Andrew Moore has an interesting take on Don Steveone's latest tear fest. He simply can't stop himself.
Interesting comments too. I like the "Clemson is the tallest midget in the ACC" quip from a bruised Carolina fan. Hi Ho!
Is their any other kind?
Jul 31, 2008
This is ultra cool
So ol' Vince was the fastidious sort. Apparently he would paint over the same canvas multiple times. A look beneath the surface. Starry Night: incredible. Then there is this.
Jul 29, 2008
Heat Advisory?
'Heat, ma'am!' I said; 'it was so dreadful here that I found there was nothing left for it but to take off my flesh and sit in my bones.'
Sydney Smith (1771 - 1845)
Sydney must have lived in Columbia, SC.
We shot another "On the Street" segment with the lovely Giovanna today and were out under ole Sol from 11:30AM until 4:30PM. The day started with a humidity warning on the camera which delayed our shoot close to 40 minutes. This week's segment had us on location at the West Columbia Zesto's, a local landmark serving up the best fried chicken in the midlands. Gus, the proud Greek proprieter of the establishment, treated us like visiting royalty by serving up good ole sweet iced tea and a fine lunch after the first segment wrapped. Thanks Gus.
After lunch we hopped down to the foot of the Gervais Street Bridge and the Riverwalk to shoot our open and close and get a few more interviews. A couple hours later we were all soggy toast in the early afternoon sun, sweating from every pore and soaking wet from the heat. Andy's camera was getting heavier on his shoulder by the minute as we rushed to get it the hell done and get the hell out of hell so I took over the shooting chores and made quick work of the last few scenes. Finally we made our way to our respective vehicles and prepared to depart. I watched with envy between the sweat drops as my cohorts climbed into their fancy SUVs and Fords and turned on the air conditioning...I rolled my windows down because I don't have such a fancy contraption. Well, I do, but it's been broken for nigh on two summers and I just won't spend the money since the car is worth only half of what the repair bill would cost. You know, they say that Columbia is a "capital place to live"...thank God I only work here!
It's so hot it feels like hell is a mile away and the fence is down.
anonymous
The American Way: It pays to be a victim.
House majority whip, James Clyburn, D-SC, claims blacks are hurt more by "climate change". Cha ching!!
So, if Clyburn's logic plays out, Caucasians will probably pay a higher carbon tax when its finally levied..and by god it will be levied. Will Obama only have to pay half?
Update, LaShawn Barber: We’re left with the impression that blacks are passive agents caught up in a whirlwind of racist weather and still burdened by the ever-present “legacy of slavery.”
Hat Tip: Pajamas Media
So, if Clyburn's logic plays out, Caucasians will probably pay a higher carbon tax when its finally levied..and by god it will be levied. Will Obama only have to pay half?
Update, LaShawn Barber: We’re left with the impression that blacks are passive agents caught up in a whirlwind of racist weather and still burdened by the ever-present “legacy of slavery.”
Hat Tip: Pajamas Media
And then there is this. ..The "cracker" tax! Viva la victimization! Cha ching!
Jul 28, 2008
Croquet crimes: down and dirty on the front lawn
What kind of coverage can I expect?, I asked the man as I handed him ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. "You'll hear crickets farting for at least ten thousand square feet", the man replied. Can I hear a low whisper? "Most certainly". Very good. They'll be here at 5 tomorrow to play and I need an advantage. "Right", he said, never looking at me, as he cranked his black Crown Victoria and pulled away into the thick up-country evening .
And I can't believe it worked, but it did. The tricky part was the tiny earpiece. It nearly fell out once as I sent the red ball a considerable distance, much to the consternation of Wilder. "Uh huh", he said as he passed me on the way to a far flung region of the lawn.
But I got away with it and and I was aces . I always appeared to know what the other guys were doing because I did know what they were doing. Reid gave me a crap eating grin that had hidden in its smirk just a hint of somethings going on with Durham; and he would be right. So, I guess I'll have to cut him in being that he's my blue partner when we're playing yellow and red, aka, Ridgeway and Wilder.
The question is just how long to perpetuate the abuse? You know what they say about me, incorrigible in victory, irascible in defeat.
And I can't believe it worked, but it did. The tricky part was the tiny earpiece. It nearly fell out once as I sent the red ball a considerable distance, much to the consternation of Wilder. "Uh huh", he said as he passed me on the way to a far flung region of the lawn.
But I got away with it and and I was aces . I always appeared to know what the other guys were doing because I did know what they were doing. Reid gave me a crap eating grin that had hidden in its smirk just a hint of somethings going on with Durham; and he would be right. So, I guess I'll have to cut him in being that he's my blue partner when we're playing yellow and red, aka, Ridgeway and Wilder.
The question is just how long to perpetuate the abuse? You know what they say about me, incorrigible in victory, irascible in defeat.
Jul 25, 2008
The Party before Michael and Catherine's Nuptializing
Well guys, you're taking the big plunge and I personally want to wish you the best of everything. Marriage can be ordinary or it can be special. Make your's special.
And, as Detective Pep Streebeck toasted Joe Friday's Granny Monday, "may you live as long as you want, but never want as long as you live".
A silly movie, but a heartfelt sentiment.
On top of it all, Wilder and maybe even Ridgeway will make an appearance. I hear tell that G.T. Reid is showing up too. I smell an evening croquet match. Somebody's ass is grass (hope it ain't mine)
Mike, you grew up with all these old guys and we've kind of grown up with you. So, the Greenville clan wishes you the best...but it could be your ass that's grass. I'm just saying...
Catherine, welcome to the family.
And, as Detective Pep Streebeck toasted Joe Friday's Granny Monday, "may you live as long as you want, but never want as long as you live".
A silly movie, but a heartfelt sentiment.
On top of it all, Wilder and maybe even Ridgeway will make an appearance. I hear tell that G.T. Reid is showing up too. I smell an evening croquet match. Somebody's ass is grass (hope it ain't mine)
Mike, you grew up with all these old guys and we've kind of grown up with you. So, the Greenville clan wishes you the best...but it could be your ass that's grass. I'm just saying...
Catherine, welcome to the family.
Jul 23, 2008
I ain't never herd the like...
I wuz Jes driftin along, takin it slow when them boys showed up. Well, I'm down wid da rumatiz and a 5 yeer old cud whup my ice, if ye know whut I mean? Man, a hole lotta life done passed me by whilst I been laid up...and so I'm redewced down to tellin tales and observin the werld. Them boys both sed they always liked my observashuns and wondered if I'd like ta post on dey blog. Course, I didn't know whut the hail dey was talkin bout. I thawt the hole dam thang wuz kinda silly...and I told em so. But they heed and hawed around fer a spell and I finely gave in when thet Reid boy brawt out thet bottle of Jim Beem.
Well dey said thet dey knowed I knowed a lot about these hills an hollers up here, and from time to time they wont me ta drop by and tell ye a story about some linthead or ta other. Hail fire, I knowed a million of em. The boys then set up this here gadget for me ta make these here posts on. Sew, I gess I'll be droppin by.
By the way, Reid and Derm are purty good boys most of da time. They was brawt up rite. I knowed their mamas and deddys. Course, I ain't seen much of either of em since they moved off the Hill, and I ain't got know idee whut they been up ta since they wuz kids werkin in the duck mill.
So, til I git back by hear, yall take it easy, love ye neighbor like the good book says, and take keer of the old 'uns and the young 'uns.
Lester Cogwell
Well dey said thet dey knowed I knowed a lot about these hills an hollers up here, and from time to time they wont me ta drop by and tell ye a story about some linthead or ta other. Hail fire, I knowed a million of em. The boys then set up this here gadget for me ta make these here posts on. Sew, I gess I'll be droppin by.
By the way, Reid and Derm are purty good boys most of da time. They was brawt up rite. I knowed their mamas and deddys. Course, I ain't seen much of either of em since they moved off the Hill, and I ain't got know idee whut they been up ta since they wuz kids werkin in the duck mill.
So, til I git back by hear, yall take it easy, love ye neighbor like the good book says, and take keer of the old 'uns and the young 'uns.
Lester Cogwell
Jul 22, 2008
Columbia the contest: may I?
Columbia: Not just a disintegrated space shuttle.
Columbia: Sherman could have done better!
Columbia: This ain't frickin' Missouri!
Columbia: Cocks Rule! (perhaps a good one for the g&l crowd)
Columbia: Who you lookin' at $#*&!@&$!!
Columbia: Is ten miles from Irmo (I actually saw that one years ago)
Columbia: Looks Good in a Cracked Rear View.
Columbia: Live it, Love it, move somewhere else!
Columbia: We've got Spurrier now, redneck!
Lot's of good ones LR. The Big Sweaty...now that's funny and true.
My sincerest apologies for all the cheap shots I took at your wonderful city by the Zoo. And to any Clumbians I may have offended...yes I am aware that I-26 runs the hell out of your steamy burg as well.
As you might hear in the backwoods up this way...yall come when ye can.
Columbia: Sherman could have done better!
Columbia: This ain't frickin' Missouri!
Columbia: Cocks Rule! (perhaps a good one for the g&l crowd)
Columbia: Who you lookin' at $#*&!@&$!!
Columbia: Is ten miles from Irmo (I actually saw that one years ago)
Columbia: Looks Good in a Cracked Rear View.
Columbia: Live it, Love it, move somewhere else!
Columbia: We've got Spurrier now, redneck!
Lot's of good ones LR. The Big Sweaty...now that's funny and true.
My sincerest apologies for all the cheap shots I took at your wonderful city by the Zoo. And to any Clumbians I may have offended...yes I am aware that I-26 runs the hell out of your steamy burg as well.
As you might hear in the backwoods up this way...yall come when ye can.
Kerlumbyer SC
The latest news that blankets the capital city is the following:
South Carolina is so gay!
Seems that an ad campaign started by the Gay Pride Movement (and a little-known ad agency in London), offered the fine folks of the SC Tourism Dept. an opportunity to shed a little gay pride on the Palmetto State in an ad campaign directed at gay travelers. The campaign, costing close to $5000 US dollars, featured posters with the above slogan pasted all over the tube (subway) walls of London. The offer being made, someone at the tourism dept thought that it was a cheap and effective way to get the word out to the international gay community that SC was the place to come and sing Kumbaya around the campfire with Bubba and his first cousins. After catching wind of this decision, someone in the legislature lost their mind, called all the other bubbas in the senate and issued a statement ordering the ad agency to pull the blasphemous posters down immediately! The London agency followed the instructions and removed the offending posters but demanded payment for services rendered. The Tourism Dept refused to pay (after firing the individual who decided to go with the campaign in the first place) and a big mess was set to take place. The SC chapter of the Gay and Lesbian Coalition stepped in and started a fundraiser to raise the $5000 and pay for the failed ad campaign.
Columbia has, like most semi-major cities, an entertainment rag called "Free Times" which showcases local eateries, clubs, bands and the like. For the last several months a contributing commentary by a local ad agency owner has graced the pages of said rag. The owner (let's call him Kevin) ran an unsuccessful bid for the mayorship of Columbia last fall and seems to use his new-found perch in the paper as a base for attacking the current mayoral administration. That said, he opined about the local ciy council putting forth an idea about a new slogan for the city of Columbia.
Council wanted to poll the citizens of Columbia or have a contest to see who could come up with the perfect slogan to attract visitors to the downtown area.
Seems that Kevin thought it a bad idea to have Columbians come up with their own slogan...not smart enough here? Not traveled enough? I'm not sure, but it leads one to believe that Kevin wanted to come up with his own slogan for the city (and charge the city $25,000 for the idea). Kevin is the guy who came up with the "My Mom/Dad works here" campaign for the SC Dept of Transportation.
