Football, Phones, and A.D.D.

I'm a creature of habit. I'm a creature of habit, and I tend to get lost in my thoughts. If I perform some little act enough times, I'll repeat it, even when the occasion doesn't require it. In Pee Wee League football, I played center on the offensive line. One of the things centers had to do those many years ago was gather the team to the huddle by yelling "Huddle Up!" at the end of a play. Another football behavior that Coach Baggett, and other coaches of yore, taught us was to yell "Fumble!" whenever we saw a loose ball. Sometimes, my body'll be one place, and my mind somewhere else. Any of my coaches could tell you that many times my body'd be on the field, but my mind was God-only-knows where. Sometimes, my mind was on the field when my body wasn't. In my youth, I've yelled both "Huddle up!" and "Fumble!" when answering the telephone. This was, of course, not an appropriate response, as there were no footballs around, nor any teammates, and because it confused the people on the other end of the phone. Now, phone have changed since my youth. Like a lot of newish cars, my Ford Fusion has a "hands-free" phone feature. I use it all the time. I press a button on the steering wheel and tell the car to "call home" or whatever other contact I might have in my phone. The car responds- usually correctly- and after my conversation is done, I press "end" on the steering wheel to end the call. My thoughts and actions are one. In a pretty brief time, the action is as natural and scratching an itch. Okay, now where was I? Oh, yeah. I friend of mine has been having some troubles, of late. I said I'd say a little prayer while I rode to work. And I did. After my prayer, I pressed the "end call" button on my steering wheel. It probably wasn't necessary, but I figure God understood okay. At least I didn't yell "Huddle up!".

The Boxer.

With all the electronic stuff that kids get today, I wonder if they've gotten a proper appreciation of how great a plaything a huge box can be? Submarines, airplanes, and castles are all within the reach of any 8 year-old who's parents got a new kitchen appliance. I saw the big box at left as I was walking to the courthouse. I thought about climbing in... Nah, not in a suit. So I took a picture and spent a few minutes daydreaming about days of yore.

Poured, Not Dunked.

Deron and Beth's boy got baptized at St. Jude's yesterday. Lady Di and I made a point of going to the late service to be there. Father Floyd Finch presided over the ceremony. He's been among the visiting priests subbing for us while we look for a new rector. Father Floyd's been introducing babies into their new communities for a little minute: he presided over my daughter, Caroline's, baptism 21 years ago. Father Floyd's a round, hearty "Friar Tuck"-looking priest, and he looks about like he did back in 1990(Caroline does not).

The Air that I Breathe.

This article's from the Post and Courier got me thinking about the Hollies' song.



They sure sounded better than they looked!1970's Neil Diamond called the lead singer and wants his hair back.


Come to think of it, present day Neil Diamond called 1970's Neil Diamond and wants his hair back. Me? I just want decent air to breathe (okay, and maybe my 1970's hair!).

R.I.P. Tom McEwen.

My brother reported to me that retired Tampa Tribune sportswriter Tom_McEwen_died. The eulogy that I've linked notes that McEwen wielded considerable influence in the sporting world, and that he was instrumental in bringing professional soccer to Tampa, as well as football and hockey franchises. I remember his column, "The Morning After". I read it all the time in my youth. I remember how he used to write about what his wife had prepared for him for breakfast. He wrote things like, "Along with your freshly squeezed orange juice, and toasted English Muffin, these morsels..." Then he break into his story. I liked the stories too, of course, but it was his listing of what he'd had for breakfast that has stayed with me over the past forty years or so.

Trashed.

I walked Bo and Brady yesterday afternoon, as I do every afternoon, and I noted a preponderance of roadside litter. Sad, that. My brother, the Amazing AndyMan, used to make a point during his ultra-marathon jaunts of picking up some of the various and sundry lots of litter he encountered. On my unquestionably more leisurely lopes, I'll occasionally pick up bits of detritus, too. Every now and again I'll think of that crying Native-American from the anti-littering ad of the 1970's. Remember? Sure you do.

Good For What Ales You.

I've toured breweries. I grew up in Tampa, and took the tour of the Anheiser Busch brewery there on more than one occasion. They used to give you free samples at the end of the tour, which may explain why my pop took my brother and me for the tour more than once. The oddist brewery I toured was the one in West Malle, Belgium. I visited Belgium- and my favorite Belgian, Dirk- a few years ago. Europe's Low Countries (as opposed to South Carolina's Lowcountry) are famous for their many high quality beers. The Netherland's Heinekin, and Belgium's Stella are but a couple of the more famous ones, but that's not the end of it: even their holy people do the brew. In point of fact, Dirk's uncle is a Trappist Monk in the monastery in West Malle, Belgium, and they make their own cheese and brew a right decent Ale there. I discovered the bottle of Ale pictured at left in Columbia, SC last year, but it started its journey in Dirk's uncle's Belgian monastery. Ain't that a kick in the head?

