Merry Christmas!

Lots of great Christmas music out there. We've generally got Pandora set to The Christmas Wrapping (Waitresses) Station or to Christmas Jazz, but lately I've been enjoying the Roches. Thanks, AndyMan, for introducing them to me. Merry Christmas, to all.

Walkin' the Floor Over Goo.

As I continue to clamor for floor relief, I keep my eyes peeled for any labor-saving household help, mechanized and otherwise. Over next to the Snuggies in a local market, I caught a glimpse of the "Slipper Genie" pictured at left. Who needs a vacuum cleaner when you can put on these special socks and walk away the dirt? 'Course, if that's plan "A", that's probably gonna be a pretty dirty floor, no? Hope they're disposable.

A Christmas Present that Really Sucks!

I've been fairly good this year. Lady Di has been very good. Is it asking Santa too much for a present that sucks? Maybe Santa needs more information. After all, he can't make his decisions in a vacuum. Alright, Kringle, here are the facts: our current cleaner is old. Real old. It's from Hoover. No, not the company; the president. It's coal powered. Like I said, it's not a new vacuum cleaner. It doesn't work so well anymore. I use it an appallingly slight percentage of the time that it is employed, but in those rare instances where I'm the operator of the sucker, it feels like I'm pushing around a stick.

Curling sweepers pick up more dirt. Quidditch brooms pick up more dirt. Not effective. Anyway, Santa, if you're not too busy...

An Ode to Sugar Breath.

I was talking to Lady Di last night about a cool app on our semi-new i-Phones: a free sample of Discover Magazine in the i-NewsStand. The issue is "Vital Signs" and it included a little vignette where symptoms are given, and you follow along as they figure out what's wrong. The one I read had to do with subtle changes in the smell of one dude's breath. Lady Di, ever the health educator, offered that it was probably ketoacidosis. One of the things that can cause ketoacidosis is diabetes. You can read up on it in Wikipedia (you can try the link, but ever since Blogspot changed the format, it's kinda hit or miss...  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketoacidosis Anyway, the name of the ailment sounded familiar to me... Ah, Mary Poppins! Remember her and Bert dancing on roof tops? At one point or another they sang Supercalifragisticexpialodicious, which sound like the perfect place to plant ketoacidosis. Anyway, first, my take, then, for the purists, you can listen to Mary and Bert.

An Ode to Sugar Breath (sung to the tune of Supercalifragilisticexpialodicious)

It’s too bad we have to smell that ketoacidosis,
Even though a whiff of it is worse than halitosis,
If we complain too loud, they’ll say we have neurosis...
Super stinky sugar breath, it’s ketoacidosis.

Because I was afraid to speak,
When the big guy reeked too bad,
The odor gave me nose a tweak,
Enough to drive me mad.
But then again it can’t be helped,
The situation’s sad,
The super stinky sugar breath, It’s ketoacidosis.

Everything Reminds me of Food...

I saw a stash of failed fountain pens in an office waste basket the other day. Made me hungry. No, I'm not a pen chewer. It's just that, where a lot of folks would just see a pile of pens; I saw food. Specifically, I thought of last week's stirfry. Check it out below:

See what I mean? Tell me you're not at least a little hungry?

You Might Be an Observant Muslim if...

Most folks in these parts are fans of Jeff Foxworthy and his "You Might Be a Redneck if..." routines... and mugs... and calendars. My brother, the Amazing AndyMan, got me a "You Might Be a Reckneck If..." calendar last Christmas. There are some good ones, some okay ones, and some "365 days is a lot of days to come up with a different You Might Be a Redneck If joke" ones. I've gotten a bit behind in both my posts and in my calendar adjustments, so I was going through a couple of weeks of calendar readings this morning, when I caught the one for Friday, October 26th, pictured at left. I'd put it in the "okay" category. It's mildly amusing: You Might Be a Redneck If... Sitting on your sofa means waking a relative." But wait, what's that little observance notation above the date?


Go ahead and look below.