In keeping with the spirit of this all-american debate, we at work have decided to pose the question on our next installment of "On the Street" which airs on a local Columbia area cable station. Some that have been submitted already follow:
Columbia: The Big Sweaty
Columbia: The only one in SC!
Columbia, Columbia! There, I said it twice!
Columbia: We have a cool zoo.
Columbia: If you hate mountains AND the beach, there's no better place in the state!
A noble spirit embiggens the smallest Columbian.
Yes, we have Colombian--I mean, Columbian coffee...
Columbia: Make yourself comfortable. You ain't goin' nowhere, boy.
Voted least progressive capital in the southeast. Take THAT, Charlotte!
You ain't from around here, are you, friend?
Columbia: A geographical oddity--two 'ours from ev'rwhar!
Columbia: Where the magic begins. And ends. Seriously. Don't be thinking you're going to get hold of our magic and sneak off in the night with it. It's OURS, you hear? You and your kind just keep your hands to yourself while you're here and don't make no sudden moves, and we'll get along just fine, see? You watch yourselves. We don't take kindly to magic thieves. And you look like a magic-thieving scumbag if'n I ever seen one. I saw you eyein' our magic just as soon as you stepped into town. What's that? Call me a liar, will you? Fetch my broomstick, Junior...
Columbia: Watch us make this pencil disappear.
Do you have any?
South Carolina is so gay!
Seems that an ad campaign started by the Gay Pride Movement (and a little-known ad agency in London), offered the fine folks of the SC Tourism Dept. an opportunity to shed a little gay pride on the Palmetto State in an ad campaign directed at gay travelers. The campaign, costing close to $5000 US dollars, featured posters with the above slogan pasted all over the tube (subway) walls of London. The offer being made, someone at the tourism dept thought that it was a cheap and effective way to get the word out to the international gay community that SC was the place to come and sing Kumbaya around the campfire with Bubba and his first cousins. After catching wind of this decision, someone in the legislature lost their mind, called all the other bubbas in the senate and issued a statement ordering the ad agency to pull the blasphemous posters down immediately! The London agency followed the instructions and removed the offending posters but demanded payment for services rendered. The Tourism Dept refused to pay (after firing the individual who decided to go with the campaign in the first place) and a big mess was set to take place. The SC chapter of the Gay and Lesbian Coalition stepped in and started a fundraiser to raise the $5000 and pay for the failed ad campaign.
Columbia has, like most semi-major cities, an entertainment rag called "Free Times" which showcases local eateries, clubs, bands and the like. For the last several months a contributing commentary by a local ad agency owner has graced the pages of said rag. The owner (let's call him Kevin) ran an unsuccessful bid for the mayorship of Columbia last fall and seems to use his new-found perch in the paper as a base for attacking the current mayoral administration. That said, he opined about the local ciy council putting forth an idea about a new slogan for the city of Columbia.
Council wanted to poll the citizens of Columbia or have a contest to see who could come up with the perfect slogan to attract visitors to the downtown area.
Seems that Kevin thought it a bad idea to have Columbians come up with their own slogan...not smart enough here? Not traveled enough? I'm not sure, but it leads one to believe that Kevin wanted to come up with his own slogan for the city (and charge the city $25,000 for the idea). Kevin is the guy who came up with the "My Mom/Dad works here" campaign for the SC Dept of Transportation.
In keeping with the spirit of this all-american debate, we at work have decided to pose the question on our next installment of "On the Street" which airs on a local Columbia area cable station. Some that have been submitted already follow:
Columbia: The Big Sweaty
Columbia: The only one in SC!
Columbia, Columbia! There, I said it twice!
Columbia: We have a cool zoo.
Columbia: If you hate mountains AND the beach, there's no better place in the state!
A noble spirit embiggens the smallest Columbian.
Yes, we have Colombian--I mean, Columbian coffee...
Columbia: Make yourself comfortable. You ain't goin' nowhere, boy.
Voted least progressive capital in the southeast. Take THAT, Charlotte!
You ain't from around here, are you, friend?
Columbia: A geographical oddity--two 'ours from ev'rwhar!
Columbia: Where the magic begins. And ends. Seriously. Don't be thinking you're going to get hold of our magic and sneak off in the night with it. It's OURS, you hear? You and your kind just keep your hands to yourself while you're here and don't make no sudden moves, and we'll get along just fine, see? You watch yourselves. We don't take kindly to magic thieves. And you look like a magic-thieving scumbag if'n I ever seen one. I saw you eyein' our magic just as soon as you stepped into town. What's that? Call me a liar, will you? Fetch my broomstick, Junior...
Columbia: Watch us make this pencil disappear.
Do you have any?
Jul 21, 2008
Now we don't mean you any harm
but you see, we're having a severe drought here in the Carolinas and Georgia and that teency weency tropical storm brewing out there in the G of M might just be the ticket to ending it...or at least -alleviating it. That is assuming it can penetrate the high pressure force field erected over South Carolina by Al Gore; which causes the drought, which makes it hot, which forces us into purchasing carbon credits from him on account of our extreme over use of air conditioning. You know, the "footprint" thing. Al is still worried about the dog.
So, you folks down in the Gulf: Brownsville, Corpus Christi, etc, etc, batten down, stay safe, and pray that Dolly blows through quickly and heads straight for your brothers and sisters in Caroline where there is an extreme H2O shortage. We need a little cats and dogs action here for sure.
How about a fantastic rendition of this to get you fellows in the mood.
Note to N.O. : If Dolly comes your way...LEAVE!
So, you folks down in the Gulf: Brownsville, Corpus Christi, etc, etc, batten down, stay safe, and pray that Dolly blows through quickly and heads straight for your brothers and sisters in Caroline where there is an extreme H2O shortage. We need a little cats and dogs action here for sure.
How about a fantastic rendition of this to get you fellows in the mood.
Note to N.O. : If Dolly comes your way...LEAVE!
Re: Re Mad Pubs and Englishmen
And Reid mentioned Leeds, which reminds me of my youth and the fact that I wore out both vinyl and 8 track versions of The Who: Live at Leeds. Shakin all over...oh yeah.
Well, Keith died many Moons ago, John died a few years ago and that leaves the geriatric Pete and Roger left to rock on. I hope Pete doesn't throw something out of whack wind milling like he does...and Roger, well Roger's face looks like a used catcher's mitt but, you know, the kids are all right.
Well, Keith died many Moons ago, John died a few years ago and that leaves the geriatric Pete and Roger left to rock on. I hope Pete doesn't throw something out of whack wind milling like he does...and Roger, well Roger's face looks like a used catcher's mitt but, you know, the kids are all right.
Re: Mad Pubs and Englishmen
Owing to my gimpy condition I took in more TV this weekend than I usually do. And speaking of Angland (as they say on the hill), on Saturday I watched one of my favorite flicks, A Fish Called Wanda. Too many funny lines to recount. Here is the best of Otto which includes the "smallest f------ province in the Russian Empire" and John Cleese's "they whupped your hide reeeal goood". Hilarious.
Sounds as though Reid got to have a pint or two with some "football hooligans".
Sounds as though Reid got to have a pint or two with some "football hooligans".
Jul 20, 2008
Well, there goes the neighborhood...
Mad Pubs and Englishmen
Beer, ale, suds, a pint or two - all music to my ears. I love beer and I'm not ashamed to say it! Since the summer of 1973 when the brother and sister and I escorted our grandmother to sunny Florida and the fabulous Busch Gardens, I have loved beer. The day was a typical hot Florida scorcher and we had just completed the tour of the brewery when, lo and behold, the end of the tour featured samples of their freshly-brewed golden nectar. Until then, beer had been something that I had choked down with my teenaged peers to appear more manly. The tour changed all that.
Ice cold and refreshing, the small cup I had that day turned me into a true beer lover. I then had another cup, and another until I was feeling not only refreshed but quite dizzy as well. I was hooked from that moment on. Oh, c'mon, I don't have a problem with the stuff. As a matter of fact I can only have a few these days before I start thinking 'beddy-bye'. But I do love the flavor and the thirst-quenching properties of the heavenly ambrosia.
Fast forward to May 2008. I'm in London on a long-awaited vacation to see the city and all that it has to offer. Or at least what I can cram in in four days. And this brings me to the pubs. How can you go to London and not participate in a pub crawl?
The city is perfect for 'crawling'. As long as you can crawl to the tube after you hit the pubs you can drink for as long as you want and then, without even hailing a cab, you can make your way back to your room in one piece (just be careful crossing the streets). Besides seeing the historical side of London, a big reason that I was here was to have a pint or two in a real English pub. So I bellied up to the bar in some of the city's oldest and newest. The recent indoor smoking ban in restaurants and bars had moved large crowds of people outside and a result was that every pub had a party atmosphere that spilled out onto the sidewalks. Add to this the British soccer championship that was going on and the parties got even wilder. Each evening would find me in Leicester Square or Covent Garden or just walking around the city until I saw the right place to have a pint. As I would slide up to the bar and order a pint there would ultimately be a bloke to my left or right asking the familiar "are you American?" I answered yes. "How do you feel about President Bush?"
"I hate him", I would answer. "Buy this man a pint!" And so it went with almost every place I went. I would either be the recipient of a free pint or two or would find that my tab had been picked up by someone. I found myself outside with the smokers, bellowing to the top of my lungs "Go Leeds!" or "Manchester Rules!" along with whatever team this particular crowd would be backing. What a blast!
The Albert in Regents Park, the Anchor Public House, Shepherds Tavern, The Sherlock Holmes, The Bear and Staff - along with a couple whose names escape me - all fine taverns with friendly staffs and rowdy, lovable crowds. And the Ale? Stout, full of flavor and easy to go down. What more could a beer lover ask for?
Ice cold and refreshing, the small cup I had that day turned me into a true beer lover. I then had another cup, and another until I was feeling not only refreshed but quite dizzy as well. I was hooked from that moment on. Oh, c'mon, I don't have a problem with the stuff. As a matter of fact I can only have a few these days before I start thinking 'beddy-bye'. But I do love the flavor and the thirst-quenching properties of the heavenly ambrosia.
Fast forward to May 2008. I'm in London on a long-awaited vacation to see the city and all that it has to offer. Or at least what I can cram in in four days. And this brings me to the pubs. How can you go to London and not participate in a pub crawl?
The city is perfect for 'crawling'. As long as you can crawl to the tube after you hit the pubs you can drink for as long as you want and then, without even hailing a cab, you can make your way back to your room in one piece (just be careful crossing the streets). Besides seeing the historical side of London, a big reason that I was here was to have a pint or two in a real English pub. So I bellied up to the bar in some of the city's oldest and newest. The recent indoor smoking ban in restaurants and bars had moved large crowds of people outside and a result was that every pub had a party atmosphere that spilled out onto the sidewalks. Add to this the British soccer championship that was going on and the parties got even wilder. Each evening would find me in Leicester Square or Covent Garden or just walking around the city until I saw the right place to have a pint. As I would slide up to the bar and order a pint there would ultimately be a bloke to my left or right asking the familiar "are you American?" I answered yes. "How do you feel about President Bush?"
"I hate him", I would answer. "Buy this man a pint!" And so it went with almost every place I went. I would either be the recipient of a free pint or two or would find that my tab had been picked up by someone. I found myself outside with the smokers, bellowing to the top of my lungs "Go Leeds!" or "Manchester Rules!" along with whatever team this particular crowd would be backing. What a blast!
The Albert in Regents Park, the Anchor Public House, Shepherds Tavern, The Sherlock Holmes, The Bear and Staff - along with a couple whose names escape me - all fine taverns with friendly staffs and rowdy, lovable crowds. And the Ale? Stout, full of flavor and easy to go down. What more could a beer lover ask for?
Laid up and hurtin': may as well scan the news...
