That stooooopid ride

I don't remember the date, or the time of the occurence. I do remember the second thoughts that I had immediately after Rock left the Pic and Go with me on the hood. Durham is correct about the exit from the curb, me holding on to the back side of the hood closest to the windshield, one of the few regrets of my life. Rock sped away as if my life depended on it, and it almost did. We sped down Traction to the stop sign at Jones St. Rock did not observe that stop sign, virtually eliminating any planned "hop off when slowing" escape plan that I could hatch. By the time we passed Waco St, he must have been doing 55 or better. The journey from Waco along Jones Street was particularly hairy as Rock started a swerve move designed to dislodge my grip from the hood. Not a chance! I think that I can better illustrate with graphic aids.



1. Rock - start your engines;
2. The "what stop sign?" left turn
(Larry's surreal realization section);
3. The Jones Street - downhill acceleration section;
4.The Jones Street swerve-a-rama
(The part of the trip that served to remind me that life is indeed precious. Rock must have seen the sheer terror on my face as I shifted from left to right and back again on the hood of the bird. Still on my back at this point);
5. The Dorsey Avenue speed and shake
(Another attempt to test my death grip. I am now on my stomach facing Rock through the windshield. At this point I am begging for my life while not blaming Rock for this vehicular faux pais on my part);
6.The final left turn backstretch
(This is the part of the trip where my true Brandon tenacity shines through. I feel as if I have almost slain the dragon, that is, if Rock actually stops where we first started);
The end of the journey...the real laughter will now begin.

Yes Mr Durham, I do remember that you held your laughter until I had fired up the much-needed ciggy, and for that you are held in my highest esteem. You did, however, lose it post-ride.
I deserved it. It was a moment of sheer stupidity on my part. A valuable lesson was learned, though. And I have followed that lesson to this day. Greg "Rock" Chandler has never had the pleasure of my stupid ass on his hood since.

Things are working out jeessst fine:

The stock market's reaction to guvmint intervention hasn't been so good thus far., but there are those who think it will get better. But if it keeps circling the bowl, our supreme leaders will be pitching a bail out for the bail out. You heard it here first at MTH.

On a local sports front: It would appear that our beloved Clemson Tigers are struggling. And the rhetoric is angry at best. I guess we gotta take the bad with the good. And right now there is an ass-load of bad. Hi Ho.

The guvmint did this recently. An eyewitness to the pre raid assembly said it looked like a small army...is it a stretch to think it was a practice run on something they've got in store for the folks in flyover country? They're actually cracking down on illegals. Why all of the sudden is this a priority? They've mostly ignored the problem for 25 years.

Apocalyptic times? Reid lampooned the notion recently. I don't know. Financial collapse with porked out solutions, chicken plant raids with hundreds of officers and helicopters, and Clemson can't get a first down let alone score a touchdown. As was overheard in the canteen, "Shut the hail up, you fixing to skeer me".

The Brandon File: Sometimes you had to hang on for dear life.

I'm not certain of the year, but I do remember the event pretty well. It was the summer of 1975 or maybe 76. We were hanging around the Pic and Go. The guys were talking the usual junk: girls, cars, sports and girls. Oh, I said girls already; well, chicks were discussed a lot. All of them except me were smoking cigarettes. I was a good boy, just ask around.

I can't remember exactly which of the Brandon deviants were present that day, but I seem to recall, Doug, Tim, Me of course, Johnny Buchanan and Larry Reid. Now this would be a day that I am sure shaved at least a few days off of Reid's life.

Greg "Rock" Chandler was one of the middle children of the MacArthur Street Chandlers. I didn't know Greg all that well, but he seemed to be an OK guy. Other than a small speech impediment he seemed to be a normal Brandonista. He drove a green and white Pontiac Firebird, and like most of us that had cars, he was a little bit reckless. Which is what made what Reid did all the more amazing.

As I said, we were all standing around shootin' the breeze when Rock, in the Firebird, whipped up to the curb just outside the P&G. What happened next only our esteemed in house author, Larry Reid, can describe in all the horrific detail. Reid with teen aged agility (and judgement) hopped from the sidewalk outside the little store onto the hood of Rocks Firebird. Rock promptly dropped her down into drive - and took Reid for a ride. As Rock sped away - and I mean in a zero to fifty kind of departure - all we saw was the terrified surprise on Reid's face as he and Rock disappeared over the Traction Street hill.

