); our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet (God forbid that we drill for our own oil...and it won't strengthen our adversaries if we kick their asses and take THEIR oil).
These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics (What?). Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land - a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights (with socialism that's a certainty).
Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time (higher taxes and regulation will damn sure drag it out - it does everytime it's tried). But know this, America - they will be met.
On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose (fascist liberalism) over conflict and discord (checks and balances).
On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas (conservatism), that for far too long have strangled our politics (liberalism/socialism).
We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things (When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. I Corinth. 13:11. So adopting liberalism/socialism is manly?...hmmmm). The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.
In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short-cuts or settling for less (maybe until now). It has not been the path for the faint-hearted - for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame (bastards!). Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things (evil, greedy capitalists) - some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom (and now we gonna tax the crap out of you).
For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life (but we did kill the Indians).
For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth (but now we've declared it all wet lands and put them out of business).
For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sahn (Mosul, Baghdad, Kandahar, etc).
Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction (then why all the PC nonsense and "diversity" at all costs mentality?).
This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth (not for long). Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year (but European style socialism will take care of that). Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions (at least he's being honest here, adopting socialism would be an unpleasant decision) - that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America (only people who see life through pretentious liberal eyes think that America needs "remaking". Hey Barry, words have meaning).
For everywhere we look, there is work to be done (taxing, regulating, etc). The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act - not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together (we need to "build" these things...they don't already exist?). We will restore science to its rightful place (what the hell does this mean? Does he mean we'll base our economic interest on the so called "science" of climate crisis?), and wield technology's wonders (government) to raise health care's quality and lower its cost (has never happened anywhere and won't happen this time either). We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age (you mean we're going to stop indoctrinating students with a hate America first agenda? Sure you will). All this we can do. And all this we will do (or else?).
Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions (socialism) - who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose (socialism), and necessity to courage (clumsy sentence alert!).
What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them - that the stale political arguments (small government conservatism) that have consumed us for so long no longer apply (were never tried). The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small (I think it is a perfectly good question), but whether it works - whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified (this is government's job?). Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end (LOL!). And those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account (by who?: Frank, Dodd, Peslosi and that flock of elitists lefties you've appointed?...) - to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day - because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government (don't hold your breath).
Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye (socialism), the market can spin out of control - and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous (class envy anyone?). The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our Gross Domestic Product (actually an excellent barometer), but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart - not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good (socialism).
As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals ( Iraq war bad-America wrong). Our Founding Fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake (unless the UN says to). And so to all other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born (you know, the village where I attended the Madrassa): know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more (This is one of the stupidest things he said. Insinuating that America hasn't been leading: yeah right, America just ignores the flood, tsunami, and earthquake victims around the world. America's done nothing to fight hunger and AIDS around the world. We haven't defended Europe (at great sacrifice) from Russian agression for 60+ years now. We haven't drawn the line with terrorists and defended people who want to be free. The list could go on and on.).
Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks (but they helped a whole bunch!), but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions (Thatcher and Britain...and who else?). They understood that our power alone cannot protect us (are you sure about that Barry?), nor does it entitle us to do as we please (it does if we are being forced to capitulate to tyrants.). Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause (what will constitute "justness" Barry - a nuke in the middle of Manhattan?), the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint (thank you sir may I have another is a bad strategy with idescriminate killers don't you think?).
We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort - even greater cooperation and understanding between nations (please, please, please don't hate us!). We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat (It's OK Mahmoud, you can still have a nuke and threaten Israel) and roll back the specter of a warming planet (it's been cooling for the past 10 years, but we won't let FACTS get in the way). We will not apologize for our way of life (sure we will), nor will we waver in its defense (sure we will), and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you (how? with UN mandates and by dismantling the military?).
For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness (bullcrap!: our strength is NOT in our "patchwork heritage", it is in our FREEDOM!). We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus - and non-believers (Z nailed you on that one Barry). We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass (Barry, radical Islam ain't buying it bro) ; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve (one world government?); that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity (socialism) shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role (bend over and grab her ankles) in ushering in a new era of peace (this is creepy stuff people).
To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect (who's interest and respect for what? Shariah law? Here it is Barry, Islam is going to have to accept western, pluralistic society...or we are going to keep killing the ones who want.). To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West - know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy (their "people" won't judge diddly. They'll do what they're told and push their blood thirsty religion all the more). To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist (if he's talking about Islam, they're more likely to whack off said "extended" hand and feed it to you).
To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds (but you still can't use ddt or employ any other method that offends socialistic environmentalists). And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect (so we'll starve a few million evil Americans to even things out). For the world has changed (for the worse), and we must change with it (become more socialists).
As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains (even though "progressives" think they're uneducated hayseeds). They have something to tell us today, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves (I'm sure Code Pink is nodding in agreement). And yet, at this moment - a moment that will define a generation - it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.
For as much as government can do and must do (socialism), it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies . It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break (the one's George Bush had blown up), the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours (great idea, let's start with government!). It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate (assuming it can get born).
Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends - hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism - these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history (but now we need Marxists government to enforce our "goodness"). What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility - a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept (I wouldn't bet on that Barry) but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task (what? is he morphing from Lincoln to Lombardi?).
This is the price and the promise of citizenship.
This is the source of our confidence - the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny (what about for those "unbelievers" you spoke of earlier?).
This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed - why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.
So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:
"Let it be told to the future world...that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it]." ( I doubt old George had big government socialism in mind, Barry)
America. In the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship (now he's turning into Steinbeck), let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's (there he goes "Godding" us again) grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations (with a lot less economic freedom and a whole lot more moral insecurity thanks to an all knowing, all seeing, all doing federal government).

I get a feeling I should have been home yesterday...

2009-01-17T17:19:00.008-05:00

Almost heaven, West Virginia

Blue Ridge mountains, Shenandoah river

Life is old there, Older than the trees

Younger than the mountains, Growin like a breeze.

It is almost heaven there. The snow covered peaks near Summersville and the New River Gorge are beautiful. A quick visit to that fair shire this weekend was a pleasant reminder of John Denver's paean to home and beauty. Seeing the magnificent landscapes of West Virginia, you'd have thought that Robert C. Byrd himself had ordered them up especially for us - such is his judicial prowess and longevity. Now he may not have the supernatural ability to alter the weather for sightseers, but he has miraculously managed to get his name on every thing in sight: bridges, roads, buildings, parks, and enough law to choke a bureaucratic ex-Klansman. Of course, R.C.B. is the esteemed senior - and I mean SENIOR - Senator of West by gawd Virginia. Like the song says, "life is old there".

Country roads, take me home

To the place I belong

West Virginia, mountain momma

Take me home, country roads

And I must say, the Robert C. Byrd memorial rest area near Bluefield boast some of the finest facilities this side of the Missi-sip.

The divine Miss Ann took on Bobby Byrd's hypocrisy many years ago. And despite Byrd's egotistical pursuit to name everything in West Virginia after himself, it is a pretty state.

Climbing the tower.

2009-01-16T16:00:00.002-05:00

I busted my ass, actually my head on this very water tower. Me and two "friends" decided we would climb the tower. As usual with these particular "friends" I went first.These "friends" being Chuck H. and my cousin Ray T. And so I began my spectacular assent. As I climbed higher things began looking small beneath me. My breath became labored as the altitude rose. The higher I got the dimmer their voices sounded from below. One misstep would spell disaster. And then it happened... my foot missed a rung and I fell. I plummeted like a missile into the ground, my head striking a rock. I was stunned by the impact. Blood covered my head and face. My stalwart "friends" bolstered my spirit with cries of " get up you ain't hurt"! Later, after arriving home from the neighborhood doctors office, I was told that I fell a unbelievable 4 feet. Rubbing my head and the bandage on it, I reflected on my close call with eternity and my good fortune. Later I would kick both their asses for talking me into such a hairbrained mission.

Stay Tuned...

2009-01-13T09:11:00.006-05:00

Larry T. Durham is on "assignment" in the back woods of Up Country South Carolina. If he survives the ordeal, he'll return with all new moronic examples of pure frontier gibberish.

From the blind squirrel finds nut department...

2009-01-05T15:19:00.011-05:00

Even the progressive minds at the Huffington Puffington Post are beginning to question the Goracle (oh the humanity!). Hat Tip to Planet Gore on NRO. But you ecocondriacs can cheer up. There is always something to worry about.

The natural progression...

2009-01-03T22:00:00.007-05:00

Now if America has gotten with the game plan and at long last earned Her multicultural, gender and sexual equality bones, then the following video, From George Washington to Barack Obama, will proceed accordingly:

At the end of Obama's reign; after the oceans have subsided and the planet has returned to its purified state; and after America has genuflected to the United Nations and admitted total culpability for every problem in the world, ad infinitum; and after evil, job creating, wealth producing Americans have paid through the nose for their unmitigated greed; and after Guantanamo is closed, symbolically demolished and its inhabitants released on the streets on the US; and after government has at last taxed, regulated or taken over damn near everything else; the country will...must...then elect a woman. So, the new version of this video (post BO) will show The One's cherubic puss creepily morph into the delicate features of a female.

And of course it must be a liberal woman. And extra points will be awarded for a liberal, black woman. Don't misunderstand me, I have no misgivings over electing a woman - black and or otherwise. We could use a woman of Margaret Thatcher's mettle about now. But that ain't happening. At this point we are more likely to end up with a doctrinaire left leaning hag wielding a PC whip and joyfully employing the testicle lock box. In fact, as I rethink this, the royal trifecta for a future woman POTUS would be for her to be liberal, black, and lesbian. All the bases would then be covered. All the wrongs perpetrated by the white male patriarchy (for the white, male patriarchy) can be atoned for and gender and sexual justice can at long last be enjoyed. And the more I think about it, I'd have no problem with the prez being black and lesbian...as long as she isn't an ax grinding Marxist, but what is the chance of that? If Obama's succesor is black and lesbian, then you can bet your assets that she'll be able to do the progressive two step in her sleep: one, two tax, one, two spend, one, two ...

Doubtless, all the earth will rejoice with America on Her awakening. Even the head choppers will beat their scimitars into plowshares. Then again, maybe not.

You win some, you lose some and some get rained out...

2009-01-01T22:45:00.001-05:00

The Tigers played tough today, but The Huskers were a little bit better. Clemson had the ball first and goal just inside the ten with a buck fifty to go...but it wasn't meant to be: Nebraska wins the Gator Bowl 26-21.

Hats off to Coach Swinney and the boys for rebounding from their mid season malaise to lay a little wood and regain some lost pride. Here's to better days.