Item uno: Why in name of heaven is this twisted sister still walking around free? How many pregnant women does she have to perform these grisly C sections on before she is considered, oh say, dangerous?
Item dos: The author(s) didn't come right out and blame this crime wave on global warming, but you just know they were thinking it. You think the hot weather is causing crime, just wait'll the average July temp in Philly is about 50 degrees.
Item tres: America's most walkable cities. All of them of course are big cities with massive public transportation systems. Sure, you'll walk around a lot in a big town...or at least you'll walk down to the bus or the EL or the subway and ride to where you want to go with lots of other people. If its your scene, then have at it. I'd rather drive. Remember, Seinfeld lived in NY and he had a car. Philly made the list: see item dos.
Item cuatro: Now I've got nothing against Cleveland: Ellen Ratner laments the loss of factories and Cleveland's missing out on high tech jobs. She blames lack of tax incentives to businesses, the cold weather and, of course, not enough money spent on education. I'm not going to bother googling dollars spent per student in the Cleveland school system...it could be 100k per rugrat and we all know it wouldn't be enough. I think she nailed it with the "warmer climates" comment.
Item cinco: It won't matter a whit to those committed followers of hope n' change, but it is kind of fun to speculate on the old boy's origin. I'm thinking maybe his lack of an authentic BC (if its true) might be becasue he was hatched from a pod of some type.
Item dos: The author(s) didn't come right out and blame this crime wave on global warming, but you just know they were thinking it. You think the hot weather is causing crime, just wait'll the average July temp in Philly is about 50 degrees.
Item tres: America's most walkable cities. All of them of course are big cities with massive public transportation systems. Sure, you'll walk around a lot in a big town...or at least you'll walk down to the bus or the EL or the subway and ride to where you want to go with lots of other people. If its your scene, then have at it. I'd rather drive. Remember, Seinfeld lived in NY and he had a car. Philly made the list: see item dos.
Item cuatro: Now I've got nothing against Cleveland: Ellen Ratner laments the loss of factories and Cleveland's missing out on high tech jobs. She blames lack of tax incentives to businesses, the cold weather and, of course, not enough money spent on education. I'm not going to bother googling dollars spent per student in the Cleveland school system...it could be 100k per rugrat and we all know it wouldn't be enough. I think she nailed it with the "warmer climates" comment.
Item cinco: It won't matter a whit to those committed followers of hope n' change, but it is kind of fun to speculate on the old boy's origin. I'm thinking maybe his lack of an authentic BC (if its true) might be becasue he was hatched from a pod of some type.
Jul 14, 2008
Of flea markets and Elvis impersonators
Larry Reid's posting on Facebook of the advertisement he so graciously created for us gave me cause to link this little saga for anyone who is interested. A little back story is always a good thing. LD
Let me tell you about our flea market days. There we were, Peace and your humble narrator, hawking costume jewelry and people watching. Man, the people; let me tell you about a few of them. I’ll start with the landlords of the place, Tina and Vic. Tina first. Tina was a little Vietnamese woman of about forty and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. On our first day there I asked her how long she had been in the states and she replied, “fie year”. I then asked her if she ever got home sick for the rice paddies of Vietnam (wise ass like). She flashed me a quick glance and said, “course not, I like freedom”. Great answer. Vic on the other hand had none of Tina’s grateful immigrant charm. He was a tall, flaccid guy with one of the most intense Elvis infatuations I’ve ever seen. The flea market ultimately crashed and burned just after Vic’s “Elvis” promotion.
Memories
Pressed between the pages of my mind
One day, the relative tranquility of the market was shattered by Vic tear-assing between the tables, red faced and bellowing, “who does the van parked in the fire lane belong to!!? “That vehicle needs to be moved nowww!” Yes, he hung the OWWW out there for a while. It was too much for Peace and me. We looked at each other and began howling with laughter. Vic paused from his systolic smashing tirade to fetch us a nasty look. There is nothing in the world funnier than someone losing their mind over something as trivial as an a carelessly parked van. At that moment, with veins protruding and spittle ejecting, old Vic may have looked a lot like the king himself in those final moments on his Graceland throne.
On a good day the isles would be filled with shoppers of various shapes, sizes, creeds, colors, odors and afflictions. Peace liked to muse that they came to the flea market in every conceivable way: crutching, crawling, gimping, limping, rolling, trolling-you name it. They came pierced too: nipples, navels, nostrils, tongues and who knows where else. And don‘t forget the tats: on arms, legs and derrieres, mostly indescribable and usually illegible. After a few weeks of the flea market, I wondered if there was anyone left in the world without a tongue bob, tattoo or both.
Our brother and sister vendors were an intriguing cross section of humanity. There was Mildred who sold toys. She loved to tell anyone who would listen about her “disappointment” concerning her son’s affection for a busty black woman. In the telling, she paused using the “n” word only long enough to regroup and add other adjectives to illustrate her displeasure at the sainted son’s arrangement. I would nod, all the time thinking that the black chick was the one getting the short end of the stick. In a game of guess who’s coming to dinner, I'm rather certain that it was her parents reaching for the arsenic at the first sight of their Nubian princess daughter, arm in arm with Caspar the friendly ghost.
Then there was the old guy that sold junk of every grimy type. He became affectionately known to us as “Fred”. One day Peace and I watched in abject horror as a man bought a mattress from “Fred” that had one of the nastiest brown stains on it that either of us had ever seen. One can only fathom the origins of that grungy ectoplasm. It could have been afterbirth or, for that matter, after death. I bet the guy is still sleeping on that bed to this day; snoozing peacefully while, just on the other side of his mattress, a serial killer’s DNA remains hidden from detection. Well, I assume he sleeps on the non-stain side of the mattress.
I suppose we fit in pretty well in that potpourri of misfits and miscreants that made up the market; most of us claiming innumerable aches, pains and afflictions. There I was: widowed, unemployed and floating; capable of little more than stringing beads together for tattered flea market snuff queens. And Peace: divorced, depressed and disgusted; just hanging on for better days. But despite our travails, we never stopped laughing at ourselves, and we damn sure didn’t stop laughing at our fellow flea marketeers. The place was ripe for a couple of observant vagabonds such as ourselves.
As I said, jewelry was our game and we were doing a bang up business. After we had been in business a month or so, our supplier, my cousin Ken, talked me into making personalized accessories such as bracelets, anklets and necklaces-on site while the customer waited. Ken warned me that in the on site manufacturing game you had to “take the bad with the good”. First, the good: On my first day with the newly acquired bead kit, I hung up a sign advertising my craft and instantly a shapely woman, probably in her early twenties, stopped by and asked if I made ankle bracelets. Absolutely, I replied. Within minutes I had her sitting in my booth with her shapely gam hiked up on my chair for some strategic measurement. Every eye in the place found its jealous gaze looking my way. After I finished making her accoutrement, she plopped her foot up on my chair once again and asked with perfect charm, “do you mind putting it on for me?” Who was I to refuse.
The bad: Same scenario, only this time the ham hock was attached to a woman that was pushing a deuce and quarter. To make matters infinitely worse, that veritable stump hadn’t seen a can of Nair or a Lady Schick in many a moon. Add to that dejection, the smell that emanated from a still undetermined anatomy part was blinding. Well, needless to say, the same crowd of gawkers were on hand for this austere performance. In moments such as these, witnesses seemed to show up like bounced checks. Owing to the general tenor of our clientele, I rarely encountered exhibit A; long, smooth and shapely; but more often was visited by exhibit B; short, fat and hairy. Ken was right. I had to take the good with the bad and bad was winning big time.
We’re caught in a trap I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
So the summer of 2001 was the year of the flea. And as I hinted earlier, the promotional efforts of the building manager would prove to be the swan song of the enterprise. Our boy Vic the red faced, blow-hard, anal retentive, Presley-phile came up with the brilliant idea to host an Elvis impersonator’s extravaganza in the parking lot (One of the very worst sales days we ever had). Among the luminaries there that fated day was a short, fat Elvis, a tall, thin Elvis, and a lisping Elvis. the latter cat claimed to be associated with an Elvis museum in the quite pretty foothills of northern Georgia, featuring a wart allegedly once belonging to the king of rock and roll himself. He claimed to have the royal verruca stashed in a jar of formaldehyde for safe keeping. “You can’t be too careful”, he said with a slight curl of the lip.
Well, there is always more to the story. There were the flea market princesses that invariably found their way to Peace to "listen to him talk". He should have charged them for the countless hours he sat patiently listening to their trials, tribulations and not so veiled come-on‘s; and for the sage advice he imparted all the while sounding a lot like Barry White. He became the father confessor for many of the old gals that worked or shopped there. They sought him out. All Peace lacked was a comfy little couch; he already had them hypnotized with his baritone. With me, they would exchange pleasantries and talk about the weather, but with Peace they’d bare their souls and air their grievances. Time and again I overheard comments like “I could listen to you talk all day…or night.” Who knows what kind of action the old dog could have had…or may have gotten from our plunge into the abnormal subculture of the flea market. It’s a shame we had to give it all up and get real jobs.
Memories
Pressed between the pages of my mind
One day, the relative tranquility of the market was shattered by Vic tear-assing between the tables, red faced and bellowing, “who does the van parked in the fire lane belong to!!? “That vehicle needs to be moved nowww!” Yes, he hung the OWWW out there for a while. It was too much for Peace and me. We looked at each other and began howling with laughter. Vic paused from his systolic smashing tirade to fetch us a nasty look. There is nothing in the world funnier than someone losing their mind over something as trivial as an a carelessly parked van. At that moment, with veins protruding and spittle ejecting, old Vic may have looked a lot like the king himself in those final moments on his Graceland throne.
On a good day the isles would be filled with shoppers of various shapes, sizes, creeds, colors, odors and afflictions. Peace liked to muse that they came to the flea market in every conceivable way: crutching, crawling, gimping, limping, rolling, trolling-you name it. They came pierced too: nipples, navels, nostrils, tongues and who knows where else. And don‘t forget the tats: on arms, legs and derrieres, mostly indescribable and usually illegible. After a few weeks of the flea market, I wondered if there was anyone left in the world without a tongue bob, tattoo or both.
Our brother and sister vendors were an intriguing cross section of humanity. There was Mildred who sold toys. She loved to tell anyone who would listen about her “disappointment” concerning her son’s affection for a busty black woman. In the telling, she paused using the “n” word only long enough to regroup and add other adjectives to illustrate her displeasure at the sainted son’s arrangement. I would nod, all the time thinking that the black chick was the one getting the short end of the stick. In a game of guess who’s coming to dinner, I'm rather certain that it was her parents reaching for the arsenic at the first sight of their Nubian princess daughter, arm in arm with Caspar the friendly ghost.
Then there was the old guy that sold junk of every grimy type. He became affectionately known to us as “Fred”. One day Peace and I watched in abject horror as a man bought a mattress from “Fred” that had one of the nastiest brown stains on it that either of us had ever seen. One can only fathom the origins of that grungy ectoplasm. It could have been afterbirth or, for that matter, after death. I bet the guy is still sleeping on that bed to this day; snoozing peacefully while, just on the other side of his mattress, a serial killer’s DNA remains hidden from detection. Well, I assume he sleeps on the non-stain side of the mattress.
I suppose we fit in pretty well in that potpourri of misfits and miscreants that made up the market; most of us claiming innumerable aches, pains and afflictions. There I was: widowed, unemployed and floating; capable of little more than stringing beads together for tattered flea market snuff queens. And Peace: divorced, depressed and disgusted; just hanging on for better days. But despite our travails, we never stopped laughing at ourselves, and we damn sure didn’t stop laughing at our fellow flea marketeers. The place was ripe for a couple of observant vagabonds such as ourselves.