They returned a few minutes later with Reid lying face down on the hood in a death grip with a windshield wiper...or something. As the car slid to a stop, Reid disembarked looking a little ashen and fumbling for a cigarette . I have to admit, I was afraid for the old boy as his amazing journey began, and was quite happy to see him make it back to the safety of the P&G in one piece. But the sidewalk mood that summer day was hysterical as the loiterers doubled over in spasms of laughter.

Reid, I promise I didn't start laughing until I saw you were still alive. Now I can't say the same for Doug, Tim and the other deviants. We look forward to hearing about those fateful five minutes from the passenger himself.

The photo above is of the sidewalk where Reid took one small leap for man. The red truck is where Reid made the leap, but facing the opposite direction of Rock's Firebird that day.

So in honor of Reid's adventure, a blast from the past:

Liquidating With The Juice.

No, I am not endorsing the newest colon cleanse. Instead, I am referring to THE JUICE, Heisman Trophy winner and record setting pigskin prodigy, O.J. Simpson.

It would appear that justice thinly disguised as karma, if you proscribe to either thing, has risen and finally taking a big hearty bite from O.J.'s backside. His recent conviction on charges of robbery and kidnapping appear to be the end of the long odyssey that has been Simpson's last 13 or so years.

O.J. was the quintessential American hero. From meager beginnings he exploded on the scene as a record setting running back with USC. After leading the team to the National Championship in 1967, he won the 1968 Heisman Trophy and continued on to the NFL where he further established records and wowed fans with his uncanny speed and agility. His popularity as a player and his Madison Avenue good looks paved the way for movie roles and lucrative commercial opportunities. Few black men in American history have fared better than O.J. Simpson.

But in June 1995 the brilliant star that was O.J. fell from the sky as hard and fast as SkyLab and with far more damage and loss of life. The Juice's estranged wife, Nichole and friend, Ron Goldman were found brutally murdered at the Brentwood home of Nichole (and former crib of OJ). Simpson was arrested and charged, the circus of OJ's trial unfolded and thus began his desert wandering days.

Ito, Furhman, Clark, Darden, Bailey, Shapiro, Cochran, Kardashian, Resnick, Vanatter, Lange and Kato Kaelin nauseatingly became household names and the mostly black and female jury took about twenty minutes to return a not guilty verdict. Two years later in a civil suit brought by Goldman's family, OJ was found guilty and ordered to fork over 8+ million dollars. As of this writing, the Goldman's claim to have never gotten a penny from OJ who deftly hid what he could by moving out of California and through legal entanglements. Pity that. But it had to cost him. Lawyers aren't cheap.

OJ's latest arrest occurred when he and a few cronies were caught attempting to aggressively take sports memorabilia items that OJ claimed belonged to him. One can only surmise that his years as a pariah had left him a little thin in the wallet. He probably needed his "stuff" back to sell for his own benefit. OJ did pocket 600 thousand bucks in advance of his hypothetical book, If I Did It, but Goldman was able to wrest that cash cow away through the edicts of his aforementioned civil suit. The Juice had to be getting desperate for cash. Why else would he take the kind of chance he took in that Vegas hotel room? Well, perhaps that is a dumb question; after all, this is The Juice we are talking about: that perfect blend of skill, sex and stupidity all mixed up in a racial kool aid imbibed only by the most diversity sensitive of our society.

After the 1995 murders, The Heisman Trophy was gone, the movie and commercial deals were no more and his reputation dried up faster than Nichole's blood on the Brentwood pavement. The OJ phenomenon had run it's course. This latest run in with the law may effectively remove his mug shot from memory. Most folks, save the most dedicated race hucksters, think it's high time "The Juice" gets what he deserves. This latest conviction and destined trip to the stripey hole is viewed by many as a deferred payment for that bloody scene the cops found in Brentwood; and for the farce that transpired in the L.A. courtroom.

I suppose that OJ will have to convince someone on the outside to continue the dogged search for the killers of Ron and Nichole on the golf courses of America.