And speaking of rebounding, it's time for college hoops! And what's this?!! Our beloved Tigers are 13-0, ranked in the top 20 and fresh off an imperial ass whipping of the hated South Carolina Gamecocks. Coach Purnell's team looks good. Don't be surprised to see them advance a round or two come March Madness time. You heard it first...right here at MTH.

And now we return to the mind addled, irreverent views of 'Midst The Hum.

And we'll toast to the old days...

2008-12-31T22:00:00.001-05:00

And Dimaggio too,
To Drysdale and Mantle
Whitey Ford and to you.

It's out with the old and in with the new. Yeah you're gonna lose that 20 pounds this year. You gonna start that novel that 's been rattling around your head all of your adult life . You gonna start looking forward and stop looking backward. Pray more. Laugh more; frown less. You're going to...change. And not a phony baloney Obamassiah kind of change, but instead, the real McCoy. An actual brunette to blond, fat to muscle metamorphosis. You've given up on Dickens and you've adopted Kafka. Or maybe the other way around. In any event, another year has flown by. With the new year you sense something big on the horizon. Something life altering. For you? For all of us? You pray that we'll all still be here healthy, happy and making the same tired and unfulfilled resolutions this time next year. You take inventory of your life and realize with profound reverence that life is good and that, despite your moments of doubt, the grace of God is enough to sustain you. Regardless of kings, queens or tyrants.

Happy New Year Blogosphere!

A Southern Christmas Day

2008-12-27T08:03:00.009-05:00

Usually at Christmas time in South Carolina we're freezing our noogies off - Yes, we have a Winter-like period in the deep south and it gets cold. No, not a cheek clinching Minnesota type cold, but still cold by our bare footed, buck toothed standards.

But not this year. This year Christmas day was a balmy 63 degrees and your intrepid reporter had the opportunity to take a pontoon ride on beautiful Lake Keowee. And while we grits eaters harbor romantic notions about white Christmases, in reality we wouldn't trade a Christmas day like this one for all the snow in Fargo. The poor saps.

And to all a good night...

2008-12-20T20:35:00.019-05:00

For all you stressed out sheep out there still Christmas shopping for last minute gifts for people you really don't like very much in the first place - a big HO double HO to ya!...and two helpful words: Internet shopping!

So Caroline Kennedy wants to play the Kennedy card and scoop up Hillary Clinton's soon to be vacant senate seat. Charles Krauthammer takes on the silly notion that Sweet Caroline's blue blood is a viable qualification. Didn't we settle this royal ascendancy issue in 76? 1776 that is.

Alas the College football bowl season has begun. Out of the of the 800 bowl games on tap this season, I think I'm looking most forward to the Guam Tech vs. Dildo State game. An instant classic for sure. Of course I'll be watching our Clemson Tigers take on the Nebraska don't call me Corn Huskers in the Gator Bowl January 1. It appears that Nebraska has dropped their "corn" these days for the abbreviated Huskers. What's up with that? Was Corn offended? In this era of rampant political correctness, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that vegetables are people too.

And just in time for Christmas: The Council on American-Islamic relations (CAIR) demands sensitivity and diversity training for Long John Silvers employees. It seems an offending Jesus message was found in a happy meal by a meek and sensitive Muslim youth (oh the humanity!). Don't you people have women to humiliate and buses to blow up? Good grief. In a somewhat related matter...

Happy Kwanzaa to you folks in which gullibility is an art form. Annie C tells the sordid story better than anybody...an expose' worth reading. From the article:

(Sing to "Jingle Bells")

Kwanzaa bells, dashikis sell

Whitey has to pay;

Burning, shooting, oh what fun

On this made-up holiday!

Meanwhile Congress just gave themselves a $4700 raise. This brings the average pay for members up to $174,000. Pretty brazen stuff given the slumping economy; and more so given the inconvenient fact that their own waste and mismanagement is a primary culprit. Something smells in DC alright Harry, and it isn't the tourist you corrupt bastard.

Hey, I can't leave on such a sour note, especially during this festive time of the year. So Merry Christmas blog world. And don't forget to leave ol' Santa a cookie and big glass of Glenlivet. It's the least you can do.

Bush and Cheney-change the rules and then play by them

2008-12-16T05:51:00.003-05:00

Some tidbits about the dynamic duo that I found while perusing the net...

Charge: "In 1989 Mr. Bush was on the board of directors and audit committee of Harken [Energy]. He acquired that position, along with a lot of company stock, when Harken paid $2 million for Spectrum 7, a tiny, money-losing energy company with large debts of which Mr. Bush was C.E.O. Explaining what it was buying, Harken's founder said, 'His name was George Bush.' Unfortunately, Harken was also losing money hand over fist. But in 1989 the company managed to hide most of those losses with the profits it reported from selling a subsidiary, Aloha Petroleum, at a high price. Who bought Aloha? A group of Harken insiders, who got most of the money for the purchase by borrowing from Harken itself. Eventually the Securities and Exchange Commission ruled that this was a phony transaction, and forced the company to restate its 1989 earnings. But long before that ruling—though only a few weeks before bad news that could not be concealed caused Harken's shares to tumble—Mr. Bush sold off two-thirds of his stake, for $848,000. … Oddly, though the law requires prompt disclosure of insider sales, he neglected to inform the S.E.C. about this transaction until 34 weeks had passed. An internal S.E.C. memorandum concluded that he had broken the law, but no charges were filed. This, everyone insists, had nothing to do with the fact that his father was president" (Paul Krugman, New York Times, July 2, 2002).
Bush did not make his fortune in the oil fields. He made it at a major-league ball park heavily subsidized by taxpayers.
Bush takes credit for conceiving The Ballpark at Arlington, home of the Texas Rangers baseball team, which he bought in 1989 with a wealthy group of investors. Among them: billionaire Richard Rainwater of Fort Worth.
Bush invested just over $600,000, but Arlington taxpayers invested a lot more.
"It was $135 million worth of sales tax money," said attorney Glenn Sodd. "The city donated a good bit of land to the project. They got a sales tax exemption on all the items that were purchased for the stadium. We have a property tax in Texas and they were given as part of the deal a property tax exemption." A total of at least $200 million, according to Sodd.
And there's more: Sodd sued the Rangers on behalf of two families whose property was seized for stadium parking. A jury found they were paid about one-seventh of what the land was worth.
But the Rangers defend the deal.
"Basically, what we think we did was to create a model public-private partnership in which both sides came out ahead," said Bush partner and Rangers President Tom Schieffer.
Bush declined to be interviewed, but Schieffer says taxpayers got their money's worth.
"That's what we have always said in this process: 'If this wasn't good for Arlington, don't do it.' And that's the way we took it to the voters," Schieffer said. "We said, 'This is going to be good for the Rangers, no question about it. This is going to be good for us. But if it's not going to be good for you, don't do it.'"
The team threatened to move, and Arlington taxpayers voted in a half-cent increase in the sales tax. The vote was 2-to-1.
The new, subsidized stadium turned out to be a great deal for Bush. He was the most visible partner, and the publicity helped launch him into the governorship in 1994. And when the team was sold last year Bush's share came to at least $14.9 million with perhaps another $1 million or $2 million still to come.
Jim Runzheimer is one Arlington resident who opposed the deal.
"He put $600,000 into this project and he did a little bit better than Hillary Clinton," Runzheimer said. "She only made ... $100,000 or $200,000, from her dealing in commodities. Gov. Bush has made $15 million."
Fans love the stadium. And the team has flourished financially.
"Looking at it from the perspective of a businessman, this was an awfully sweet deal for the business," said Sodd. "Looking at it as a public official, we think it's lousy policy to use government money to subsidize billionaires in the pursuit of their business interests."
So Bush the businessman did prosper. But not by his bootstraps -- with help from wealthy friends and taxpayer subsidies.

Published on Thursday, April 3, 2003 by CommonDreams.org
Halliburton, Dick Cheney, and Wartime Spoils
by Lee Drutman and Charlie Cray
Access to Evil -- business dealings in Iraq, Iran, and Libya: News reports suggest that Pentagon is currently using the Iran-Libya Sanctions Act (ILSA) to draw up a blacklist of non-US companies that have done business in Iran. Yet, Halliburton has conducted Business in Iran through subsidiaries. When Cheney was CEO of Halliburton, he inquired about an ILSA waiver to pursue oil field developments in Iran. In 1997, Halliburton subsidiary Halliburton Energy Services paid $15,000 to settle Department of Commerce allegations that the company had broken anti-boycott provisions of the U.S. Export Administration Act for an Iran-related transaction. Halliburton recently agreed to evaluate its operations in Iran, after the Securities and Exchange Commission rebuffed the company's request to dismiss a New York City police and fire pension funds shareholder proposal for the company to examine its role in Iran.
Also forgotten is that story about how Cheney's Halliburton did business with Saddam. According to the Washington Post, "Halliburton held stakes in two firms that signed contracts to sell more than $73 million in oil production equipment and spare parts to Iraq while Cheney was chairman and chief executive officer."
Halliburton has also done business in Azerbaijan, Burma, Indonesia, Libya and Nigeria. As Dick Cheney once said, "The good Lord didn't see fit to put oil and gas only where there are democratic regimes friendly to the United States."
Tax Havens: Under Cheney's tenure, the number of Halliburton subsidiaries in offshore tax havens increased from 9 to 44. Meanwhile, Halliburton went from paying $302 million in company taxes in 1998 to getting an $85 million tax refund in 1999.
All told, the IRS loses about $70 billion a year in offshore tax sheltering by corporations and wealthy individuals - almost enough to cover the $75 billion Bush has asked for to cover the first six months of war.
***
The Halliburton story is part of a larger dynamic that should not be forgotten in a debate over contractor responsibility. While the Halliburton contracts reek of blatant cronyism, almost all the major firms that provide this kind of work are tied to the administration.
Somebody has to do the job. However, the level of secrecy surrounding the contracts that have been given out so far is troubling, and symptomatic of a bigger problem - the very legitimacy of a reconstruction process controlled by the U.S. military and their corporate contractors. Although the United States has the obligation to pay for the costs of reconstructing Iraq, only the United Nations is the proper body to provide governance and help rebuild a new government, civil society and physical infrastructure if the current regime is overthrown, not the White House, the Pentagon and their corporate cronies.
Note: In honor of Big Business Day 2003, Citizen Works will present Dick Cheney the "Daddy Warbucks" Award for eminence in corporate war profiteering on Friday, April 4