As I said, jewelry was our game and we were doing a bang up business. After we had been in business a month or so, our supplier, my cousin Ken, talked me into making personalized accessories such as bracelets, anklets and necklaces-on site while the customer waited. Ken warned me that in the on site manufacturing game you had to “take the bad with the good”. First, the good: On my first day with the newly acquired bead kit, I hung up a sign advertising my craft and instantly a shapely woman, probably in her early twenties, stopped by and asked if I made ankle bracelets. Absolutely, I replied. Within minutes I had her sitting in my booth with her shapely gam hiked up on my chair for some strategic measurement. Every eye in the place found its jealous gaze looking my way. After I finished making her accoutrement, she plopped her foot up on my chair once again and asked with perfect charm, “do you mind putting it on for me?” Who was I to refuse.
The bad: Same scenario, only this time the ham hock was attached to a woman that was pushing a deuce and quarter. To make matters infinitely worse, that veritable stump hadn’t seen a can of Nair or a Lady Schick in many a moon. Add to that dejection, the smell that emanated from a still undetermined anatomy part was blinding. Well, needless to say, the same crowd of gawkers were on hand for this austere performance. In moments such as these, witnesses seemed to show up like bounced checks. Owing to the general tenor of our clientele, I rarely encountered exhibit A; long, smooth and shapely; but more often was visited by exhibit B; short, fat and hairy. Ken was right. I had to take the good with the bad and bad was winning big time.
We’re caught in a trap I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
So the summer of 2001 was the year of the flea. And as I hinted earlier, the promotional efforts of the building manager would prove to be the swan song of the enterprise. Our boy Vic the red faced, blow-hard, anal retentive, Presley-phile came up with the brilliant idea to host an Elvis impersonator’s extravaganza in the parking lot (One of the very worst sales days we ever had). Among the luminaries there that fated day was a short, fat Elvis, a tall, thin Elvis, and a lisping Elvis. the latter cat claimed to be associated with an Elvis museum in the quite pretty foothills of northern Georgia, featuring a wart allegedly once belonging to the king of rock and roll himself. He claimed to have the royal verruca stashed in a jar of formaldehyde for safe keeping. “You can’t be too careful”, he said with a slight curl of the lip.
Well, there is always more to the story. There were the flea market princesses that invariably found their way to Peace to "listen to him talk". He should have charged them for the countless hours he sat patiently listening to their trials, tribulations and not so veiled come-on‘s; and for the sage advice he imparted all the while sounding a lot like Barry White. He became the father confessor for many of the old gals that worked or shopped there. They sought him out. All Peace lacked was a comfy little couch; he already had them hypnotized with his baritone. With me, they would exchange pleasantries and talk about the weather, but with Peace they’d bare their souls and air their grievances. Time and again I overheard comments like “I could listen to you talk all day…or night.” Who knows what kind of action the old dog could have had…or may have gotten from our plunge into the abnormal subculture of the flea market. It’s a shame we had to give it all up and get real jobs.
Jul 13, 2008
Accents
You can hear it, if you listen closely. Those oh-so-subtle nuances of mudder-tongue-speak that get mixed in with the southern drawl so prevelant around these parts. It would seem that the southern accent is itself a bastardly mix of british, scotch/irish and african speech patterns and phrases. Maybe Ridgeway should weigh in here - being he's the english major.
Jul 12, 2008
Worried about the lawn and making wickets.
As the great southeastern U.S. drought continues, the front lawn suffers. The great "browning" of the once lush carpet affects not only the aesthetics of my humble abode, but the croquet playing as well. I fear the day will come-lest the sprinklers can save it-that the deteriorating condition of the grass will make it more difficult to wring a victory out of Wilder, Ridgeway and Reid. The excuse making might become epidemic.
So, I'm watering...and it actually rained some in the last few days which alleviated things a good bit; but over two years of Arizona type weather can't be overcome by a garden hose and a thunderstorm. The dead spots make the track bumpy, which makes it more difficult to send the aforementioned opponent's balls into the stratosphere. Pity that.
So, I'm watering...and it actually rained some in the last few days which alleviated things a good bit; but over two years of Arizona type weather can't be overcome by a garden hose and a thunderstorm. The dead spots make the track bumpy, which makes it more difficult to send the aforementioned opponent's balls into the stratosphere. Pity that.
Jul 11, 2008
ANother Innocent Abroad part trois
Another Innocent Abroad part trois
London. Beautiful, historic, friendly, laid back London. I couldn't believe that I was here! I have only wanted to visit London since I was 13 years old -when I watched John Steed and Emma Peele take down the bad guys with a cool and very British "nothing to it" style. The Avengers weren't the only attaction that I had with "the Mother Country". I've always had a feeling that I had lived there before in another life, or maybe growing up around second and third generation Europeans rubbed off on my psyche. Another time when I was 18, my brother Gary and I rode our brand new Honda 125cc motorcycles to the top of Paris Mountain on a beautiful spring day. The terrain and the beautiful floral landscape mixed with the wonderful weather made me feel that I was riding the cottage lanes of rural England, or so I imagined. I could almost hear the sheep lowing (or is it cows that do the lowing?)
Dreams of London had finally turned to reality and now I stood on the corner of Euston Rd and Crestfield St and took in the pace. Across the street from our 'magnificent half-star hotel' was once the mother of hotels- The Midland Grand Hotel. Designed by Architect Sir George Gilbert Scott, this magnificent old hotel was built between 1868-77 (Sir George Gilbert Scott was the grandfather of Sir Giles Gilbert Scott who designed Southwark power station (now the Tate Modern) and the iconic Battersea power station).
The old palace, sitting empty and forlorn since the 1980s, is experiencing a renaissance as workmen pour over it's gothic facade and vast interior to remake it into a grand hotel once again. It will be appropriately name The Renaissance St Pancras Hotel and is scheduled to re-open in 2010. My first photos of London are of this grand lady and the station next door. The Kings Cross Saint Pancras Station is the new home of the London Eurostar line, a high speed train that will, in a few days, take Kim and I to Paris. The station itself is amazing, with it's iron columns supporting a 243 ft. single span roof, and is often called the "Cathedral of Railways".
Standing on the corner, I took in the views of these two amazing structures and was reminded that I was not in Kansas (or South Carolina) anymore. Kim arrived at the corner and we darted down the steps to the 'tube', bought a couple of tickets and boarded the subway for Westminister Abbey.
The thing that I liked about traveling via the old subway was that I could imagine Londoners, during the nazi blitz of World War II, taking shelter in these massive underground spaces. I could feel the overwhelming sense of history at each station as we climbed the stairs leading to the street and our destination for the day. Reaching that top step to see a new world was one of the exciting aspects of traveling with my dear friend Kimberly. She gave me no information as to what we would see upon arriving at street level, but always looked at me to gauge my reaction to the awesome sights we would always encounter. I was a kid in a city-sized toy store, she was my guide and I her charge, and we explored and discovered and laughed and 'wow'ed' and did all those touristy things that one must do on a first time visit. Kim had lived in London for awhile and worked in Nottingham, taking the train into work everyday. While she had seen much of London during her time here, she confided in me that seeing it through my eyes made her feel that she was seeing the city for the first time - again.
Westminister Abbey is beyond description. To know of the history that it has witnessed, the personalities it has hosted, the drama it has beheld ...then add the awe that it inspires, how could you describe something like this?
Built over a thousand years ago by King Edward (consecrated in December, 1025) the Abby is the final resting place for greats such as St Edward the Confessor (King Edward was canonised in 1161), Chaucer, Darwin, Dickens and Livingston, Sir Issac Newton, Oliver Cromwell, and William and Mary, to name a few. The ornate detail that surrounds this architectural jewel silences you, demanding reverence from you and makes one marvel at its inspired greatness. Go humanity!
We took in the Abbey and lit candles for Ruth E. at each opportunity. Since daughter Ruth Elizabeth's passing, candles have now been lit for her in St Patrick's Cathedral in New York, Westminister Abbey in London and Notre Dame in Paris.
Stepping out into a gorgeous spring day Kim then pulled me into a cab and asked the cabbie to give us a tour down to Trafalgar Square. A very accomodating fellow, he gave us an informative and fact-filled ride to the Admirality Gate , through Old Mayfaire then up to the houses of Parliament and Big Ben. We were walking across the Thames toward the "Milleneum Eye" when I spun around and caught the famous view of Big Ben. Kim took a picture of me there. I was happy!
After a full day of walking, and still pretty jet-lagged, we decided to call it a first day and retire to the suite.
It had been a great first day in Europe!
Part I
Part II
London. Beautiful, historic, friendly, laid back London. I couldn't believe that I was here! I have only wanted to visit London since I was 13 years old -when I watched John Steed and Emma Peele take down the bad guys with a cool and very British "nothing to it" style. The Avengers weren't the only attaction that I had with "the Mother Country". I've always had a feeling that I had lived there before in another life, or maybe growing up around second and third generation Europeans rubbed off on my psyche. Another time when I was 18, my brother Gary and I rode our brand new Honda 125cc motorcycles to the top of Paris Mountain on a beautiful spring day. The terrain and the beautiful floral landscape mixed with the wonderful weather made me feel that I was riding the cottage lanes of rural England, or so I imagined. I could almost hear the sheep lowing (or is it cows that do the lowing?)
Dreams of London had finally turned to reality and now I stood on the corner of Euston Rd and Crestfield St and took in the pace. Across the street from our 'magnificent half-star hotel' was once the mother of hotels- The Midland Grand Hotel. Designed by Architect Sir George Gilbert Scott, this magnificent old hotel was built between 1868-77 (Sir George Gilbert Scott was the grandfather of Sir Giles Gilbert Scott who designed Southwark power station (now the Tate Modern) and the iconic Battersea power station).
The old palace, sitting empty and forlorn since the 1980s, is experiencing a renaissance as workmen pour over it's gothic facade and vast interior to remake it into a grand hotel once again. It will be appropriately name The Renaissance St Pancras Hotel and is scheduled to re-open in 2010. My first photos of London are of this grand lady and the station next door. The Kings Cross Saint Pancras Station is the new home of the London Eurostar line, a high speed train that will, in a few days, take Kim and I to Paris. The station itself is amazing, with it's iron columns supporting a 243 ft. single span roof, and is often called the "Cathedral of Railways".
Standing on the corner, I took in the views of these two amazing structures and was reminded that I was not in Kansas (or South Carolina) anymore. Kim arrived at the corner and we darted down the steps to the 'tube', bought a couple of tickets and boarded the subway for Westminister Abbey.
The thing that I liked about traveling via the old subway was that I could imagine Londoners, during the nazi blitz of World War II, taking shelter in these massive underground spaces. I could feel the overwhelming sense of history at each station as we climbed the stairs leading to the street and our destination for the day. Reaching that top step to see a new world was one of the exciting aspects of traveling with my dear friend Kimberly. She gave me no information as to what we would see upon arriving at street level, but always looked at me to gauge my reaction to the awesome sights we would always encounter. I was a kid in a city-sized toy store, she was my guide and I her charge, and we explored and discovered and laughed and 'wow'ed' and did all those touristy things that one must do on a first time visit. Kim had lived in London for awhile and worked in Nottingham, taking the train into work everyday. While she had seen much of London during her time here, she confided in me that seeing it through my eyes made her feel that she was seeing the city for the first time - again.
Westminister Abbey is beyond description. To know of the history that it has witnessed, the personalities it has hosted, the drama it has beheld ...then add the awe that it inspires, how could you describe something like this?
Built over a thousand years ago by King Edward (consecrated in December, 1025) the Abby is the final resting place for greats such as St Edward the Confessor (King Edward was canonised in 1161), Chaucer, Darwin, Dickens and Livingston, Sir Issac Newton, Oliver Cromwell, and William and Mary, to name a few. The ornate detail that surrounds this architectural jewel silences you, demanding reverence from you and makes one marvel at its inspired greatness. Go humanity!