I Want My Mummy (or Zombie Day at St. Jude's).

My mom was a nun. I've mentioned this before, but I may have neglected to mentioned that a mummy may have helped push mommy to run to be a nun. This shouldn't shock you: There're plenty of monsters in the Bible. There are the god/human giants called the Nephilim, of course. And this Sunday past was, apparently, Zombie Day at St. Jude's (and, at many churches who use the Lectionary). First, we started in the Old Testament with Ezekiel's prophesy of God's raising the dead in the
Valley of Dry Bones. After a brief stop-over for sin and death in Romans, we have more gore in John's account of the raising of Lazarus Now, the dude had been dead for, what, four days? Jesus' friend, Martha, said the body'd be stinking by now, but Jesus went on ahead thusly: "Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face". So, what do you think Mary and Martha saw when their brother walked out? A zombie or a mummy, maybe.


Which brings me back to mom and the mummy. AndyMan and I used to torment poor mom (or maybe it was just me. It's been a long time). We'd play tricks on her. "Mom, do these socks smell clean?" was mild. We (or maybe just me) stacked a wig-holder on top of a cloaked hat-rack in mom's closet one day. She wasn't sufficiently startled, so I enlisted my buddy, Russ, to play another trick on her. We wrapped Russ' face in an Ace bandage, gave him a black hat, and a long coat, and stuck him in mom's walk-in closet. Mom always came home from work, went to her walk-in closet to get rid of her coat, and came out to make us supper. You could count on it. Well, for some reason, Mom decided to change her clothes outside of her closet on this particular day. Russ, understandably, panicked. He had no desire to see mom changing her clothes, so he stepped out of the closet and said, "Hey, Mrs. Mathews. Do not be afraid. It's me, Russ". 'Course, Russ had an Ace bandage around his face, so what mom heard was "Rrr Grr Uhh Grr Hmmmph!", which scared mom a lot. Did it contribute to her later decision to join a convent? Well, it couldn't've hurt.

Phone Times.

Remember the days before "caller I.D."? You actually had to take a chance of speaking to someone with whom you didn't want to speak back in those days. Today's "Garfield" is improbable these days, but I remember when blurting out a greeting that would be perfectly appropriate with one caller- but grossly inappropriate with another- was a common occurrance. I specifically recall my Pop, after spending the day with his friends Judy and Manly Lawson, confidently predicting it was Mrs. Lawson ringing up the house. Doing his best Cary Grant, dad bellowed, "Judy, Judy, Judy" into the phone, much to the surprise of the salesman on the other end. Dad's Cary Grant wasn't that great, but it was, at least, better than that of Gomer Pyle's cousin, Goober.

One for the Records.

Human nature doesn't change (Do you doubt me? Pick up your Old Testament sometime, and take a look: problems with power, children, anger, all that stuff hasn't changed much in thousands of years), but technology does. People, I'm told, used to tell jokes at watercoolers at work, then they faxed jokes to each other, now we forward them by e-mail. Among the constants I see in the many "you know you're old when..." e-mails I get from my middle-aged friends is "you know you're old when you own vinyl records". I own hundreds of 'em. I don't listen to them anymore, because I don't have a working turn-table; but, I can't seem to part with them. I miss the album art (check out Asia's debut album cover, at left). I miss big, readable liner notes. I miss stereo. Digital music offers lots of advantages: portability, and consistent quality after lots of uses are a couple of them. Still, after years and years of improvements in digital music, analogue sometimes seems better. Remember the 1980's group "The Cars"? Sure, you do. I own a couple of Cars albums. I remember the song "Moving in Stereo". It sounded great in stereo: the sound moved from speaker to speaker, right to left; left to right; front to back (if you had quad speakers). The first time I heard it on a Compact Disc, I was gravely disappointed. Where the sound used to move around, it just got louder and softer. Digital "Moving in Stereo" was a cruel joke. Subsequent versions got better, but, well, I still miss hearing "Moving in Stereo" in stereo.

Getting My Shirts Together.

I'm giving up the Big Unit. I bought a new shed, which I'm almost done putting together (more on that, later), so I can stop paying storage fees. Unfortunately, the big unit was, well, bigger than the new shed; consequently, I've got to cull some stuff. I got bags of old T-Shirts that I've kept, but haven't worn much. I've kept many for sentimental reasons. Maybe I'll give 'em one more look before I give 'em to Goodwill.


I've got tons of running shirts. I've kept a few, but you can only wear so many.


I've only ever gone to one Atlanta Braves baseball game. They were playing the Houston Astros, and our seats were right behind the visitor's dugout. I've held onto the shirt for years.