July 17, 2002 | Vice President Dick Cheney has spent most of the past year in hiding, ostensibly from terrorists, but increasingly it seems obvious that it is Congress, the Securities and Exchange Commission, the media and the public he fears. And for good reason: Cheney's business behavior could serve as a textbook case of much of what's wrong with the way corporate CEOs have come to play the game of business.
The game involves more than playing loose with accounting rules, as Halliburton Co. is accused of doing while Cheney was the Texas-based energy company's chief executive.
On Sunday, SEC chairman Harvey Pitt, whom Cheney pushed for the job, reluctantly turned on his sponsor and announced a vigorous investigation of Halliburton's accounting violations. Recent business scandals, however, are also the product of legal loopholes that allow firms to scoop up billions in unregulated profits.
It was just such loopholes that allowed the rise and subsequent fall of Enron and telecom heavyweights like WorldCom -- in the process making CEOs like Dick Cheney very, very rich.
Recall that Cheney was a political hack for most of his professional life, first as a staffer in the Ford White House, then as a congressman for a decade and after that as secretary of defense under the current president's father.
During the Clinton years, however, Cheney took an extremely lucrative five-year cruise into the private sector as chief executive of Halliburton. After deciding, following an extensive search, that he would be George W. Bush's best candidate for vice president, Cheney resigned from the energy services company with a $36 million payoff for his final year of corporate service. This journey from the public payroll to the corporate towers and back left a slimy trail of conflict-of-interest questions. For example, Secretary of Defense Cheney conveniently changed the rules restricting private contractors doing work on U.S. military bases, allowing the Kellogg Brown & Root subsidiary of his future employer Halliburton to receive the first of $2.5 billion in contracts over the next decade. When Cheney left to become CEO of the entire company, he recruited his Pentagon military aide, Joe Lopez, to become senior vice president in charge of Pentagon dealings, which ultimately formed the most lucrative part of the otherwise ailing company's business. Since returning to public office, these disturbing patterns have continued. In a scathing exposé of Halliburton's military contracts, for example, the New York Times revealed that the vice president's old company had been the main beneficiary of the Pentagon's rush to build anti-terrorism military bases around the world. This new work will cost taxpayers many billions, and, according to Pentagon investigators' estimates, without any cost controls the final bill will be considerably higher than if the military's own construction units do the work. Cheney denies having a role in securing those recent contracts, as he denies any knowledge of Halliburton's alleged accounting improprieties. Unfortunately for Halliburton's stockholders and employees, parlaying his Pentagon contacts into profit has proved to be Cheney's only major business success. In fact, CEO Cheney put Halliburton's future in doubt by engineering the acquisition of rival Dresser Industries, a move ballyhooed at the time as justification of his $2.2 million annual salary and massive stock options.But the acquisition has proved to be a disaster because Halliburton assumed Dresser's long-term liability under asbestos lawsuits. Even without the Dresser acquisition, Cheney was running a failing operation at Halliburton. The company, despite the government gravy garnered, had earnings well below Wall Street's expectations --until it suddenly changed its accounting rules. By assuming it would be able to collect on cost overruns on myriad construction projects, Cheney's Halliburton was able to inflate profits by $234 million over a four-year period. Halliburton failed to disclose its accounting shenanigans to the SEC or the company's investors for more than a year afterward, leading to more than a dozen lawsuits alleging fraud, including one by Judicial Watch. And why are we not surprised that Halliburton's accounting firm was Arthur Andersen, earlier this year convicted of obstruction of justice for shredding documents in connection with Enron? Andersen's dubious methods have become the disgrace of American accounting. Cheney, however, was sufficiently enamored with it that in 1996 he glowingly endorsed the accounting firm in a video, thanking it for going "over and above the just-sort-of-normal, by-the-books audit arrangement." Of course, ordinary investors did not know they were getting less than "by-the-books" auditing. It is especially ugly that the president and vice president -- men in a position to know just how sketchy the accounting practices of public companies are -- were so eager to make our Social Security system a vehicle for pouring individuals' retirement money into a stock market they knew to be a house of cards.
cost overruns before it was certain of getting paid.

Halliburton has contracts worth more than $1.7 billion for its work in Iraq, and it could make hundreds of millions more from a no-bid contract it was awarded by the Army Corps of Engineers, The Washington Post has reported.

According to The Post, while Cheney was defense secretary the Pentagon chose Halliburton subsidiary Brown & Root to study the cost effectiveness of outsourcing some military operations to private contractors. Based on the results of the study, the Pentagon hired Brown & Root to implement an outsourcing plan. Cheney became Halliburton CEO in 1995.

CBS/AP) A report by the Congressional Research Service undermines Vice President Dick Cheney's denial of a continuing relationship with Halliburton Co., the energy company he once led, Sen. Frank Lautenberg said Thursday.

The report says a public official's unexercised stock options and deferred salary fall within the definition of "retained ties" to his former company.

Cheney said Sunday on NBC that since becoming vice president, "I've severed all my ties with the company, gotten rid of all my financial interest. I have no financial interest in Halliburton of any kind and haven't had, now, for over three years."

Democrats pointed out that Cheney receives deferred compensation from Halliburton under an arrangement he made in 1998, and also retains stock options. He has pledged to give after-tax proceeds of the stock options to charity.

Cheney's aides defended the assertion on NBC, saying the financial arrangements do not constitute a tie to the company's business performance. They pointed out that Cheney took out a $15,000 insurance policy so he would collect the deferred payments over five years whether or not Halliburton remains in business.

Lautenberg, D-N.J., asked the Congressional Research Service to weigh in.
Without naming Cheney or Halliburton, the service reported that unexercised stock options and deferred salary "are among those benefits described by the Office of Government Ethics as 'retained ties' or 'linkages' to one's former employer."

Lautenberg said the report makes clear that Cheney does still have financial ties to Halliburton. "I ask the vice president to stop dodging the issue with legalese," Lautenberg said.

Cathie Martin, Cheney's spokeswoman, said the question is whether Cheney has any possible conflict of interest with Halliburton, "and the answer to that is, no."

Cheney was chief executive officer of Halliburton from 1995 through August 2000. The company's KBR subsidiary is the main government contractor working to restore Iraq's oil industry in an open-ended contract that was awarded without competitive bidding.

According to Cheney's 2001 financial disclosure report, the vice president's Halliburton benefits include three batches of stock options comprising 433,333 shares. He also has a 401(k) retirement account valued at between $1,001 and $15,000 dollars.

His deferred compensation account was valued at between $500,000 and $1 million, and generated income of $50,000 to $100,000.

In 2002, Cheney's total assets were valued at between $19.1 million and $86.4 million.

Earlier this month, a federal judge dismissed a lawsuit that accused Halliburton and Cheney of misleading investors by changing the way the company counted revenue from construction projects.

The lawsuit was filed last year by Judicial Watch, a conservative public interest group, on behalf of three small investors, who said the company tried to polish financial results by booking revenue on
cost overruns before it was certain of getting paid.

Halliburton has contracts worth more than $1.7 billion for its work in Iraq, and it could make hundreds of millions more from a no-bid contract it was awarded by the Army Corps of Engineers, The Washington Post has reported.

According to The Post, while Cheney was defense secretary the Pentagon chose Halliburton subsidiary Brown & Root to study the cost effectiveness of outsourcing some military operations to private contractors. Based on the results of the study, the Pentagon hired Brown & Root to implement an outsourcing plan. Cheney became Halliburton CEO in 1995.