We took in the Abbey and lit candles for Ruth E. at each opportunity. Since daughter Ruth Elizabeth's passing, candles have now been lit for her in St Patrick's Cathedral in New York, Westminister Abbey in London and Notre Dame in Paris.
Stepping out into a gorgeous spring day Kim then pulled me into a cab and asked the cabbie to give us a tour down to Trafalgar Square. A very accomodating fellow, he gave us an informative and fact-filled ride to the Admirality Gate , through Old Mayfaire then up to the houses of Parliament and Big Ben. We were walking across the Thames toward the "Milleneum Eye" when I spun around and caught the famous view of Big Ben. Kim took a picture of me there. I was happy!
After a full day of walking, and still pretty jet-lagged, we decided to call it a first day and retire to the suite.
It had been a great first day in Europe!
Part I
Part II
Jul 10, 2008
You can take the boy out of the mill hill...
One of the first things I noticed when I traveled abroad is how old stuff is when compared with the States. America is actually still a young whipper snapper. We've got Plymouth, Jamestown, Charleston and St Augustine (the oldest) and few relics maybe 500 years old, but if you want 1000+ year old stuff, you gotta go somewhere else. Too bad western civilization is circling the proverbial bowl. See it while you can...without a burqa or taqiyah.
Hey Reid, how does the British accent hold up against the genuine frontier gibberish of South Carolina?
Hey Reid, how does the British accent hold up against the genuine frontier gibberish of South Carolina?
Jul 9, 2008
Another Innocent Abroad part deux
Another Innocent Abroad part deux
June 27, 2008
Finally boarding the red-redeye out of JFK to London’s Heathrow at 12:35am, I found that my plan for sleeping onboard the aircraft didn’t change with my cancellation of plans for touring the city. I suppose that any long period of unfamiliar surroundings, hustle and bustle and waiting around will wear your ass out just as much as walking all day. I am awakened twice on the Delta bird by the flight attendant serving first dinner, then breakfast and I scarfed down both meals like a hungry dog. When she softly spoke to me the third time with an offer of coffee I realized that we were over England and about 30 minutes from Heathrow. This was, after a shaky start, the absolute best flight of my life! A solid touchdown on the runway and brief taxi to the terminal and I’d meet my dear friend Kimberly at the gate and a whole new world would be opening to me! Alas…it was to be much more than I bargained for!
The touchdown was okay, but there would be no taxiing to the gate as we had no gate. It seems that Heathrow is like all other airports in its desire to be bigger and better, so construction is the word of the decade. We pulled onto an out of the way tarmac and sat there waiting for the transport busses to take us to the international check in line…shit…another line! The busses were delayed (of course) and now I am three and a half hours late and counting for my rendezvous with Kim. Fortunately for me, her flight was delayed an hour or so and she only had to wait about an hour for me.
Stepping through the baggage claim gate, I see her and burst into a big smile! Since I haven’t seen her since last July, and have since shaved the face to match my bald head, she failed to recognize me and I thought that she was going to hit me when I approached her with arms out-stretched. We found my luggage and were off to the train that would sweep us to old London. Now, I was really excited!
The train station was a modern affair with all the trappings of a big city airport – kiosks selling newspapers and gum, shops with souvenir trinkets and London hats and t-shirts, and many, many people milling about. I encountered my first true, native British accent in country at the passport station and from that point on I found myself listening intently for that oh-so-sweet, proper accent anytime I heard people speaking. Then I started picking up regional dialects, the cockney, the proper Manchester dialect, the southern accent (not to be confused with the American southern accent), the northern, with its scottish-like brogue, accents from places around the world sprinkled with a british flavoring.The train ride into Saint Pancras station was excellent. The train was not very full and we obtained good seating from the start. After riding for about 25 minutes, gawking at the rooftops and chimneys of the old London flats, we arrived at this most beautiful station. Saint Pancras is an old railway station with a gigantic glass roof and acres of space. The Victorian era in London was an elegant time in history for this city. The scale of these old train stations and hotels and churches from this era is astounding, the detail fascinating. We disembarked with our luggage and trudged through the terminal to the exit, directly across the street from our hotel, The Northumberland Kings Cross Hotel, a grand palace if there ever was one!We squeezed through the front entrance and announced our arrival to the desk clerk, a middle eastern man of about 30 years of age, all smiles and helpfulness, who could guarantee procuring almost anything you could desire in ‘2 minutes’.While Kim checked us in, I decided to walk around the block and take in the neighborhood. Rounding the first corner a block up from the hotel, I came upon a sign in front of a block of rowhouses that read “Benjamin Franklin lived here from 1757-1775″. This discovery would set the pace for my entire visit to London, a city as old and timeless and full of history as any I had ever seen.Returning to the hotel, I climbed the narrow stairs to our second floor room. Entering, I found Kimberly checking the two single beds for stains or bugs or maybe DNA. The room was just large enough to fit the two beds with a small nightstand next to hers. My cot backed up against the radiator at the head of the bed and the door opened against the foot. Now I don’t want to make this a review of our initial lodgings in London as I was fine with the micro-room. I didn’t need a tv or radio or an in-room bathroom. I didn’t need a closet to hang my clothes. I didn’t need a stand for my luggage. I didn’t mind my feet hanging off the foot of the bed. One pillow would be sufficient and the bumps on my head from banging it on the radiator throughout the night would give me an opportunity to visit a real London apothecary for headache medicine. This was to be our home for four nights and I was cool with that. Kimberly voiced her dissatisfaction with the digs at first and then exhibited the ’stiff upper lip’ that she had picked up when she lived in this city. “Let’s go see London”, said she…and off we went!
June 27, 2008
Finally boarding the red-redeye out of JFK to London’s Heathrow at 12:35am, I found that my plan for sleeping onboard the aircraft didn’t change with my cancellation of plans for touring the city. I suppose that any long period of unfamiliar surroundings, hustle and bustle and waiting around will wear your ass out just as much as walking all day. I am awakened twice on the Delta bird by the flight attendant serving first dinner, then breakfast and I scarfed down both meals like a hungry dog. When she softly spoke to me the third time with an offer of coffee I realized that we were over England and about 30 minutes from Heathrow. This was, after a shaky start, the absolute best flight of my life! A solid touchdown on the runway and brief taxi to the terminal and I’d meet my dear friend Kimberly at the gate and a whole new world would be opening to me! Alas…it was to be much more than I bargained for!
The touchdown was okay, but there would be no taxiing to the gate as we had no gate. It seems that Heathrow is like all other airports in its desire to be bigger and better, so construction is the word of the decade. We pulled onto an out of the way tarmac and sat there waiting for the transport busses to take us to the international check in line…shit…another line! The busses were delayed (of course) and now I am three and a half hours late and counting for my rendezvous with Kim. Fortunately for me, her flight was delayed an hour or so and she only had to wait about an hour for me.
Stepping through the baggage claim gate, I see her and burst into a big smile! Since I haven’t seen her since last July, and have since shaved the face to match my bald head, she failed to recognize me and I thought that she was going to hit me when I approached her with arms out-stretched. We found my luggage and were off to the train that would sweep us to old London. Now, I was really excited!
The train station was a modern affair with all the trappings of a big city airport – kiosks selling newspapers and gum, shops with souvenir trinkets and London hats and t-shirts, and many, many people milling about. I encountered my first true, native British accent in country at the passport station and from that point on I found myself listening intently for that oh-so-sweet, proper accent anytime I heard people speaking. Then I started picking up regional dialects, the cockney, the proper Manchester dialect, the southern accent (not to be confused with the American southern accent), the northern, with its scottish-like brogue, accents from places around the world sprinkled with a british flavoring.The train ride into Saint Pancras station was excellent. The train was not very full and we obtained good seating from the start. After riding for about 25 minutes, gawking at the rooftops and chimneys of the old London flats, we arrived at this most beautiful station. Saint Pancras is an old railway station with a gigantic glass roof and acres of space. The Victorian era in London was an elegant time in history for this city. The scale of these old train stations and hotels and churches from this era is astounding, the detail fascinating. We disembarked with our luggage and trudged through the terminal to the exit, directly across the street from our hotel, The Northumberland Kings Cross Hotel, a grand palace if there ever was one!We squeezed through the front entrance and announced our arrival to the desk clerk, a middle eastern man of about 30 years of age, all smiles and helpfulness, who could guarantee procuring almost anything you could desire in ‘2 minutes’.While Kim checked us in, I decided to walk around the block and take in the neighborhood. Rounding the first corner a block up from the hotel, I came upon a sign in front of a block of rowhouses that read “Benjamin Franklin lived here from 1757-1775″. This discovery would set the pace for my entire visit to London, a city as old and timeless and full of history as any I had ever seen.Returning to the hotel, I climbed the narrow stairs to our second floor room. Entering, I found Kimberly checking the two single beds for stains or bugs or maybe DNA. The room was just large enough to fit the two beds with a small nightstand next to hers. My cot backed up against the radiator at the head of the bed and the door opened against the foot. Now I don’t want to make this a review of our initial lodgings in London as I was fine with the micro-room. I didn’t need a tv or radio or an in-room bathroom. I didn’t need a closet to hang my clothes. I didn’t need a stand for my luggage. I didn’t mind my feet hanging off the foot of the bed. One pillow would be sufficient and the bumps on my head from banging it on the radiator throughout the night would give me an opportunity to visit a real London apothecary for headache medicine. This was to be our home for four nights and I was cool with that. Kimberly voiced her dissatisfaction with the digs at first and then exhibited the ’stiff upper lip’ that she had picked up when she lived in this city. “Let’s go see London”, said she…and off we went!