Nephew Rob got this one for a haunted house he set up for the Twins many years ago. Not many occasions I can get by wearing it, though.




I got this one free for getting a pair of running shoes. I used to like getting new running shoes, and I guess this shirt just reminded me of it. The shirt's gone, but the memories of my early running exploits remain.


I lived and worked for 13 years in neighboring Jasper County, and for seven of those years, I had a solo general law practice. It was pretty much expected in a small community that all the private law firms would support the local festivals and events. I loved doing it, and Relay for Life always got a hundred bucks or so (and I got a T-Shirt).


I used to enjoy attending the South Carolina Trial Lawyers Conventions. I'm pretty sure I went every year during the 1990's, and I always got a shirt. I'm keeping 1993, but this 1998 didn't make the cut.


I hate to part with anything SpongeBob related, but there just aren't a lot of occasions to wear this one. Maybe some big kid'll end up with it.


This 1995 Yemassee Shrimp Festival 5 K shirt comes with a story that I'll probably relate in a future post, but I can tell the story without the shirt.


This one is a special treasure: it's an old football practice jersey from the days of my youth. Even without the shoulder pads, it's not close to fitting me. Still, it was tough to toss this one.

My Old School, 3.

One of my friends from the good old days recently posted this picture in FaceBook (Thanks, Julie).
See if you can pick me out of the crowd. Or Dave O. Or Mitch.

Watching the Clothes Go Round.

Way back when I was in college, The Pretenders had a song called "Watching the Clothes Go 'Round". Something about the tedium and futility of life, or something of that sort, I think. I always sorta liked the group, even if I didn't always subscribe to their philosophy. Though I'm doing just fine, thank you very much, I still thought about the Pretenders as I did my laundry tonight.

I'll Melt With You.

Among the presents that Lady Di and I received at our nuptials was a gift card for The Melting Pot. Generally, when I think melting, I think of Salvador Dali's "The Persistence of Memory": melting watches; not melting pots. I'm unaware of ever having been all that fond of fondue. Still, a memory persists of a meal I had at the Melting Pot in Tallahassee long, long ago, when I was still in school.


No Melting Pots in the Boro, but opportunity knocked as Lady Di had a seminar in the Palmetto State's capitol city of Columbia, which does have such a restaurant.


Look at all the healthy appetizers! Broccoli, apple slices, cauliflower and carrots to go along with cubes of various varieties of baked breads. Just zero-out the nutritious gains of the veggies by dunking them in a rich mix of wine and french cheeses, and you've got yourself a right tasty appetizer.


The sampling of Filet Mignon, peppercorn encrusted sirloin, chicken, duck and ravioli was very nice (sadly, Diane had the shrimp to herself. No shellfish for myself on account of allergies). The dessert fondue sauce was white chocolate creme brulee, which was torched to caramelize the sugar.


And they brought out some cool stuff we got to dunk in it, too.

Rent-a-Friend.

Monday's "Wizard of Id" was a little funny, and a lot true. Here. Take a look. I'll wait.



We all want to be heard, but mostly we don't want to listen to other folks when it's their turn. I remember walking into a house a few years ago, and watching five people all talking at the same time. Five mouths moving; no ears listening. It was beyond chaotic. My pop used to call counselors "rent-a-friend". Now, dad wasn't what you'd call progressive. You got a cut? Put some dirt on it. You got a cramp? Walk it off. You got problems? Well, GEICO kinda summed up his viewpoint:

Teen Girl Squad.

Among the more bizarre fads to which oldest son Davis introduced me was Teen Girl Squad. You can click on the link if you want, but I won't try to explain it. As my Pop used to say, "if I have to explain it, it isn't funny" (Dad had many ways to brush me off. Sending me to the dictionary to look up things like sesquipedalian was one that stuck with me. I ended up learning lots of useless words from Dad's irritation). Anyway, it's been a couple of years since I gave TGS any thought, and it was kinda cool to see the bumpersticker at left.

Outgoing Male.