Lucy...This ees Ree-diculus

2008-12-14T11:26:00.014-05:00

This day started out like any other. You wake up, drag yourself to the coffeemaker and get the lifeblood flowing. Then stumble to the bathroom for the morning hello. Then you realize that yes...I did buy a car last night. Not a new one, mind you-a 1998 Volkswagen Jetta with 127,000 miles on it. I wouldn't have bought a high mileage car like this except for the fact that I knew the owner. Friend and co-worker Tim is as anal a guy about maintaining a car as they come. The VW is in immaculate condition, and has a new transmission! I got a great deal on the car as Tim had already picked up his new Lexus and needed to unload the Jetta for more than the car dealer was willing to offer. Enter me.
I rode over to Tim's place in Red Bank, about 17 miles, to get the car. Tim wanted to give me the once over on the car, showing me everything from the spare tire location to how the rear seats fold down. He had detailed the car and filled up the tank for me and I was extremely happy with the purchase.
Since the VW is a straight drive, I took my time picking up the clutch nuances that anyone who's ever driven a straight drive can attest to. I retrieved the car at 8PM last night and was afforded an opportunity to check out it's night features (high beams, instrument panel lights, etc.). I was pleasantly surprised with the pep of the small four-cylinder as I hit 90mph on the interstate quite easily. Soon, I was at home forcing Laura to come out and see the new ride.
Work has been strange lately, business all but vanishing one week only to roar in the next week to a level almost unmanageable. This has been a roaring week. We were booked at 9:45 this morning to shoot another episode of On The Street, this one with a twist. The Muscular Dystrophy Association had invited our show host, the lovely Giovanna, to be “arrested” and raise “bail” to get her out of jail. A great charity, a worthy cause, and they wanted to include Giovanna since her popularity around Columbia is growing by leaps and bounds. The “detainees” were to be held in a makeshift cell at O'Charley's on Harbison in Columbia. Andy, our production coordinator, thought that it would be really cool if we staged an O.T.S. and shot it like an episode of COPS. I would ride in the police car with their POV camera, Andy would be shooting the open of the show with Gio. We would combine the two angles and add some “Bad Boys' type music to the piece, follow Gio and the cops as they arrest her, put her in the squad car and drive her to O'Charley's where they would “book” her and she would call friends and businesses for help in bailing her out. We had secured all the clearances that we needed and were ready to roll.
I arrived at the location, a Publix store across the lot from O'Charley's. As I was pulling into the lot I noticed blue lights behind me. Shit, I'm being pulled! I turned into the O'Charley's lot and stopped. Then I saw more flashing blues – hell I have two cops pulling me! What could I have done that was so wrong that it took double the law to contain me? As the young policeman approached the drivers side window, I spied the other lawman, er, I mean law person of color standing just behind the passenger side door. I had already gathered my bill of sale, the signed title and the paperwork for the DMV since I was sure that they were going to bring up the fact that there was no tag on the car. This, it seems, was the only issue. The young officer asked about the missing tag and I handed him the paperwork while explaining to him that I had picked the car up at 8PM last night, I didn't have time to hit the DMV this morning before work but would have a tag by lunchtime. He took my license and all the paperwork and went to the squad car to radio me in. Time: 9:32AM.
At 9:45 I called Giovanna to tell her of my fate. “Hell Gio”, I said. “We could almost shoot a real episode of COPS with me as the half-drunk trash. Should I take off my shirt?” Ha ha ha..ha ha. “Oh I see you”, says Gio. “Why do you have two cops? I thought that they were only sending one?”
About this time Gio pulled up next to me and rolled down the window. “They're early”, she says.
“No', I replied. “They pulled me because I have no tag”.
“MOVE ALONG” shouted the officer of color. She was standing outside the male officer's squad car awaiting, I assumed, word from HQ that the car was not reported stolen. Gio looked at her as if to say “huh?” when the officer yells “YOU HAVE TO MOVE”. Gio looked at me, shrugged shoulders and did a U turn in the parking lot. She stopped next to the squad car and, with her glorious smile and playful eyes, said to the officers “that's my boss – give him as many tickets as you can” Ha ha ha..ha ha. They paid no attention to her-she moved along. Time: 9:51
Still awaiting my fate, and the engine still running, I looked to the cop outside the squad car for some answer to this simple non-dilemma. She was no help as she kept looking away when we would make eye contact. This went on for several minutes until I gave up on that. I called Andy to crack the same joke about shooting the real COPS episode but Gio had reached him by then and filled him in on what was happening. After I hung up with Andy I see the cop slowly emerge from his car and head my way. His backup made her way around to the passenger side to resume her backup stance. Officer “B”, we'll call him, proceeds to hand over my paperwork and my drivers license. As he hands me the title, he includes a citation, a ticket – not a warning! A ticket which had the outrageous fine of $232.50 for no license tag! Maybe they had paid attention to Gio after all....hmmmmm. Time: 10am
I say to Officer B “You gotta be kidding!”. He proceeds to explain to me that one cannot drive a car with no license plate...it's against the law. Then he tells me to call and find a ride as I will be parking the car and not driving it until it has a plate on it's rear end. “Don't I have 45 days to apply for a tag?” I ask. “Go park the car”, he says. "If I see you driving it before you get a plate I'll ticket you”.
Fettered, I drive the car to the Publix lot and park next to Andy and Gio. Needless to say, I am highly pissed! Trying to put the episode behind me, and vowing to fight it in court, we proceeded with our shoot. While Andy and Gio were shooting the open I walked down to O'Charley's to meet my police escort. As I entered the front door, lo and behold who should be standing there but Officer B. I had my camera in my hand and was greeted by Eric, the MDA rep. First, he points to the cop and says “introduce yourselves” to us. “We've met” I reply. Officer B grinned and shook his head as if to say “oh shit”. “Yes, I am your camera guy this morning”, I said, looking around for his partner, who was in the ladies room. At this point Eric approaches and informs me that O'Charley's corporate will not allow us to shoot in the restaurant. “But the cell is setup in here, the phone bank – everything is happening inside” I said. “Sorry” was all he could say.
Well, ain't this just a big ole crock of shit! Making my way back across to the Publix, I tell Gio and Andy about the location change and we try and figure how we can shoot a lockup scene with no lockup, or a bail-me-out-by-phone scene without the phones. Since this was not a paid gig, and since the host charity had thrown us this impossible curve, we decided to cancel the shoot. Gio would still be 'arrested' and raise money for the charity but without doing a show around it. We go back over to O'Charley's to tell the cops that we would not need their services. They seemed to think that we canceled the episode because of the ticket. Not so-that's another battle for another day. Officer B, seemingly embarrassed, began to tell me if I took my new tag to court that the judge would probably waive the fine. I asked the good officer if he would show up on my behalf, but received no definitive answer from him there.
I had to hitch a ride back to the station with Andy, leaving the VW parked on Harbison. Thank God I had left my old car downtown in the parking garage. I picked it up, drove to the DMV and got my registration. Since I was transferring the old tag to the VW, I had to then drive to Newberry (in the pouring rain), go to the house and park the Chevy, remove the tag (in the pouring rain), take the truck back down to Columbia, attach the tag to the VW (in the pouring rain), pick Laura up at the mall in the truck, drive back down to Publix and get the VW and follow her home(in the pouring rain). In addition to all this (as well as missing a half day of work), I have to go to court on December 23 and appear before a judge (missing another half day of work) and hope that he reduces this ridiculous fine. Isn't there supposed to be a modicum of common sense applied to our laws? Damn...I'm still pissed!

Arkanside for Blagojevich?

2008-12-12T16:04:00.009-05:00

The mainstream media is pushing the talking point that Gov. Blagojevich is unstable and maybe riding the "insane train". If I was the governor I would make a point that everyone knows that I would never under any circumstance take my own life. These tactics were the very ones favored by the Clintons for their adversaries in Arkansas. It was called the "nuts and sluts" defense. The Clinton's practically filled graveyards with this tactic. Allegations were not answered, their proponents were smeared and defamed with charges that they were "delusional" or misguided. If that didn't work then they appeared to commit suicide. After all they were unstable. It is no coincidence that Rahm Emmanuel is working for Obama. He filled the same position for the Clinton's. The same tactics are at work here as in Arkansas. This is not by chance. Therefore if I was mister "goingtojailovich" and wanted to keep breathing, I would cooperate and grab my ankles. This a skill he needs to master in the future anyway. For those who do know the term Arkanside ....it is suicide with a little help!

Actual road sign near Newberry SC made famous in the 90s. You just can't make this stuff up.

Crisis mongering in the rain...

2008-12-11T02:11:00.006-05:00

It has been so long since it rained substantially in Upstate South Carolina that today's steady downpour has resulted in some odd behavior amongst the locals. Even as I blog, my neighbors are running up and down our street naked and babbling incoherently. I won't be joining them but photos are forthcoming. It so infrequently rains here these days that children aged 10 and under are cowering in fear. The gloom of the clouds has shaken them from their X-Box stupor. For many of them, this is the first time they've actually seen rain. Parents are in a snit attempting to reassure their insular prodigy that the "crisis" is temporary, and that the sun will indeed shine again. The photo at the top illustrates just how dry it has been here the last 10 years. The protrusion shown here is of a bridge submerged 50 years ago when Lake Hartwell was created. Its baaack.

Crisis, crisis, crisis everywhere a crisis:

The US auto companies are so out of gas that the fuel hand has disappeared from sight. Now they're standing on the shoulder of the road, crestfallen, holding an empty gas can, asking anybody and everybody (American taxpayers) to help push them to the local Citgo.
What hasn't been said about the financial avalanche perpetrated on the public by Freddie, Fannie and guvmint trolls like Barney Frank n' Beans? I suggest the Enron treatment for Dodd, Franks, Gorelick and the rest. I won't hold my breath.
Layoffs, cutbacks and overall economic paranoia grip the population. The MSM is nearly orgasmic with their delivery of the bad news; likewise in their trumpeting of the blessed solutions of Barry, The One, the spreader, the planet healer, the transcender of race, Obama.

Of course the blessed solutions to the country's ills requires that the always wise and benevolent federal government binge on your wallets. It's the only way to assure the fairness that so many of you out there in greed infested flyover country have resisted. Where is your patriotism you rubes? Have you no sense of crisis identification?

But it is raining in Upstate S.C. today and my buck naked neighbors are imploring me to join them in their romp. Well, why not? Photos not forthcoming. So for the rest of you folks bummed out by Crisis America, It's raining and I'm the king of the world as far as I know.

Treading water in a sea of blogs...

2008-12-08T14:11:00.002-05:00

The blogoverse is a big place. Hit the next blog tab at the top of your blogger page and you'll likely be confronted with all sorts of inane ramblings : Blogs about mommies, daddies and their entire brood of blograts. Blogs about kittens, puppies and hermit crabs (this lady and I share a love for The Beatles, but that's about it). Blogs by fuzzy little foreigners are everywhere. Not that there 's anything wrong with fuzzy little foreigners...unless they're trying to blow up the doughnut shop you're sitting in. But I digress. Then of course there are the blogs that dabble in opinion. Tens of thousands of them espousing all types of bloviational deviancy. Like they say, opinions are like elbows and ***holes, everybody's got one.

And I've got one...an opinion that is. Hence, I gravitate toward those bloggers that think somewhat like I do; you know, cross burning, uptight conservatives so strung out on Jesus that they don't know their asterisk from a semi colon. At least that seems to be the prevalent view of the right wing blogosphere from those progressive minded people who lurk in the comments section, patiently waiting on an idiotic post from an extra chromosome rightie-tightie blogger like yours truly. And I must admit, sometimes I oblige them by exhibiting just how provincial I am. Hi Ho.

And I intend to broaden my horizons just as soon as I get this Bible closed and get out of my pajamas.

Oh but I have a reciprocal lurking agreement with the progressive movement. I frequently check in on those paragons of open mindedness just to see what they're up to. Of course, over in Huffington-Puffington land you get no quarter...or should you. But that's freedom of speech for you: both a curse and a blessing. So I enjoy nuking the recycled hippies that post their hybrid nonsense while hiding behind their green teeth...er agenda. And they love to dish it back, and they do so, often times with spittle spewing diatribes worthy of doubling their Zoloft prescriptions. I do love to get a rise.

Yes the Blogosphere is a universe unto itself. How many blogs are there? Well, how many stars are there in the sky? How many grains of sand are there on the beach? How many people saw The Beatles on Ed Sullivan? How many morons are there hunched before their keyboards cranking out sophomoric drivel while their wives are screaming at them for not taking out the garbage? Who knows?

In any event, you gotta love the blogs. It one great big cyber fun house mirror of opinion tempered by every psychosis known to man...and some not yet named.

So I'm off now, Nurse Ratched is leering over my shoulder imploring me to calm down and take my medication. I'm OK, I'm OK, I'm OK.

Christmas upon us.

2008-12-07T17:58:00.003-05:00

It's that time of year "again". Even though I adore the true message of Christmas this time of the season brings out the Jeckle and Hyde in me. I revere the story of the nativity and the holy truth of it's meaning. I detest the shoping and hub-bub. I love and enjoy the fellowship with friends and family. I hate all the extra hassle at work and home. I love picking the "cool gifts" but I dread going to get them. I love Christmas songs especially any done by Karen Carpenter. If GOD made a more wonderfull voice He kept it for Himself. However, if I hear "Jingle bell rock"one more time...I may climb a clock tower with a bazooka. But.... all in all....MERRY CHRISTMAS!

I have the answer

2008-12-02T19:20:00.002-05:00

Guns. Guns are the answer. What's the question, you ask? Everything, I reply. Guns are the answer to most of society's ills. No, I'm not taking an anti-gun stance here. Quite the contrary. I say that all Americans, I'm taliking Americans born in America, raised in America and will eventually be six-feet-down-toes-up under good old American soil, these fine Americans should be issued a firearm at birth. They should have their first picture taken at the hospital with their "little friend" at their fingertips, unloaded of course.
I can see the photo album for the kid, starting with the hospital shots and moving to:
Junior nursing the barrel of his 44 magnim pacifier;
here's Junior at 9 months learning to walk with his pump shotgun;
aww, look. Here's Junior at 22 months posing with his new cap and Uzi.