Another Innocent Abroad
Another Innocent Abroad
Sunday, June 15th, 2008
Taking a cue from old Sam Clemens, it was decided that I should try and glimpse how others live, and lived in another part of the world so I bought a ticket to London’s Heathrow airport, by way of New York’s lovely JFK airport. The itinerary was 10 days away from my log home in rural South Carolina - 4 days in London, 4 days in Paris with two days set aside for travel. It was to be a trip filled with the culture and beauty of the ‘old country’; museums and landmarks and palaces and towers. We would cram as much culture down this southern boy’s throat as possible in only 10 days. We would begin by seeing New York City.Since I had never been to the city of New York and I wanted to do some Manhatten sightseeing I planned my arrival at JFK at the very early time of 7:38 am, with a depature time to London not being until 8:45 pm that evening.The flight from Charlotte, NC went off without a hitch - beautiful flying weather, the friendly and accomodating crew of the Jet Blue line, and very little traffic assured us of a great flight. Arriving in New York on time, I soon found out just how massive the JFK terminal loomed. Like most major jetports, JFK is undergoing renovation to accomodate bigger crowds and better security features, so getting around there is not fun.My plan was to check my bags and grab the Long Island express to Grand Central, find a local deli and have a real New York style sandwich, then go walkabout in the big city until time to return for my evening flight. I knew that all the excitement and physical activity that I would get from the day’s agenda would ensure me a good night’s sleep aboard the transatlantic bird.My initial greeting in New York-ese was “wrong, homey”.Allow me to first thank the terrorists for the security precautions I had to endure, along with a million other passengers. The line at the security checkpoint, the removal of the shoes, the screening of the bags, et al. While I have traveled by air since 9/11, I had not traveled to New York and was unprepared for the massive lines stretching out as far as the eye could see. Oh well. I had plenty of time. I’ll get my e-ticket, check my bags and “poof” - off to the big city.Not. ”We’re sorry sir, but due to security regulations we cannot check your bags until after 4pm for your evening flight. Next”. The young lady at the Delta counter looked as if this was probably the day she either started her visit from Aunt Flo, or just took a general dislike of me from first glance. I loved the Brooklyn accent that I was hearing from this young devotchka, but I didn’t like what she was saying to me. “M’am, excuse me, but I wanted to tour your fine city and really don’t want to drag my luggage all over the city so…” “Next”, was all she said. “But m’am, do you have any lockers in the airport where I might stow my luggage while I…” “No lockers since 9/11″ was her stern reply. The next thing I know I’m being shoved aside by an unruly looking fellow with funny dreadlocks and a peculiar odor who had been in line behind me. Okay, I can take a hint. As I moved away from the counter I wondered just how much of a hassle it might be to drag this heavy suitcase from airport to train to subway, then to bumpy, crowded sidewalks all day, then repeat the procedure in reverse. I knew just what a hassle it had been to travel to the departure gate from my arrival gate several kilometers away, so I decided to park my butt in an out of the way location and read my book for awhile.Airports can be stuffy affairs. All the movement, the chatter, the massed lot making their way to points unknown make for a very claustrophobic arena. This fact wasn’t lost on this southern boy and I soon found myself outside the terminal sitting with my back to the wall, reading all about young Alexander Hamilton while trying to breathe in the local air. Or, should I say, the local carbon monoxide.The only place outside where one might take respite is the drop-off area at this busy, busy terminal 3, the international exit gate for the JFK complex. I soon found myself people-watching rather than reading. Oh, the humanity. My God, the humanity. Humanity everywhere you looked. Loud, boisterous, in a hurry, fuck everyone else, horn-blowing, bag-snatching humanity. Endless streams of humanity flowed though this terminal unlike any I had ever witnessed. Taxis and buses and SUVs filled with people would speed in, drop off said humanity with one hand extended for the fare, and then speed away to pick up more humanity and repeat the process. The cabbies blew their horns at nothing and everything, warning humanity to get the hell out of the way before they become dead humanity. After a couple of hours of this I picked myself up and moved back in to the stuffy terminal to people watch without the sound of horns.Looking at the clock on the terminal wall, I realized that I only had to endure this scene for another 9 hours. What to do for 9 hours? I decided that since I couldn’t see the city as I had planned, I would see New York from a unique perspective…I’d watch New Yorkers, as well as those from far-away places who had come to this place to stand in line, remove shoes and have an x-ray taken of their belongings, be what they were born to be - just people.It was then that I saw families, lovers, husbands and wives, singles, school groups, religious groups, gypsies, the well-to-do, bored actors and their handlers, people with caged, frightened pets - regular people ready to embark on an exciting, long-awaited journey.After several more hours I finally put the Hamilton biography away and just watched this grand scene before me. It was then that I realized that all the buildings and historic places and ground zeros and delis in New York City could probably not reveal the true character of New York like this bustling mass of humanity has revealed to me. Cabbies-blow your horns!
next up-Londontown
Sunday, June 15th, 2008
Taking a cue from old Sam Clemens, it was decided that I should try and glimpse how others live, and lived in another part of the world so I bought a ticket to London’s Heathrow airport, by way of New York’s lovely JFK airport. The itinerary was 10 days away from my log home in rural South Carolina - 4 days in London, 4 days in Paris with two days set aside for travel. It was to be a trip filled with the culture and beauty of the ‘old country’; museums and landmarks and palaces and towers. We would cram as much culture down this southern boy’s throat as possible in only 10 days. We would begin by seeing New York City.Since I had never been to the city of New York and I wanted to do some Manhatten sightseeing I planned my arrival at JFK at the very early time of 7:38 am, with a depature time to London not being until 8:45 pm that evening.The flight from Charlotte, NC went off without a hitch - beautiful flying weather, the friendly and accomodating crew of the Jet Blue line, and very little traffic assured us of a great flight. Arriving in New York on time, I soon found out just how massive the JFK terminal loomed. Like most major jetports, JFK is undergoing renovation to accomodate bigger crowds and better security features, so getting around there is not fun.My plan was to check my bags and grab the Long Island express to Grand Central, find a local deli and have a real New York style sandwich, then go walkabout in the big city until time to return for my evening flight. I knew that all the excitement and physical activity that I would get from the day’s agenda would ensure me a good night’s sleep aboard the transatlantic bird.My initial greeting in New York-ese was “wrong, homey”.Allow me to first thank the terrorists for the security precautions I had to endure, along with a million other passengers. The line at the security checkpoint, the removal of the shoes, the screening of the bags, et al. While I have traveled by air since 9/11, I had not traveled to New York and was unprepared for the massive lines stretching out as far as the eye could see. Oh well. I had plenty of time. I’ll get my e-ticket, check my bags and “poof” - off to the big city.Not. ”We’re sorry sir, but due to security regulations we cannot check your bags until after 4pm for your evening flight. Next”. The young lady at the Delta counter looked as if this was probably the day she either started her visit from Aunt Flo, or just took a general dislike of me from first glance. I loved the Brooklyn accent that I was hearing from this young devotchka, but I didn’t like what she was saying to me. “M’am, excuse me, but I wanted to tour your fine city and really don’t want to drag my luggage all over the city so…” “Next”, was all she said. “But m’am, do you have any lockers in the airport where I might stow my luggage while I…” “No lockers since 9/11″ was her stern reply. The next thing I know I’m being shoved aside by an unruly looking fellow with funny dreadlocks and a peculiar odor who had been in line behind me. Okay, I can take a hint. As I moved away from the counter I wondered just how much of a hassle it might be to drag this heavy suitcase from airport to train to subway, then to bumpy, crowded sidewalks all day, then repeat the procedure in reverse. I knew just what a hassle it had been to travel to the departure gate from my arrival gate several kilometers away, so I decided to park my butt in an out of the way location and read my book for awhile.Airports can be stuffy affairs. All the movement, the chatter, the massed lot making their way to points unknown make for a very claustrophobic arena. This fact wasn’t lost on this southern boy and I soon found myself outside the terminal sitting with my back to the wall, reading all about young Alexander Hamilton while trying to breathe in the local air. Or, should I say, the local carbon monoxide.The only place outside where one might take respite is the drop-off area at this busy, busy terminal 3, the international exit gate for the JFK complex. I soon found myself people-watching rather than reading. Oh, the humanity. My God, the humanity. Humanity everywhere you looked. Loud, boisterous, in a hurry, fuck everyone else, horn-blowing, bag-snatching humanity. Endless streams of humanity flowed though this terminal unlike any I had ever witnessed. Taxis and buses and SUVs filled with people would speed in, drop off said humanity with one hand extended for the fare, and then speed away to pick up more humanity and repeat the process. The cabbies blew their horns at nothing and everything, warning humanity to get the hell out of the way before they become dead humanity. After a couple of hours of this I picked myself up and moved back in to the stuffy terminal to people watch without the sound of horns.Looking at the clock on the terminal wall, I realized that I only had to endure this scene for another 9 hours. What to do for 9 hours? I decided that since I couldn’t see the city as I had planned, I would see New York from a unique perspective…I’d watch New Yorkers, as well as those from far-away places who had come to this place to stand in line, remove shoes and have an x-ray taken of their belongings, be what they were born to be - just people.It was then that I saw families, lovers, husbands and wives, singles, school groups, religious groups, gypsies, the well-to-do, bored actors and their handlers, people with caged, frightened pets - regular people ready to embark on an exciting, long-awaited journey.After several more hours I finally put the Hamilton biography away and just watched this grand scene before me. It was then that I realized that all the buildings and historic places and ground zeros and delis in New York City could probably not reveal the true character of New York like this bustling mass of humanity has revealed to me. Cabbies-blow your horns!
next up-Londontown
These are my people. While I don’t know any of the men that grace the above photo, I do feel I know them well. I grew up with men just like the ones in the photo. Hard working, hard living people who went to church every sunday and who went to work everyday after that, to repeat the procedure until they went to the great beyond. This was their life. A hardscrabble, dirty life that made a 40 year old man appear to be 60 years of age. They believed in family, in discipline, in education (because they had no or little formal schooling), in fairness, in America.While the midwest had it’s dustbowl era, followed by the “Oakie” trek to California, so the southeastern US had it’s “mountain to mill slide” where hill folks, whose land and product had become so devalued as to be almost worthless, “slid” down the mountains to the nearest mill that was hiring at the time. Most had fought in a world war and had the scars to prove it. They had come from a world as diverse as the ethnic makeup of the mills - the second or third generation scotch and irish and english immigrants, come to this country carrying a box full of dreams and seeking a fresh start. They passed the dream on to their children, who carried this hope into a new century and through two world wars and a great depression. And their children then passed on this hope to their children, who became our parents.
Most were sober individuals who followed the teachings of the good book. There were also alcoholics whom we called “drunks” simply because we didn’t know the backstory of their alcoholism…hell, we didn’t even know there was such a thing as alcoholism. We assumed that these people got drunk because they were on the fringe of society and it was their only escape. Most times, though, we didn’t try to dissect their reasons for getting drunk every Saturday. We accepted, with typical 9 year-old wisdom, that they were as much a normal part of our world as summer baseball and fall colors had been a part of it.
From the “Voices of Thread” website:
“When I was young, I didn’t worry about money because we didn’t have any.”- Lloyd “Slick” McGaha
“We were all very poor but we didn’t know we were because everybody was.”- Jesse Campbell
The depression had been their playground, the bloody fields of Europe, sands of Africa and the hot, deadly islands of the Pacific had been their education. They proudly fought for their country, knowing that they could not only grab some glory away from the “hun” or “nazi” scourge, but could also assure him or herself three squares a day and a job with a cot. An added advantage would be to take some burden of upkeep off their parents while at the same time sending money home.
They were grateful for the opportunity to better themselves or their children. These people of the soil, of a land so poor that they would uproot themselves from everything they knew and move their entire lives to a new unknown, finding a steady, if insufficient livelihood for their familes.
Imagine -working in a hot, dusty, noisy mill for 12 hour stretches at $10 a day was better than the life they had escaped!
From the Glencoe Mills Textile Heritage Museum:
“In 1889 the average Glencoe mill hand worked six 11-hour days, or 66 hours per week. Men earned from one to two dollars per day; women earned from 50 cents to a dollar; children earned 40 cents per day. In 1905 the average worker worked six 10.5-hour days, or 63 hours per week. Men earned from 75 cents to $2.75 per day; women earned between 60 cents and one dollar; children still earned 40 cents per day. By 1924 Glencoe employees were working 55-hour weeks, with men earning between $2.10 and $6.60 per day and women between $2.10 and $2.38″.
This brings me to my father. Charles Hazel “Pete” Reid. Born October 1924 - died March 1981.
Pete, as he was called, was a man of relatively short stature who loomed over your entire being, making him to appear as a giant. He had a quiet, commanding presence, one where words were chosen carefully and a certain look from him would send shivers down your spine. Yet he was a sweet, gentle man who loved children and could make you feel as if he understood exactly what it meant to be a kid. Most of my cousins called him they’re ‘favorite uncle’. Even on his modest textile mill salary he managed to make time and money every year for a two-week vacation for the family. Most years we had a cousin or two in tow because they knew my dad was a pretty laid back guy. But let a cousin sass or get out of line, dad would beat his ass just as swift as he would our little hides! He commanded our respect and was a well liked and well respected man in his community.