Some goons did a number to our mailbox the other day. The event caused me to reminisce, as many minor events do, to days of yore (my yore, not your yore). I was hanging out at Mitch Brown's house some time in the late '70's, when a car rolled up and someone smashed-in his mailbox with a baseball bat. There's never any pattern to these sorts of things. Mitch was voted Friendliest in our class and didn't have any enemies; it was just a random event. 'Course, the lack of any specific animosity didn't prevent us from jumping in my 1970 Ford Maverick and trying to catch the guy. Ford Mavericks were not especially fast cars, but we gave chase nevertheless. We chased the dude for maybe ten minutes in and out of our subdivision, Town and Country. Finally, the dude shook us. Now, Town and Country was a pretty big subdivision (at thirty thousand people or so, it would have been the fourth biggest city in South Carolina), and, as was the case for many subdivisions built or that era, there were only four or five different styles of house, so maybe he just pulled into somebody's driveway and waited for us to pass. We drove slowly and ran our eyes over many a driveway over many a block, with no luck. We finally gave up and I decided to go home. I pulled into my driveway and saw a strange car. I walked up to the window and tapped on the glass. Out of the window peered our student body vice president, Steve Bates. "Dude!", I said (or the 1970's equivalent. Maybe "Hoss!" or "Man!"), "What are you doing? Do you know whose house this is?". He indicated surprise that, out of the 12 thousand or so driveways in Town and Country he could have selected, he had chosen my house for refuge, and that he was aware that the jig was up. He was contrite, and as meek as anybody carrying a baseball bat could be. I'm not sure whether he replaced Mitch's mailbox, but I'm pretty sure he apologized. I'm not expecting history to repeat itself here.

Have you ever seen a dragon fly?

I saw this tough guy the other day. I used to see tons of 'em when I was growing up in Tampa. Mostly, I'd see them when I was at football practice. Sometimes I'd chase them during practice. This can't have made my coaches happy. I wasn't a bad football player, but focus was never my strong suit.

Ya Doesn't Have to Call Me Mr. Johnson.

James J. Brown, a/k/a Professor J.J. Brown, one of my teachers at Stetson Law School, is retiring. He taught Real Property. Stetson was Florida's first law school, and it is among the best trial practice law schools in the country. Professor Brown was part of the reason. 'Course, law school isn't a cake walk, and there was a time when its admissions policy was not as strict as its graduation policy. A lot of folks got in who didn't get out.

When I arrived at Stetson, the admissions policy had become more competitive. They told us at orientation that only about one out of ten college graduates who applied to Stetson was accepted; however, some of the professors there- including Professor Brown- continued under the old model of weeding out the weak students. JJ graded on a bell-shaped curve to get rid of the dross- not what you find in most graduate school programs. A Bell-shaped curve meant that ten percent or so of the class would get A's, maybe fifteen percent would get B's, half the class would get C's, fifteen percent or so would get D's, and ten percent of the class would fail, regardless of what percentage of the material the class as a whole had absorbed. I had a reputation in law school- largely deserved- of being a party guy. My reputation for not studying was actually not deserved, though. I studied a lot. Sadly, since my study time was private and my party time quite public, the professors didn't tag me as a very serious student. I was a former football player, and I was frequently out on the school's softball field. This probably didn't help my reputation much, particularly with JJ. He was a physically slight man, who had MS, and walked with two canes. Add to that my badly timed attempt to work at night for a little spending money, and you have one pretty awful semester.

At the end of my first (or was it my second?) semester, JJ called my into his office and announced that I'd gotten an eighty in his class. An 80 would have been a "D", except that it was the fifth worst grade in the class of 50 students. Ten percent of fifty, if my math is correct, means... well, it meant I'd failed his mandatory class and had to take it again if I wanted to finish law school. I could, of course, leave. No one who'd retaken his class- and at least ten percent of every class he'd taught up to that point had failed it- had ever gotten higher than a "C". I'm no quitter, I told him. He talked to me at length. He was convinced I was a slow learner. "You have a disability", he said, "Just like I do". I'd been Magna Cum Laude at Florida State as an undergraduate, but the couple of years I'd spent at Sewanee hadn't been a wild academic success. Maybe he was right. I'd have to work harder, is all.

I quit my job as a dishwasher at Steak and Ale, told grandma I really did need her help after all, and buckled down. I met with JJ at least every week and reviewed the material. At the end of the semester, I had a 97 average. Of the fifty people in the class, my grade was the sixth best. Which meant I got... a "B plus". No "A". The bell-shaped curve kicked my butt again; however, JJ told me no one who'd ever re-taken his class had done that well. I even used him as a reference. Wait... I didn't get that job. Looks like I'm not that smart afterall.

Olympian Television Watching.

As a lad, I watched tons of TV. I'd schedule my week around the line-up. Things like presidential funerals and, well, the Olympics were an annoyance to me when I was a kid, because it messed with my schedule. As I got a little older, I welcomed the Olympics. It was a shared experience. Shared with the Country. Shared with my family. The Cold War gave it a special significance. It was IMPORTANT. The Russians stealing a basketball gold from us in the Summer of 1972; The Americans taking the Gold from the Soviets in the 1980 Winter Olympic "Miracle on Ice". Once in awhile, I still count Kazakhstan and Belarus and those other former Soviet Socialist Republics along with Russia to see how we stack up, but the Cold War is over. I don't watch as much TV as I used to, but still enjoy the Olympics... Cold War or not.