The old west was won with guns. The Civil War was fought and won (or lost, depending on geography) with guns. The American Revolution, two World Wars, Korea...all won with guns.
If I confront a burgler or robber, and have a gun in my hand, chances are he won't make that stupid decision to follow through with his evil plans.

It's not only a God-given right to own a gun but a birthright, almost a necessity in these times.

Thanksgiving Leftovers...

2008-12-01T12:45:00.005-05:00

smell so good.

First off, a huge thank you to the blogtastic Nikki. She's the fastest (and most accurate) gun in the west. We highly recommend her. Flak jacket required.

Oh yes, victory is sweet. The Clemson Tigers lead by interim coach, Dabo Swinney, who was selling commercial real estate a few years ago, defeated The University of South Carolina lead by hall of fame legend, Steve the old ball coach Spurrier. That's really gotta sting. And they did it handily and maliciously 31-14. And you South Carolina University fans know it could have been worse...Once more the world is spinning in greased grooves.

And now Dabo has been officialy named Head Coach at CU. Cocka-doodle-doo!

Note to the Obamatron: Now that you've had the brilliant idea to appoint Hillary Rodman Clinton to SOS, you might want to look in to hiring a food taster. It's a magnanimous gesture and all, and maybe keeping your enemies closer is a good strategy with some people, but keeping HRC and Billy Jeff around could be hazardous to your health. Just trying to help you out Barry.

The election of BHO not only will heal the planet, there is now a smiley face in the skies over Australia. Hey Barry, we've got this drought going on here. Do you think...?

Tigers Play Smackdown With South Carolina

2008-11-29T22:06:00.003-05:00

Tigers 31
Spurrier Worshipers 14

Condescending analysis to come!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Re: West coast versus Southern religious tolerance.

2008-11-28T21:23:00.005-05:00

Shall I wade into these shark infested waters for a quick dip? I shall.

The real beef the Gay Community has with the Mormon Church according to this site is that the Church was the big money behind the proponents of prop 8. Curiously, the gay community suggest boycotting the Utah ski slopes as a form of financial punishment for the state. The Gay lobby recommends that tourists "get their snow fix" in Colorado or California. California? Isn't California the state that voted against same sex marriage in prop 8? I guess the Mormon money made em do it.

Hence, the burning of the book of Mormon, and some other instances of in your face activities by homosexuals incensed by the vote's outcome and the LDS involvement. I couldn't help but notice that the burning BOM was found at a church in Colorado and not in Utah. Maybe those Utah Mormons aren't so sissified after all.

As an aside, the GC also aims to convince Robert Redford to move his lib-fest Sundance Movie Festival out of Utah. I guess red-neck, ass-backward South Carolina is out of the question. How about open minded, accepting Colorado or California? Oh, that vote...

Lost in the kerfuffle is the sticky fact that black people voted overwhelmingly against same sex marriage. Apparently black Californians draw the line at skin color when doling out the civil rights credentials. Here is a google search with several hilarious attempts by bloggers to absolve blacks of their sinful prop 8 vote. Hehehe.

Furthermore, the gay community loves to rant about narrow minded religious people, but I've never heard nor seen any gays (or liberals for that matter) pounding the protest pavement outside a Mosque. Where are the Koran burners? While Christianity in virtually all it's forms does condemn homosexuality, it does not call for the stoning of same sexers as does Islam. I suppose it is easier to protest against civilized people than it is against people who will cut off your genitals and feed them to you. And birth rates of the aforementioned head (and genital) choppers are growing dramatically world wide. Note to the GC: If demographics keep going in their present direction, in a few generations you'll be relieved to be living amongst the narrow minds of Christianity, for they will certainly defend your lives, your liberties and your pursuits of happiness even if they won't recognize your marriages.

The American and Christian tradition concerning marriage is one man and one woman: Adam and Eve and not Adam and Steve. Live as you please and love who you want, but don't expect the deeply held religious convictions of Americans concerning marriage to disappear simply because you disagree with them.

Well now, I just realized I've ranted on and not mentioned one thing concerning Southern religious tolerance. One thing, and I'm not sure this qualifies: I have attended numerous churches in several Southern states and I never heard anything remotely resembling the racial crap that the Obamatron sat through for twenty years at Trinity Church in Chicago. That's a different kind of Jesus they got up there in Mob world. Hi Ho.

Obama change or Clinton redux?

2008-11-28T18:45:00.003-05:00

For a guy all about change and a new direction for his administration Obama has packed his new incoming cabinet and advisory staff with the old Clinton cast of characters. Not only does he have all of the Clinton underlings, he also has their queen....her highness herself...Hillary as sec. of state. I know people say "keep your friends close and your enemies closer", but this seems like being either overly cautious or overly stupid. However this would make sense if in fact the Clinton's are really the ones in charge and Obama is merely the front man.It always seemed to me that the Clinton's did not put up a fight and went away too easily after the primary defeat. Everyone was holding their breath after the primaries and the consensus was that the Clinton's had a ace in the hole. Maybe this "Obama change team" is that ace in the hole. Let's watch and see if the Obama administration's policies are any different than Queen Hillary's. I bet not!

West coast versus Southern religious tolerance.

2008-11-27T19:56:00.002-05:00

It has come to my attention that the California "gay community"has seen fit to express their anger at losing the referendum for gay marriage by "acting out" in local church services and by picketing the mormon churches of the area. While they may get by with this in San Francisco and other California locals, let them try this behavior in any southern church service and they will end up at the nearest emergency room being treated for "foot in ass removal". We have a saying down here..."Give your heart and soul to God..but your ass is mine! This just goes to show how limp-wristed West coasters are there. The gays have more starch in their spines than the straights. We are more tolerant here than the media would have you believe. However, come and cause trouble in our churches, Christians black and white will leave you purple and blue.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

2008-11-27T10:48:00.013-05:00

I'm having turkey, dressing and (in lieu of cranberry sauce) a government bail out for dinner today ("bidness" is bad). For dessert I'm having a piece of sweet potato pie...and keeping with the Obamatron's "spread the wealth" mantra, I might just eat your piece of pie too damn it...and don't think I won't slice your hand off if you try to stop me you silly God clinging, gun toting rube! Whew! I'm feeling feisty on this T-Day morning.

Well, the religion of peace (ROP) didn't get the memo from HQ that this is Thanksgiving week. The crap is hitting the fan in India. I think we should immediately reconvene Congress to determine our culpability. I'm sure that Pelosi, Reid (Harry not Larry), Frank, etc, ad nauseum are crafting a cracker jack apology to the Muslim perps as we speak (it is the right thing to do). It simply has to be America's fault...it always is...isn't it?

How Obama got elected: 9 minutes long...stunning stupidity on display. I suggest waiting until you have digested your T-Day dinner (sans the slice of pie I confiscated from you), otherwise you'll be 'chipmunk cheeks' all the way to the john after watching this.

USUCK FANS ARE NO. 1 !!!
Only two days until that Titanic clash between The Clemson University Fighting Tigers and those Ass-Hats better known as The South Carolina Gamecocks. Gamecock fans have all the personality of Muslim clerics just served pork chops at a Ramadan feast. A truly nasty and deluded bunch.

Here's to the Tiggers opening up a giant economy sized can of whip-ass on Saint Steve and his crack smoking band of Columbia felons. Allah willing of course.

Useless but fun knowledge.

2008-11-26T16:20:00.004-05:00

While indulging my oldies and "bubblegum jones"perusing youtube, I happened upon a bit of odd knowledge. The lead singer for the Edison Lighthouse(Love grows where my Rosemary goes), White Plain(My baby loves lovin), First Class (beach baby give me a hand) and Brotherhood of Man (United we stand) is a fellow by the name of Tony Burrows. He is the British version of Ron Dante of the Archies fame and of the Cufflinks (Tracie) and a myriad of television jingles. These gentlemen are perhaps the most sucessful nobodies in the music world. There, that'll keep you up at night.

Drew Fisher (short fiction)

2008-11-26T05:09:00.003-05:00

Following is a very short story that I wrote at two am...I mean-what else is there to do at this awful hour when sleep evades you? LR

Drew Fisher was dead.
Only seconds before, he was standing on his Boston balcony overlooking the Charles, when he was struck down as if by the hand of Almighty God. The object crashed into his skull, exploding it like a melon assaulted by a sledgehammer. This was certainly one for the 'Odd Happenings' section in those free travel rags which litter newsstands in every truck stop in the land.
Drew couldn't sleep that night. He had fallen reluctantly out of bed at the wee hour of 2am, made a beeline to the toilet to do his business and then, out of sheer habit, went to the kitchen and started the coffee brewing. Before he realized the time, he was already mentally working into his day, which awakened him even more. He switched on the computer to check his email – no sense putting that off, he thought. After going through the fluff and Spam he clicked on the email that he had been avoiding for two days. The sender was 'The office of Dr. Harry Durham, General Practitioner'. Drew's doctor was a no nonsense kind of guy-the type of physician who was usually good with good news and better with the bad. His round, jovial face and self-assured demeanor lent an aura of trust to the man, and you believed that whatever he told you was God's will. Just accept and all will be right with your world. Drew didn't buy into this bullshit. He suspected the lump in his throat was more than just a seasonal sore throat, and, since he was a heavy smoker, he had almost anticipated that something like this would befall his later years. Hell, he'd had bad news before and this was certainly no different from many of the life challenges that he'd faced.
He opened the email and slowly read it's contents. “Mr Fisher, We have tried repeatedly to reach you by phone. We send this email in lieu of being able to reach you at the number you've given this office.
Your test results are in and Dr. Durham would like to see you by Friday. Please contact this office immediately to set this urgent appointment”.
So there it was. Even the good doctor's receptionist was by the book. To the point. “God I need a smoke”, sighed Drew.

The pilot waited on the tarmac while the ground crew pored over the leading edge of his left wing, searching the tips for any sign of damage. After striking a large bird upon landing, the pilot wanted a close inspection and he soon decided to go over and have a look for himself. He had annihilated several birds before during takeoffs and landings but never one of this bird's size and weight. “Must have been a vulture or a chicken hawk” thought the pilot. Big one for sure. The ground crew, after rubbing the wing and shaking it to check for noise, decided that the small dent near the port engine was sound and cleared the plane for flight
Satisfied, the pilot mounted the cockpit, listened as the engines roared to life and contacted the tower for clearance for takeoff. Only the questions from the co-pilot competed with the drone of the engines. Had the pilot listened a bit closer he would have heard the small vibrating sound on the left wing.