Pete had a drinking problem as a younger man. We have an old photograph, circa 1940s, of an old 30-something model Olds that he totaled while driving under the influence. It seems that he mistook a parked tractor trailer rig for a railroad underpass. The entire roof of the car was peeled off. They say that he wouldn’t have survived the accident sober. I say that sober he wouldn’t have had the accident in the first place. But he did, and he survived it. He, along with one of my uncles, loved going up to the corner tavern for a “beer or 6″. Our mom, so I’ve been told, would head up to the tavern to fetch my father and naggingly remind him that he was now a husband and father and should be home with the family. He would acquiesce and get in the car with her and head home, usually falling asleep in her arms. The story goes that, when I came along, she offered him an ultimatum…the tavern or the family…he choose wisely, putting the bottle down for as long as we were kids.Dad was born with polio, as were lots poor kids of the south in that era. He limped through childhood, strangley enough, becoming an ace baseball player (pitcher) in spite of his disability. He had one leg shorter than the other, which really reared it’s ugly head in his late thirties. He had survived the depression as a child who had lost his father when he was only 4 years old. When he was old enough (9 or 10 years old), he was pulled from school and put to work to help support the family. Such was the custom of the time. The depression had hit as reconstruction was waning so it was indeed a double whammy for the region. South Carolina being the birthplace and the deathbed of the old confederacy, was raped and pillaged pretty severely by the carpetbaggers and those who would profit from another’s misfortune. Fitting, since slavery did that very same thing! Problem was, the majority of the south was rural poor who couldn’t own a slave even if they had wanted to, and somehow those coastal and upstate plantation owners still found a way to rise above the fray after their war and lead a relatively comfortable existence, despite the surrounding madness.
African-Americans were still slaves in their own right, having to eke out a living from what their former masters would give them, or sell to them for their souls. My dad’s family grew up poor sharecropper mountain folk who ’slid’ down to the jobs of the mills and tried their best to work their way up within that limited work structure. This is why education was so important to our dad, and so many of our friend’s parents. They knew that right here-right now, the cycle of poverty could be broken, and they would see their grandkids in a happier, less-hard life. All of our parents instilled in us, through church, through discipline and by example, how to be a good person. Fairness was key above all - the golden rule and all that. Even the neighbor’s parents would beat your ass if you deserved it. Respect your elders was an unspoken rule in our hood and enforcement was strict!So where does all this end? Where does all the hard times they experienced lead us today? They survived and so did we. We learned from their sweat, their toils, their tears and joy. And as we get older and can fully appreciate what they all did for us, we quietly salute and raise a glass to this “greatest generation” and to those who raised them. We know that without the guidance of these “poor lintheads”, whose education was sparse but whose knowledge was boundless, we would be woefully worse off than we are. And we thank them for this.
Most were sober individuals who followed the teachings of the good book. There were also alcoholics whom we called “drunks” simply because we didn’t know the backstory of their alcoholism…hell, we didn’t even know there was such a thing as alcoholism. We assumed that these people got drunk because they were on the fringe of society and it was their only escape. Most times, though, we didn’t try to dissect their reasons for getting drunk every Saturday. We accepted, with typical 9 year-old wisdom, that they were as much a normal part of our world as summer baseball and fall colors had been a part of it.
From the “Voices of Thread” website:
“When I was young, I didn’t worry about money because we didn’t have any.”- Lloyd “Slick” McGaha
“We were all very poor but we didn’t know we were because everybody was.”- Jesse Campbell
The depression had been their playground, the bloody fields of Europe, sands of Africa and the hot, deadly islands of the Pacific had been their education. They proudly fought for their country, knowing that they could not only grab some glory away from the “hun” or “nazi” scourge, but could also assure him or herself three squares a day and a job with a cot. An added advantage would be to take some burden of upkeep off their parents while at the same time sending money home.
They were grateful for the opportunity to better themselves or their children. These people of the soil, of a land so poor that they would uproot themselves from everything they knew and move their entire lives to a new unknown, finding a steady, if insufficient livelihood for their familes.
Imagine -working in a hot, dusty, noisy mill for 12 hour stretches at $10 a day was better than the life they had escaped!
From the Glencoe Mills Textile Heritage Museum:
“In 1889 the average Glencoe mill hand worked six 11-hour days, or 66 hours per week. Men earned from one to two dollars per day; women earned from 50 cents to a dollar; children earned 40 cents per day. In 1905 the average worker worked six 10.5-hour days, or 63 hours per week. Men earned from 75 cents to $2.75 per day; women earned between 60 cents and one dollar; children still earned 40 cents per day. By 1924 Glencoe employees were working 55-hour weeks, with men earning between $2.10 and $6.60 per day and women between $2.10 and $2.38″.
This brings me to my father. Charles Hazel “Pete” Reid. Born October 1924 - died March 1981.
Pete, as he was called, was a man of relatively short stature who loomed over your entire being, making him to appear as a giant. He had a quiet, commanding presence, one where words were chosen carefully and a certain look from him would send shivers down your spine. Yet he was a sweet, gentle man who loved children and could make you feel as if he understood exactly what it meant to be a kid. Most of my cousins called him they’re ‘favorite uncle’. Even on his modest textile mill salary he managed to make time and money every year for a two-week vacation for the family. Most years we had a cousin or two in tow because they knew my dad was a pretty laid back guy. But let a cousin sass or get out of line, dad would beat his ass just as swift as he would our little hides! He commanded our respect and was a well liked and well respected man in his community.
Pete had a drinking problem as a younger man. We have an old photograph, circa 1940s, of an old 30-something model Olds that he totaled while driving under the influence. It seems that he mistook a parked tractor trailer rig for a railroad underpass. The entire roof of the car was peeled off. They say that he wouldn’t have survived the accident sober. I say that sober he wouldn’t have had the accident in the first place. But he did, and he survived it. He, along with one of my uncles, loved going up to the corner tavern for a “beer or 6″. Our mom, so I’ve been told, would head up to the tavern to fetch my father and naggingly remind him that he was now a husband and father and should be home with the family. He would acquiesce and get in the car with her and head home, usually falling asleep in her arms. The story goes that, when I came along, she offered him an ultimatum…the tavern or the family…he choose wisely, putting the bottle down for as long as we were kids.Dad was born with polio, as were lots poor kids of the south in that era. He limped through childhood, strangley enough, becoming an ace baseball player (pitcher) in spite of his disability. He had one leg shorter than the other, which really reared it’s ugly head in his late thirties. He had survived the depression as a child who had lost his father when he was only 4 years old. When he was old enough (9 or 10 years old), he was pulled from school and put to work to help support the family. Such was the custom of the time. The depression had hit as reconstruction was waning so it was indeed a double whammy for the region. South Carolina being the birthplace and the deathbed of the old confederacy, was raped and pillaged pretty severely by the carpetbaggers and those who would profit from another’s misfortune. Fitting, since slavery did that very same thing! Problem was, the majority of the south was rural poor who couldn’t own a slave even if they had wanted to, and somehow those coastal and upstate plantation owners still found a way to rise above the fray after their war and lead a relatively comfortable existence, despite the surrounding madness.
African-Americans were still slaves in their own right, having to eke out a living from what their former masters would give them, or sell to them for their souls. My dad’s family grew up poor sharecropper mountain folk who ’slid’ down to the jobs of the mills and tried their best to work their way up within that limited work structure. This is why education was so important to our dad, and so many of our friend’s parents. They knew that right here-right now, the cycle of poverty could be broken, and they would see their grandkids in a happier, less-hard life. All of our parents instilled in us, through church, through discipline and by example, how to be a good person. Fairness was key above all - the golden rule and all that. Even the neighbor’s parents would beat your ass if you deserved it. Respect your elders was an unspoken rule in our hood and enforcement was strict!So where does all this end? Where does all the hard times they experienced lead us today? They survived and so did we. We learned from their sweat, their toils, their tears and joy. And as we get older and can fully appreciate what they all did for us, we quietly salute and raise a glass to this “greatest generation” and to those who raised them. We know that without the guidance of these “poor lintheads”, whose education was sparse but whose knowledge was boundless, we would be woefully worse off than we are. And we thank them for this.
Jul 5, 2008
Indiana Wants Me
We can only marvel at the mind of the man. We were getting ready for a little croquet action and listening to some satellite radio when the familiar siren intro of Indiana Wants Me began. Without batting an eye Reid blurts out, “R. Dean Taylor”. Perhaps a little scary that the ol’ boy would recall Taylor’s name. IWM was a top ten hit in 1970, but it was a one shot deal; a one hit wonder in an era that produced them with regularity. But you know, Reid just seems to know these things. I wouldn't be surprised if he knew Andy Kim's astrological sign. In the parlance of today, I'm just saying...
Taylor himself took an unusual path to semi-stardom. A Canadian white boy, he signed with Motown in the early 1960’s, inking up with song writing luminaries Brian Holland and Lamont Dozier. The Holland, Dozier, Holland team became responsible for many of the great Hit City USA tunes of the day. Taylor, as a writer/artist with Motown, co-wrote several songs under that label, the most famous of those being The Supremes hit, Love Child . Still, up to that point, Taylor had enjoyed very little success outside Canada and the Detroit area. But when Indiana Wants Me hit number 5 on the Billboard charts in 1970, Taylor at last received some national exposure. Enough, at least, that thirty eight years later, grown men batting about little wooden balls on a scorched South Carolina lawn still recognize the opening bars of IWM.
After the siren and an emotionally mood setting bar of ooo, ooo, ooo’s comes Taylor’s chorused plea:
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
I wish I had you to talk to
Here we have love, yes that tired, old, sway-backed horse; but life and death drama as well. The guy is obviously on the lam and the situation is coming to a head.
If a man ever needed dyin', he did
No one had the right to say what he said about you
And it's so cold and lonely here without you
Out there, the law's a-comin'
I'm scared and so tired of runnin'
So, it appears the one Indiana wants has iced a dude for having the unmitigated audacity to merely say something derogatory about his love interest. Perhaps a little extreme, but Taylor‘s excellent rendition makes vigilante justice seem totally acceptable. Taylor tells us just enough: Life on the run has deteriorated into sirens, megaphones and a hastily written love letter somewhere out on the Hoosier plain. He did it, he admits it and now the county mounties are closing in. Perhaps chivalry is not dead, but this guy soon could be.
I hope this letter finds its way to you
Forgive me, love, for the shame I put you through and all the tears
Hang on, love, to the memories of those happy years
Red lights are flashin' around me
Yeah, love, it looks like they found me
On his website, Taylor claims to have written IWM after seeing Bonnie and Clyde. Maybe so; but my version of this song imagines our over-reactive fugitive as a beer swilling, lucky strike smoking, boiler maker with three ex wives hounding him for support; and all of them pissed that he has shacked up with a stripper and fathered another damn kid. Oh well, maybe Taylor’s mob fantasy is more romantic, but something had to get him to this lowly place. Of course, most murders aren’t all that romantic and the gory details usually include the perp, moments after capture, spitting into a local news camera some version of R Dean Taylor‘s clarion call, “He needed killing”!
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
(spoken as the last lines are sung)
This is the police. You are surrounded. Give yourself up.
This is the police. Give yourself up. You are surrounded.
Hearing R. Dean Taylor’s Indiana Wants Me may have been a bit of foreshadowing for Reid’s and Wilder’s afternoon croquet fortunes. I didn't actually say “give yourself up, you are surrounded", but, as it turned out, I could have.
R. Dean Taylor's website.
You Tube version of I.W.M.
Taylor himself took an unusual path to semi-stardom. A Canadian white boy, he signed with Motown in the early 1960’s, inking up with song writing luminaries Brian Holland and Lamont Dozier. The Holland, Dozier, Holland team became responsible for many of the great Hit City USA tunes of the day. Taylor, as a writer/artist with Motown, co-wrote several songs under that label, the most famous of those being The Supremes hit, Love Child . Still, up to that point, Taylor had enjoyed very little success outside Canada and the Detroit area. But when Indiana Wants Me hit number 5 on the Billboard charts in 1970, Taylor at last received some national exposure. Enough, at least, that thirty eight years later, grown men batting about little wooden balls on a scorched South Carolina lawn still recognize the opening bars of IWM.
After the siren and an emotionally mood setting bar of ooo, ooo, ooo’s comes Taylor’s chorused plea:
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
I wish I had you to talk to
Here we have love, yes that tired, old, sway-backed horse; but life and death drama as well. The guy is obviously on the lam and the situation is coming to a head.