Drew stepped out into the chilly air of his balcony. This time of year saw the temperatures drop drastically at night, clearing the skies for a fantastic view of the stars and Cambridge across the river.
A cold wind seemed to blow directly from Harvard, unusual in itself as Harvard seems to spew more hot air than cold. Drew pulled his robe up over his ears and went through the all too familiar habit of opening the new pack of Camels and knocking the first ciggy out of the pack. It felt good between his fingers and he knew that the craving would soon be quenched. He reached for his lighter and then had second thoughts about lighting up. “My God, what am I doing?” he thought. “Here I am, sitting on the news of throat cancer, and I'm lighting up”. He flicked the Bic and the small yellow-blue flame suddenly seemed to warm the space around him. He fumbled with the cigarette for a moment and then slowly moved the flame close to the tip. As he took his first draw, the pain in his throat almost caused him to wretch. He would try another draw. The same pain, followed by a hacking cough. He tossed the cigarette over the balcony and silently took stock.

“Boston Tower to Venture 1761, veer two degrees south to clear for incoming 747.”
“Roger Boston Tower, veering two degrees south. Have a great night guys”
“Roger that Venture 1761. Thanks and have a nice flight”.
The force of the tailwind seemed to give the plane an extra 20 knots speed. This would more than make up for the slight delay caused by the shift in direction. The turbulence from the wind also increased the vibration on the wing. The wing was sturdy but something was causing a noise immediately above the left engine bracket. The pilot couldn't hear the sound over the drone of the engines.

Drew looked up at the stars and searched his soul for an answer, any answer. He then bowed his head. “God, I know that you know what's best for me. Please help me through this one. I know that I haven't been the best child of yours, but please, just help me to give up these damned cigarettes. And if it's your will, give me a sign that you're here for me”. As he lifted his head back towards the heavens he saw a bright,beautiful light. It appeared to be a bright star shining from the north, only it seemed to brighten more as Drew stared at it. Was this the sign from God? Was this his 'star from heaven'? Drew felt a peace like he'd never felt before.

The plane went through a wall of air that seemed to shake it to it's very core. Although the evening was crystal clear, a front was moving it's way from the north, mixing with a system coming out of the west and shaking everything in it's path. The violent disturbance caused the craft to fall almost 20 feet before overcoming the wind and pitching back up to 7000 feet. The pilot heard the faint sound of a single knock on the left side of the plane, as if the plane had hit another bird. The vibration noise subsided.

Drew stared at the oncoming light like a disciple seeing his maker approach. He stood in awe, wondering if he was about to be raptured. Then he saw the green flashing light and realized that this was only a plane. His spirits sunk with the realization that God had failed him yet again. The uncertain test results, the inability to quit smoking, his relationship woes, all came flooding back into his thoughts.
As the plane passed over his head he casually said “Thanks God”.
The 4 inch bolt from the engine mount of the plane was traveling at close to 200mph when it exploded Drew's skull.
Drew Fisher was indeed dead.

The "mistress", elfing and Rivalry Week!

2008-11-23T19:01:00.013-05:00

So t. durham thinks dame Gorelick is one of Lucifer's bed buddies. Well so does Doug Ross. From "the wall" to Fannie Mae, Ross recounts the mistress of mayem's questionable past . He also has Obamanopoly. Pass go and get $200 of the bail out money.

I'm happy to see that homeless Charlotte guy Reid wrote about here recently has been effectively "elfed"...along with Gomez the family cat . Purrrfect.

It's rivalry week here in South Carolina once again. It's the Clemson Tigers vs. the University of Spurrier Worshippers. Of course, South Carolina fans point to their treacherous SEC schedule as a "leg up" against the Tigers who are limping home behind interim coach, Dabo Swinney. Not to mention the fact that CU plays in the totally limp wristed ACC. Hope springs eternal for SC fans this year: from the warehouse district surrounding Billy Brice to the favorite bars of the SC players down in 5 Points, there's a feeling in the air that this is the year that they stomp a mud hole through the "taters". Of course, if they lose it's because of that treacherous SEC schedule and the battering the team gets by playing it. A form of reasoning better known as "Cock Logic" Stay tuned.

A funny

2008-11-22T10:38:00.001-05:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Jamie Gorelic- Mistress of mayhem

2008-11-21T21:13:00.003-05:00

It has come to my attention that the president-elect Barrak the magnificent has intertained the notion of naming Jamie Gorelic as attorney general. Please bear with me while I put on my tin-foil hat. As you may recall, vice president-elect jumpin Joe Biden warned us of a coming"generated event". Ms.Gorelic has a nasty knack of being where the crap hits the fan. She installed the famous "wall" between the intelligence agencies that supposedly prevented us from knowing of the coming 911 "event". Then she was appointed to the 911 commission that prevented anyone from questioning her about her "wall". As everyone knows 911 and it's aftermath continues to this day. Next,I suppose as a reward for her insightfull work pre and post 911, she was appointed as vice-chair for Fannie-Mae. This house of cards fell shortly thereafter. However she made a tidy 20 plus million for her efforts. Follow her closely. Wherever she appears this will be ground zero for the "GENERATED EVENT". Oh she is also representing Duke university in the lacross players lawsuit against the university. The "Anti-christ" may not be a man.

Re: Worst songs and guilty pleasures

2008-11-20T21:20:00.003-05:00

T. Durham, "these revelations" could possibly prevent you from challenging the Obamatron in 12. On the other hand, your walk in closet jam packed with 50 + years of skeletons of all types...certainly would be tough to overcome.

And I must take issue with The Grassroots being called a bubble gum group. According to this site, the roots don't qualify. While I must admit Sooner or Later is quite wussified.

But it don't hold a candle to Rock me Gently. Andy Kim should have been jailed for that sacrilege. As an aside, I think I accused Reid here of knowing Andy Kim's astrological sign.

And yes, Fly Robin Fly will send you screaming to the vomitorium...now, but in those glassy eyed days of powdered noses and window pane judgement, FRF was high art.

Fly Robin Fly
Up Up to the Sky.

Sheer poetry.

Worst songs and guilty pleasures

2008-11-20T18:56:00.005-05:00

In response to L.Durham's worst song, I would like to add "Fly Robin Fly" by the Silver Convention. Whenever I hear this song I want to scoup out my brain with a power sander. Add to that any number of songs from the disco"hell" years. Guilty pleasures....Rock me gently by Andy Kim, Carpenters, Monkees, Paul Revere and the raiders and the GrassRoots. I am tormented by the "BUBBLE GUM GODS."It is true that I have marginal taste. Also I love the Rasberries. These revelations should bar me from public office!

The Worst Songs in the History of Mankind Part 2

2008-11-17T15:58:00.009-05:00

It seems I've been taken to task for having the audacity to include Escape-The Pina Colada Song as one of Humankind's worst efforts (notice the gender non specificity). An E-mailer informed me that she "Loved the Pina Colada Song" and went as far as to question my IQ and heredity by calling me a "stupid bastard". As I stated at the beginning of my broadside, to each his (or her) own poison. And despite the rather unfriendly tone of "Rita" the e-mailer, I remained unmoved. E-TPCS still stinks.

Which moves us forward in search of other stinkers perpetrated on the popular music listening public. Brooke over at Paleo Con Command Center submitted the perfectly terrible MacArthur Park, which I am certain is playing over the speakers of Hell as we speak (both versions-Richard Harris and Donna Summer in a loop); however, Dave Barry eviscerated this mindless Jimmy Webb tune years ago. So, I won't revive it just to slaughter it again...though it is tempting.

Instead, we search for new whipping boys from the easy pickin's of pop music . Today I sharpen the knife for one of my all time favorite awful songs: Come on Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners. This song is soooo bad that it is rumored to be one of the songs that the CIA blares over the speakers in which to torture their captives. If the captives are Muslim, it couldn't be much worse than the call for prayer...but I digress.

Come on Eileen assaulted it's first eardrums back in 1982 during the salad days of MTV . It can safely be asserted that the half starved images of Dexy's Midnight Runners did little to help over come the sheer dreadfulness of Come On Eileen. As for the stick people that made up DMR; according to that fount of flawless information, Wikepedia, the Dexy in Dexy's Midnight Runners refers to Dexedrine, a favorite amphetamine of the group's founding member Kevin Rowland. If you had the misfortune to actually see the video version of COE, you couldn't help but notice that the band members were a scrawny bunch. The crank'll do that to ya bloke!

And as warbled as the vocals are, the lyrics are even more esoteric. The British bards have nothing to be concerned about:

Come on Eileen, I swear (well he means)
At this moment you mean everything,
With you in that dress my thoughts I confess verge on dirty
Ah come on Eileen.

Make no mistake, COE is finger nails on the black board annoying. And while I have much affection for the Mother land, as does in house post-meister Larry Reid, Dexy and the lads are commodities that would have been better left in the Kingdom. I'm all for trans-Atlantic relationships, free trade and the like, but I'd have just as soon skipped the trauma of hearing this mush mouthed import. I've heard that if you play it backwards you hear a cockney voice rasping "this song sux".

Things I'd rather do other than hear Come on Eileen ever again: wake up next to Helen Thomas and face the harsh memories of what I may have done.

For the brave at heart here it is:

Paulson For President!

2008-11-13T07:34:00.012-05:00

Get up and grab your ankles America! It's time for Bail Out -O-Rama!

The show where just about everybody can get a bail out from Uncle Sam regardless of liability or culpability.

And here is your host, the man with the money, Paaatt Paauullllson!

Oh yeah, that's right, it's Henry Paulson. But we might be better off if it were Pat Paulson. At least when Pat was running for prez back in the Smothers Brothers days we all knew that it was satire. But with the great economic implosion of 08 we seem to have lost our sense of irony. The spread the wealth mentality adopted through various government initiatives, meddling and Wall Street stupidity created the present crisis. Now to the rescue comes none other than, you guessed it, the guvmint. And the master plan is...what? More spreading of the proverbial wealth? More nationalization?

Now Henry the wise and the nimble is pirouetting to allow the treeelllion dollar bail out to include credit card companies (with some subterfuge). What's next, a bail out for the Nevada brothels? Frankly, I'd rather see the hookers get the money before American Express.

How about taking that cool trillion and rebuilding the infrastructure of the USA: dams, roads, bridges and such. Put it out to bid for American private industry, thus creating jobs for AMERICAN CITIZENS, who in turn pay taxes and purchase goods and services, which creates demand for more labor, businesses, etc, etc. The answer to "the crisis" lies in unleashing American ingenuity and the American worker, and not in crisis mongering and punishing achievement. The guvmint's idea of spreading the wealth is based on taking from those who achieve and not creating more achievers. Not much hope in that change.

So with the help of Chicken Little (Crisis!) we've hired the fox (Paulson) to guard the hen house (our tax money). When Pat Paulson did his shtick, he did it with a wink and a smile. As absurd as the Bail Out-O-Rama is, I keep expecting Henry Pauslon to break out into a rendition of Money when announcing the latest contestant who has "come on down" for a bail out. But so far we've seen no wink and no smile, just more government.

A few of my favorites and a trivial pursiut...

2008-11-12T14:40:00.004-05:00

Debbie Schlussel muses over why the P-EOTUS hasn't hustled on down to Five-O and taken care of Grandmother Dunham's funeral. Hard hitting commentary alert.

From a month ago: Junk Science takes on T Boone Pickens, wind generated electricity and underlying motives.

Fred Reed is an equal opportunity offender. Wade on in if you dare to Fred on Everything.

Jonah Goldberg questions GWB's conservative credentials. Was George Bush a Conservative President?

Great time waster: Assembler! I stopped at level 9. And it was hard to stop.

Update: I made it all the way to the 19th and last level. Level 16 or 17 took a while for me figure out. I am easily entertained.

Crickets Chirping on California Hate Crime

2008-11-11T08:27:00.003-05:00

Four white men have been accused of brutally murdering an interracial couple in San Diego and nary a peep from the MSM. Oops, did I say four white men. I meant to say four black men were accused of murdering an interracial couple. And that is exactly what happened. The victims, a white man and a black woman, were newlyweds.

Where is the outrage from The Southern Poverty Law Center?... Crickets.

How about the condemnation of this crime by the ACLU?... Crickets.

NBC? CBS? ABC? CNN? Fox? This story just don't fit the PC template does it boys?

If only it could have been four white perpetrators and the couple had been a black man and a white woman, then we'd have a story...damn it!

Of course, some will say, "what does race have to do with this?" Well, it has everything to do with it. A lot a tolerance preaching goes on in America; is this crime tolerable? As the old song says, Silence is Golden. If this vicious crime had been committed in the way described above, the outrage would have been righteous and incessant. But it didn't happen that way; and the fact that this story has been relegated to obscurity in the blogs signifies its lack of importance to those who generally are exorcised by hate crimes.

The Worst Songs in the History of Mankind. Part 1

2008-11-09T01:21:00.021-05:00

Today we foray into the underbrush of popular music in search of the worst songs in the history of mankind. A target rich environment indeed. Of course my method is subjective prattle. It very well could be that songs I find dreadful, some dear reader may find toe tapping terrific. For instance, I find the gravelly twang of Bonnie Tyler nearly suicide inducing. But, out there somewhere, some deluded soul with ears of tin may have fond memories of Dame Bonnie warbling an ear splitting rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart. To each his own poison I always say. So let's dive in shall we:

Sugar Sugar by the Archies: The song came from the insipid Saturday morning cartoon show which was spun off of the popular Archie comic book series . How lame is that? At least The Monkeys, as prefab as they were, were real people (even though only one or two of them could actually play an instrument). The people responsible for S.S are probably in witness protection or somewhere. Or at least they should be.

As a boy I eagerly awaited each new edition of Archie; it was pretty tame stuff. The comic book evolved around the shenanigans of Riverdale teenagers Jughead, Reggie, Veronica, Betty and of course, Archie. But the release of Sugar, Sugar rendered reading the comic book totally uncool. A cartoon group made up of the Archie characters gyrating stiffly to this pop abomination was the death nail for me. This turkey actually hit number 1 in 1969, further illustrating the drug addled state of the peace and love generation. By the time S.S was released I had already heard Sgt. Peppers, and Tommy had just been released. Sugar, Sugar; yeah, right.

Ah Sugar
Ah Honey Honey
You are my candy girl
and you got me wanting you

The rock bottom of bubblegum music I would say. I haven't actually heard S.S. in years, and I'm hoping my luck continues to hold out. I even resisted listening to it when I made this link. But for those with really crappy taste or total tone deafness, Sugar, Sugar may just be your cup of tea.

Things I'd rather do than hear Sugar, Sugar ever again: Eat six bars of Ex-lax just after having consumed a table spoon of ground glass.

Escape (The Pina Colada Song) by Rupert Holmes.

Wrist slitting material extraordinaire. The song itself is about a fellow's pitiful attempt to' get some on the side by scouring the lonely hearts section of his local newspaper. Even going so far as to pen a sappy response while his wife/"old lady" lay sleeping in bed next to him. The following words are what shook this guy from his tedium:

"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."

Now, we all know how this kind of dalliance usually ends: either with a raging case of chlamydia, a messy divorce or, at the very least, your kid's pet rabbit boiling on the stove while your ex is burning your clothes in the back yard. But of course, the ironic twist revealed in the stanzas below sent Escape soaring up the charts. A plausible scenario? Not in this world. But I have known guys to marry and divorce the same woman more than once. Which proves that anything is possible with love/sex/lust/insanity; even something as vacuous as this:

So I waited with high hopes, then she walked in the place.
I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face.
It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."
And we laughed for a moment, and I said, "I never knew".

"That you liked Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
You're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."

Truly one of the all time wretch worthy songs ever perpetrated on the listening public. The writer of this one hit wonder is Rupert Holmes. His website credits him with a varied career in recording, film and stage. If only Rupert could have stuck with Broadway. E-TPCS was number 1 in 1979. Further evidence of the drug addled children of the peace and love generation.

Note: Holmes also killed us with this effort. As if E-TPCS wasn't torturous enough.

Things I'd rather do than hear Escape (The Pina Colada Song) ever again: Shave my entire body with a dull razor and immediately take a bath in a tub filled with rubbing alcohol.

So I'll conclude my broadside by encouraging readers and resident bloggers to send in their cringe worthy suggestions for worst songs ever recorded in the history of mankind. Send your nominations to larrydurham76@gmail.com and please include "worst songs" in the subject line. Or simply leave a comment at the end of this post. If you are (were) a big fan of The Archies or Rupert Holmes my deepest apologies...but The Pina Colada Song still blows. To be continued. Hi Ho.

2008-11-08T19:55:00.017-05:00

And while we're on the subject of tunes...
We all know how certain songs inspire nostalgic sentiment and little heart pangs. I was reminded of this again last week while driving into work on my usual morning commute through the god-awful Columbia traffic. I had the window cracked enough to feel the biting cool air against my cheek, helping the coffee to slap my dead ass awake. Traffic slowed as I changed the station on the FM dial a couple of times and happened to land on a classic country radio station. I had tuned in just in time to hear the opening notes of Marty Robbin's "El Paso".
I'd always liked the song since it actually told an interesting story of the dangers of being in love.
For the unfamiliar, allow me to paint the picture.
The storyteller goes into a cantina in El Paso, sees a Mexican hooker and falls madly in love. Another dude is drinking with the hooker, which sets the jealous cowboy off. A testosterone moment ensues and guns are drawn. The storyteller outguns the "handsome young stranger" who soon lies dead on the floor, setting off a moment of guilt followed by the natural urge to run. Storyteller hides out in the badlands for a few days until his love for the hooker overwhelms his love for common sense.
It's at this point that he decides to hightail back into town to see the cheap Mexican hooker. He jumps on his horse and heads for the cantina when a posse sees him and starts busting caps in his ass. He makes it to the back door of the cantina where he dies in the hooker's arms. At this point she proceeds to rob him and buy a round of drinks for all the other johns in the joint (this part was not included in the song...just my supposition of the facts).
See the sad video here
It seems like only yesterday I was hearing this musical tale for the first time. It's hard to watch the video and not well up.
Yes, I know. Stories (or songs) of unrequited love followed by dying in a hooker's arms are as common as flies, but El Paso is different. It reminded me of a similar tale that happened some years later in the West Greenville village of Brandon at a cantina called Tucker's. Instead of a Mexican hooker, the part was played by a snuff queen and if I recall correctly the fight was over a bottle of toddy oil. It draws the same type of tears to one's eyes as the Marty Robbins ballad. Wow, I'm too choked up to continue...sorry.

Now back to our regularly scheduled program:

2008-11-05T09:01:00.004-05:00

Stay classy America: at least until the Prez elect selects Farrakhan as Secretary of State.

Just kidding!...I hope.

Seriously, Obama is the POTUS. The office deserves respect. I for one will choke back my Obama derangement syndrome (OBS) until there is ample reason to unleash it. I fervently hope that he rules wisely; that he resists the urge to lurch the country further leftward into nanny statism. Europe provides the model for that experiment; and it is a failure on various fronts. Yes, our Euroweenie cousins have cradle to the grave assurance from the EU, but at what costs? Double digit inflation and unemployment? Slavish devotion to a rabid multiculturalism that has ushered in a tacit concession to Islamofascism? Hmmm.

And remember: The US taxpayer has effectively absorbed the costs of protecting Europe from Russian aggression for 60+ years, thus allowing the Continentals the financial luxury of their experiments. We Colonists have no such luxury. The brunt of a liberal wish list will be born by Americans alone should Mr. Obama fulfill his campaign promises.

Stay tuned.

For what its worth...and it ain't worth much:

2008-11-03T17:29:00.009-05:00

I'll get drunk and vote with Ann

I've waited until just hours before the election to do this. I've commented on politics here at MTH...some, but for the most part I've let it alone. For twenty years now I've voted for conservative politicians, or at least for politicians I thought were conservative. My view is that smaller government is better government, that individual liberty is best protected by less bureaucracy, that a man's dollars belong to him first and foremost, and that punishing achievement is the pathway to a fat, dumb and useless society. I still think that way.

On the dawn of this election in which a black man has advanced to the brink of the presidency, I suppose that I should be glad that our culture has shaken off it's racial antagonism and considered a black man as leadership material. On one level I am glad, but on a philosophical level I am disappointed. Barack Obama is not the black man that I would have chosen to break the presidential color barrier. He is the wrong choice on many levels and race is not one of them. His various and sundry associations alone disqualify him. Imagine a white politician with these kind of friends. Well, you can't, because he would have never been allowed to make it this far. I find it very difficult to look the other way at Obama when he spent twenty years nodding in agreement with a race baiting black liberation theologist that preaches hate for white people in general and America in particular. Lest we forget, Obama named one of his two autobiographies after a sermon by the above mentioned "reverend". I am further troubled by Obama's business dealings with an America hating home grown terrorist. Likewise, I fail to understand Obama's personal allegiance to an Islamic terrorist sympathizer who supports the extinction of Israel. Then there is Obama's community organizing which I view as nothing more than a narcissistic venture into gouging the fatted government calf for his own benefit. I find Obama's tax the rich plan a bitter, contrived attempt to further divide Americans through class envy. I have yet to hear an intelligent explanation of how Obama's plan to pile on further taxes and regulations will help the middle class. These so called taxes on the rich will most certainly be passed on to consumers through higher prices; higher prices will lead to less consumption; and less consumption will lead to higher unemployment. It happens that way every time it is tried. Our current banking calamity is not the sole result Bush policies and evil white rich people, but is instead the blind implementation of the very wealth redistribution policies that Mr. Obama is promising he'll employ. Sub prime lending began in earnest in the mid 1990's, and despite the many alarms raised by conservatives (and even some liberals) of impending disaster, was allowed to continue unabated until the crisis mongering Congress contrived the trillion dollar bank bailout. Sub prime lending is the ultimate "spread the wealth" vehicle. A revolting habit Obama adheres to without apology.