If a man ever needed dyin', he did
No one had the right to say what he said about you
And it's so cold and lonely here without you
Out there, the law's a-comin'
I'm scared and so tired of runnin'
So, it appears the one Indiana wants has iced a dude for having the unmitigated audacity to merely say something derogatory about his love interest. Perhaps a little extreme, but Taylor‘s excellent rendition makes vigilante justice seem totally acceptable. Taylor tells us just enough: Life on the run has deteriorated into sirens, megaphones and a hastily written love letter somewhere out on the Hoosier plain. He did it, he admits it and now the county mounties are closing in. Perhaps chivalry is not dead, but this guy soon could be.
I hope this letter finds its way to you
Forgive me, love, for the shame I put you through and all the tears
Hang on, love, to the memories of those happy years
Red lights are flashin' around me
Yeah, love, it looks like they found me
On his website, Taylor claims to have written IWM after seeing Bonnie and Clyde. Maybe so; but my version of this song imagines our over-reactive fugitive as a beer swilling, lucky strike smoking, boiler maker with three ex wives hounding him for support; and all of them pissed that he has shacked up with a stripper and fathered another damn kid. Oh well, maybe Taylor’s mob fantasy is more romantic, but something had to get him to this lowly place. Of course, most murders aren’t all that romantic and the gory details usually include the perp, moments after capture, spitting into a local news camera some version of R Dean Taylor‘s clarion call, “He needed killing”!
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
Indiana wants me
Lord, I can't go back there
(spoken as the last lines are sung)
This is the police. You are surrounded. Give yourself up.
This is the police. Give yourself up. You are surrounded.
Hearing R. Dean Taylor’s Indiana Wants Me may have been a bit of foreshadowing for Reid’s and Wilder’s afternoon croquet fortunes. I didn't actually say “give yourself up, you are surrounded", but, as it turned out, I could have.
R. Dean Taylor's website.
You Tube version of I.W.M.
Jul 4, 2008
Theivery and deception 101
What kind of coverage can I expect?, I asked the man as I handed him ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. "You'll hear crickets farting for at least ten thousand square feet", he replied. Can I hear a low whisper? "Most certainly". Very good. They'll be here at 5 tomorrow to play and I need an advantage. "Right", he said as he cranked his black Crown Victoria and pulled away into the thick up-country evening .
And I'll be durned if it didn't work. The tricky part was the tiny earpiece. The confounded thing tried to fall out a couple of times when I bent to hit a shot or to pick up my ball (probably because of my big, old, floppy ears).
But I got away with it and and I was aces . I always appeared to know what the other guys were doing because I did know what they were doing. Reid gave me a crap eating grin that had hidden in its smirk just a hint of somethings going on with Durham; and he would be right. So, I guess I'll have to cut him in being that he's my blue partner when we're playing yellow and red, aka, Ridgeway and Wilder.
The question is just how long to perpetuate the abuse? You know what they say about me, incorrigible in victory, irascible in defeat.
And I'll be durned if it didn't work. The tricky part was the tiny earpiece. The confounded thing tried to fall out a couple of times when I bent to hit a shot or to pick up my ball (probably because of my big, old, floppy ears).
But I got away with it and and I was aces . I always appeared to know what the other guys were doing because I did know what they were doing. Reid gave me a crap eating grin that had hidden in its smirk just a hint of somethings going on with Durham; and he would be right. So, I guess I'll have to cut him in being that he's my blue partner when we're playing yellow and red, aka, Ridgeway and Wilder.
The question is just how long to perpetuate the abuse? You know what they say about me, incorrigible in victory, irascible in defeat.
Jul 3, 2008
Of flea markets and Elvis impersonators
Let me tell you about our flea market days. There we were, Peace and your humble narrator, hawking costume jewelry and people watching. Man, the people; let me tell you about a few of them. I’ll start with the landlords of the place, Tina and Vic. Tina first. Tina was a little Vietnamese woman of about forty and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. On our first day there I asked her how long she had been in the states and she replied, “fie year”. I then asked her if she ever got home sick for the rice paddies of Vietnam (wise ass like). She flashed me a quick glance and said, “course not, I like freedom”. Great answer. Vic on the other hand had none of Tina’s grateful immigrant charm. He was a tall, flaccid guy with one of the most intense Elvis infatuations I’ve ever seen. The flea market ultimately crashed and burned just after Vic’s “Elvis” promotion.
Memories
Pressed between the pages of my mind
One day, the relative tranquility of the market was shattered by Vic tear-assing between the tables, red faced and bellowing, “who does the van parked in the fire lane belong to!!? “That vehicle needs to be moved nowww!” Yes, he hung the OWWW out there for a while. It was too much for Peace and me. We looked at each other and began howling with laughter. Vic paused from his systolic smashing tirade to fetch us a nasty look. There is nothing in the world funnier than someone losing their mind over something as trivial as an a carelessly parked van. At that moment, with veins protruding and spittle ejecting, old Vic may have looked a lot like the king himself in those final moments on his Graceland throne.
On a good day the isles would be filled with shoppers of various shapes, sizes, creeds colors, odors and afflictions. Peace liked to muse that they came to the FM in every conceivable way: crutching, crawling, gimping, limping, rolling, and trolling. They came pierced too: nipples, navels, nostrils, tongues and who knows where else. And don‘t forget the tats: on arms, legs and derrieres, mostly indescribable and usually illegible. After a few weeks of the FM, I wondered if there was anyone left in the world without a tongue bob, tattoo or both.
Our brother and sister vendors were an intriguing cross section of humanity. There was Mildred who sold toys. She loved to involve anyone who would listen in her “disappointment” concerning her son’s affection for a busty black woman. In her exclamations, she paused using the “N” word only long enough to regroup and add other adjectives to illustrate her displeasure at the sainted son’s arrangement. I would nod, all the time thinking that the black chick was the one getting the short end of the stick. In a game of guess who’s coming to dinner, I visualized her parents reaching for the arsenic at their first sight of the snaggle toothed Casper look-alike, arm in arm with their Nubian princess daughter.
Then there was the old guy that sold junk of every grimy type. He became affectionately known to us as “Fred”. One day Peace and I watched in abject horror as a man bought a mattress from “Fred” that had one of the nastiest brown stains on it that either of us had ever seen. One can only fathom the origins of that grungy ectoplasm. It could have been afterbirth or, for that matter, after death. I bet the guy is still sleeping on that bed to this day; snoozing peacefully while, just on the other side of his mattress, a serial killer’s DNA remains hidden from detection. Well, I assume he sleeps on the non-stain side of the mattress.
I suppose we fit in pretty well in that potpourri of misfits and miscreants that made up the market; most of us claiming innumerable aches, pains and afflictions. There was me: widowed,
unemployed and floating; capable of little more than stringing beads together for tattered flea market snuff queens. And Peace: divorced, depressed and disgusted; just hanging on for better
days. But despite our travails, we never stopped laughing at ourselves, and we damn sure didn’t stop laughing at our fellow flea marketeers. The place was ripe for a couple of observant vagabonds such as ourselves.
As I said, jewelry was our game and we were doing a bang up business. After we had been in business a month or so, our supplier, my cousin Ken, talked me into making personalized accessories such as bracelets, anklets and necklaces-on site while the customer waited. Ken warned me that in the on site manufacturing game you had to “take the bad with the good”.
First, the good: On my first day with the newly acquired bead kit, I hung up a sign advertising my craft and instantly a shapely woman, probably in her early twenties, stopped by and asked if I made ankle bracelets. Absolutely, I replied. Within minutes I had her sitting in my booth with her shapely gam hiked up on my chair for some strategic measurement. Every eye in the place found its jealous gaze looking my way. After I finished making her accoutrement, she plopped her foot up on my chair once again and asked with perfect charm, “do you mind putting it on for me?” Who was I to refuse.
The bad: Same scenario, only this time the ham hock was attached to a woman that was pushing a deuce and quarter. To make matters infinitely worse, that veritable stump hadn’t seen a can of Nair or a Lady Schick in many a moon. Add to that dejection, the smell that emanated from a still undetermined anatomy part was blinding. Well, needless to say, the same crowd of gawkers were on hand for this austere performance. In moments such as these, witnesses seemed to show up like bounced checks. Owing to the general tenor of our clientele, I rarely encountered exhibit A; long, smooth and shapely; but more often was visited by exhibit B; short, fat and hairy. Ken was right. I had to take the good with the bad and bad was winning big time.
We’re caught in a trap
I can’t walk out
Because I love you too much baby
So the summer of 2001 was the year of the flea. And as I hinted earlier, the promotional efforts of the building manager would prove to be the swan song of the enterprise. Our boy Vic the red faced, blow-hard, anal retentive, Presley-file came up with the brilliant idea to host an Elvis impersonator’s extravaganza in the parking lot (One of the very worst sales days we ever had). Among the luminaries there that fated day was a short, fat Elvis, a tall, thin Elvis, and a lisping Elvis who claimed to operate an Elvis museum in the absolute middle-of-nowhere Georgia, featuring a wart allegedly belonging to the king of rock and roll himself. He claimed to have the royal verruca stashed in a jar of formaldehyde for safe keeping. “You can’t be too careful”, he said with a slight curl of the lip.
Well, there is always more to the story. There were the battered flea market princesses that invariably congregated to the soothing sounds of Peace’s deep, resonate voice. He should have charged them for the countless hours he sat patiently listening to their trials, tribulations and come-on‘s, and for the sage advice he imparted in his Barry White style. He became the father confessor for many of the old gals that worked or shopped there. They sought him out. All peace lacked was a couch; he had them hypnotized with his baritone. Now, they would exchange pleasantries with me: how’s the weather and the like, but with Peace they’d bear their souls and air their grievances. Time and again I overheard comments like “I could listen to you talk all day…or night.” Who knows what kind of action the old dog could have had…or may have gotten from our plunge into the abnormal subculture of the flea market. It’s a shame we had to give it all up and get real jobs.
some beginnings
Dear readers, coming soon to this site will be posts from several esteemed authors emanating from "the hill" and thereabouts. More on this "hill" stuff as we go along.
Just check out the pic posted here and imagine that these guys are our relatives and that the grins on their faces are a harbinger...of...well, of us. Only we're likely to have more teeth-and hopefully a longer life span...well, maybe. For those guys, working in the cotton mill, smoking Viceroys and drinking PBR was not conducive to long life; but neither is driving the highways and bi-ways of America today. Pick your period. Pick your poison.
In any event, you'll get posts from the likes of Larry Reid, David Ridgeway and, of course, your humble narrator. No pointy headed intellectuals here; hell, just take another look at the guys in the photo-that should tell you something.
In any event, you'll get posts from the likes of Larry Reid, David Ridgeway and, of course, your humble narrator. No pointy headed intellectuals here; hell, just take another look at the guys in the photo-that should tell you something.
Yes, we've all come a long way from the simple, but hard life those guys lived, but make no mistake, they are vintage us.
Your humble writers are worn, torn, battered and bruised in different ways than the guys in the photo. Sure, today we all live comfortable lives of air conditioned splendor, but modern life has its own rogue agents out there; taking their toll in the persistent march of time and the creeping lethargy of information overload.
All that aside, we are still sprite enough to play a contentious game of croquet or even pen a missive that makes all the assigned wickets and ultimately hits the stake. More on the wickets and stakes stuff forthcoming as well.
Meanwhile, watch for the lad's insightful posts in the coming days concerning various and sundry topics-all with a hint of mill hill logic.
Bon appetite!
Meanwhile, watch for the lad's insightful posts in the coming days concerning various and sundry topics-all with a hint of mill hill logic.
Bon appetite!
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