As for America's national security, Mr. Obama does not inspire confidence. While I don't believe that America is in eminent threat of destruction, I do believe that western civilization is in the fight of it's life with radical Islam. This freedom crushing cult currently metastasizing in Europe has it's eyes on the last bastion of individual freedom that still exists: The United States. Based on his radical associations and his own words both written and spoken, I fail to see how Barack Obama will protect our freedoms. Like most liberals, he is either unable or unwilling to see the threat on the horizon. Radical Islam does not respect weakness. It responds only to direct confrontation when it is called for. I do not see in Mr Obama a man who has the will, the desire or the courage to draw the line when it needs to be drawn: not on terrorism, not on unchecked immigration, not on the Marxists assault on individualism. He will merely carry on the putrid installation of "the new world order" of the last twenty years; the great tumble, at any cost, towards multiculturalism and political correctness. What is the bebefit of this useless drivel to anyone? ...Anyone?...Anyone?

Unfortunately, John McCain is no small government conservative. His views on illegal immigration are, from an economic and national security standpoint, dangerous. Likewise, his thirty year penchant for "reaching across the isle" (bleeech!) has greatly contributed to the undermining of small, responsible government and has lead to the development within America of an entitlement mentality that threatens our freedoms by encouraging a growing national stupidity. Ironically, it is this very "daddy government" mentality that bolsters his opponent's chance of becoming president. From a conservative point of view, McCain is not an attractive candidate.

So, the choice here is between terrible (McCain) and mind numbingly ignorant (Obama). I'll take Ann Coulter's advice and get drunk and vote for McCain. A nauseating case of better the devil you know.

There, I've said my piece and I'll leave it alone for now. But you can bet your arse that I'll be vocal and then some when this Commie nonsense implodes and all the Obamatrons out there are moaning and groaning about the length of their soup line. Oh yes I will.

Surprise...you're 10 people short today

2008-11-01T14:08:00.014-04:00

My friend and former co-worker Dusty J. and I get to downtown Charlotte this hot Saturday morning, fully expecting to be shooting a video for a model search. We went inside a building across from Discovery Place where we met Kevin, our director. After building and lighting a conference room setup, we taped 6 models doing a spiel about things to beware of in the modeling business. This scene went okay considering that only about half the models knew their lines. But, then again, they were models.
Kevin, the guy who hired us, gave us 90 minutes to finish this scene. “We got two locations…uh…two scenes…and we need to be there to meet the other models”. He instructed us to set up the next scene three blocks down the street, at the corner of Tryon and Trade. We complete the scene in an hour and break down the gear for the trip down the street. So what happens when we arrive? Well, first it’s probably the busiest intersection in Charlotte. There are 10 cops on the corners waiting on us to arrive. There are big Cadillacs and BMWs and two or three other fine assed automobiles parked on the street. The producer (Kevin) then proceeds to inform us that we are also shooting a music video for a new rap artist, Jada. He sets the scene: Artist singing (rapping) in the streets, cops stopping traffic, models and dancers all around, gold teeth flashing, you get the picture. Unfortunately for Dusty and I, we were left out of that discussion. Like a football offense breaking a huddle, Kevin and his homeys started barking orders to the dancers and models who had filed out from an office on the corner. We knew some serious shit was about to go down!
We finally tore Kevin away from his homeys long enough to make him hear us ask…”what the fuck are we shooting?” “Oh yeah” he replies. “Well, we gonna be featuring a new rap artist, biggest thing outta Charlotte, and he’s, you know, part of this modeling …uhhh…promo”. Dusty and I stared at one another for a minute, took a deep breath and split our cameras diagonally across the scene. He wandered in and out of the dancers handheld, I stuck to the sidelines and shot footage of cops, models dancing (yum!), and onlookers who had stopped along the busy sidewalks to see just what the fuck was going on.
The police block off this busy intersection, the Cadillac and BMW and the other cars pull into the intersection from four different directions, and Jada jumps out of a car and begins his song while about twenty gorgeous, half dressed models dance and shake their things around him. We do this scene four times. After the first take, the crowd of onlookers has swelled to about 200.
Each new take would find us shooting various angles/objects of the same things, mostly up-close ass shots (the asses being the most animated things on the set), and dancing and Jada rapping (Dusty stuck with the rapper).

I saw the crowded bus sitting on the corner, held through four lights by the traffic police. I still couldn’t believe that we were in the middle of Charlotte, blocking all this traffic with cops everywhere. I knew that the passengers on said bus would be wondering the same thing as the onlookers now amassed on the sidewalk. Then, I saw him. He stumbled out of the rear door of the bus. Disheveled and disoriented, he weaves his way through the crowd. It’s the obligatory drunk! He had the look on his face of one who has decided that he is an undiscovered star. Slowly, yet not stealthly, he makes his way toward the shiny shakey booty. On the last take he jumps in the shot and starts dancing with the models. We shoot around him. Satisfied with the first scene, we move to a large fountain in a plaza on the corner. There, the models get wet in the fountain dancing with Jada who emerges from behind a waterfall in the fountain. YESSSSSSS! Four takes here. The drunk enters the scene on the second take and jumps in the fountain with the models. Here he begins to wash himself. While this was a much-needed activity, his timing couldn’t have been worse. The cops drag him from the fountain (after he removes his pants) and we continue the shoot. This was by far my favorite location! Then, we moved across town, to a basketball court in a ghetto park for scene three. More models, more dancing, more bouncing tits than you could shake a stick at (and I did).
Scene four found us in a park where we did a “sun setting “ shot. Now, mind you, Dusty and I started shooting this thing at 10 am, it’s now 6pm, no food no drink for all these hours. Lugging all this gear around. Needless to say we were pissed by now! So this video, called “Bounce”, will air on MTV in a new artist slot. The strange thing is that we had absolutely no idea that we were shooting a freakin’ music video before we arrived. The stranger thing is that we pulled it off. And the absolute strangest part is…we harmed nor killed any director in the making of this video.

So this is how I spent one Saturday a few years ago.

The Brandon File: The Zenith, Orange Shoes and Buddy Gore

2008-10-26T20:35:00.019-04:00

From the beginning of September to the end of November, you would always find us in the back bedroom of our 4 room house next to an old and often unreliable Zenith radio. Fall Saturdays meant one thing in the Durham household: Clemson Tiger Football. Game in and game out we were right there next to the old Zenith; in the throes of depression one minute, relieved and confident the next. You could literally feel the dread permeating from Bill Goodrich’s voice as the Tigers faced what always seemed insurmountable odds; and likewise, old Bill couldn't hide the elation when fortunes turned promising and the Tigers were on the march. In a Rockwellian pose, there we were; dad sitting nervously on the edge of a kitchen chair he had brought next to the radio; and me and brother Mike on the bed, wrestling one minute and cheering the next as the game unfolded.

Once upon a time, in the postage stamp sized yard of our mill house at 30 Baldwin Street, I participated in a monumental football game seen by no one and remembered by only me. In my Clemson jersey (No. 44 for my favorite player, Buddy Gore), I received a well thrown pass from Tony Durham. I then plowed over the helpless, hapless Tommy Smith for the winning touchdown as time expired, defeating the hated South Carolina Gamecocks and delivering Clemson yet another ACC crown.

Well, I did plow over Tommy Smith. That much is true.

It was 1967 and N.C. State was the hot shot team in the Atlantic Coast Conference. By virtue of their pesky defense they had climbed as high as number 10 in the national rankings and they were enjoying further notoriety by brashly wearing white cleats instead of black; unheard of in those days. Now here they were coming to Clemson in November, undefeated, cocky and in their prissy white shoes. The Tiger's season so far had been a little up and down. Daddy was rarely profane, but he actually swore under his breath a few times that season as games against long time rivals Georgia, Georgia Tech, Auburn and Alabama slipped away. The Alabama game was especially draining. We moaned in tortured unison as the Tiger field goal kicker missed two short field goals that day in a 13-10 loss to Bear and the boys. Every loss was agonizingly close but the Tigers headed into the NC State game, like the Pack, undefeated in conference play. “It ain’t gonna be easy”, dad said of the upcoming game with a team that had the unmitigated audacity to allow it’s defensive players to wear white shoes.

It was cold that November day in 1967. Our house hadn’t yet been equipped with the insulating power of aluminum siding. That capital improvement would occur early the next year and was the prime source of one of mama and daddy‘s most vocal disagreements. Mama wanted it, daddy didn't; mama won, case closed. But on this cold, windy November day, the back room was a smidgen on the cool side; but that problem was peripheral. The Wolfpack was in town and we had football business to take our mind off the chill. Daddy made himself a pot of coffee and hot chocolate for Mike and me. We turned on the Zenith and finally the excited voice of the Tigers, Bill Goodrich, bellowed the incredible news: “The Tigers have run down the hill in ORANGE SHOES! Goodrich almost sounded emotional; and mixed with the static of the Zenith, the sheer pandemonium of the 49,000 thousand fans there sounded like 89,000. Take that you STATE pansies in your girly white shoes!

It was a tough game. State took the lead on two wind aided field goals and lead at the half 6-0. But Buddy Gore scored a touchdown on a 3rd an 11 pass from the State 27 early in the third quarter. Later , midway through the 4th quarter, Gore scored on a run that elicited Goodrich to exclaim in near religious ecstasy “woo hoo mercy!” As I jumped up and down on the bed, daddy leaned back in the kitchen chair and relaxed at last.

Later that evening as the late autumn sun began to fade, I took a well timed pitch from Tony, viciously stiffed armed Macks Carlton to the ground and once again bowled over Tommy Smith at the goal line, implanting number 44 on his face as I scored on a miracle third down play. As Tony and I celebrated, mama called me in to supper. I went inside triumphant; my number 44 jersey stained with grass, blood and the pitiful remains of the white shoe wearing, football impostors that had the nerve to challenge Buddy Gore and the Tigers on that November afternoon in 1967.

The Tigers went on to whip South Carolina and win the the 1967 Atlantic Coast Conference championship.

Buddy Gore established a conference record for most yards in a season, and was named ACC player of the year.

1967 was the first year that the Tigers rubbed Howard's rock before running down the hill.

Bill Goodrich was fired later that year and was replaced with Jim Phillips. Jim became the voice of the Tigers for 36 years. Beloved by Tiger fans, he died unexpectedly in September of 2003, 2 games into the season.