  

It says Eid al-Adha. I know President's Day, Christmas, Hannukah, and even Canada's "Boxing Day", but what the heck is Eid al-Adha? Apparently,  Eid al-Adha is a Muslim Holiday in remembrance of Abraham's obedience to God's demand to sacrifice his son, who is spared when God sends a substitute ram at the last minute (you can read about that in Genesis, if you want. It's in the Bible, so Jewish folks and Christians are stuck with it, but most of the priests that I've heard talk about this one sort of hem and haw. Islam, apparently, celebrates it. You gotta figure that family reunions at Abraham's place were, uh, strained. Abraham, "Isaac, could you please pass the yams? Isaac, "Sure, Dad, as long as I get to carve the turkey. You know how you get when you get hold of a knife!" Gales of laughter ensue.) Anyhow, I never thought of any of the Four Horses of The Blue Collar Comedy Tour as messenger of Muhammad. But then, maybe I'm a Redneck.

The Prodigal Son Returns.

Oldest son, his fiance, and their dog, just returned to the Palmetto State from South Korea (they may not forgive me- well, the dog (in the yellow tote) will- for using this photo of the quite road-weary warriors at left). Davis had been gone for more than two years. It's great to see him. His sibs are happy to see him, too, but it's not difficult to pick up a subtle "what's the big deal?" vibe. Reminds me of a story: In the parable of the Prodigal Son , Jesus relates the story of an irresponsible kid who cashed out his inheritance, and went abroad,  leaving his brother to continue to tend to the family business. After wasting all the money on wild living, he found himself starving, and he returned  home. He expected to be rejected by his pop, but his dad was just glad to see him. No lectures; just a big celebration. Prodigal's brother was not pleased. He'd been responsible, hadn't he? Dad didn't throw him any party. He'd been working his tail off, and he railed about how unfair it all was. Pop tells him he appreciated all the good son did, but not to be so hard on his brother: he was lost, but now he's back home. The parable is widely cited as a tale of redemption and forgiveness of the wayward child, and of God's unexpected and unearned mercy toward each of us. We're all that child from time to time... but we're also the good son sometimes, aren't we? We can be jealous of unexpected, and unearned, mercy given to others. So, cheer for the Prodigal Son, but pray for his brother, too!

I Want My Baby Bok.

Normally I oppose child labor and imports from China, but I must say this baby bok choy worked well in Lady's Di's most recent stir-fry. For what it's worth, we got a big sackful of produce from the local farmer's market to keep this little fella company. So bok off, m'kay?

Some Days are Diamonds; Some Days are Rocks... or Stone... or Rust.

I got my car, Duke, a nice spot at the Coastal Electric Co-op annual meeting on Saturday. Ah, it's nice to have that "nose out" parking job, when you're the lead car in a stack of two! ...unless, of course, it turns out that you're the middle car- the ONLY middle car- in a single column of three. That, actually, kind of sucks.

Life's like that, though: some days are diamonds; some days are rocks.

Triple Crown Me!

Miguel Cabrera has done something that hasn't been done since the Sox' Yaz did it in 1967: he had a better batting average, had more home runs and more runs batted in than anybody else in the American League.I'm a Johnny-come-lately to baseball. My brother, the Amazing AndyMan, was always a baseball fan. I wasn't a great fan, largely because I wasn't a very good baseball player. Football? No problem. A guy might outweigh me by fifty pounds, but I knew I had lots of gear on, and I could hit him back. In baseball, you're just wearing regular clothes. A guy would throw a ball right at you, and if you couldn't hit it- which I could do only rarely- you'd just have to let him. I didn't play it well, and I didn't originally enjoy watching it, because baseball games moved too slowly to suit me. Andy tried to inform me about the rhythm of the season, about streaks and back stories, but for years I remained indifferent to America's pastime. Prior to the advent of the Tampa Bay Ray's, Tampa's "local" team was the Atlanta Braves. The Braves were useless for years, but got good in the 1990's, and I jumped on the Braves bandwagon. I've enjoyed watching baseball ever since. My bride, on the other hand, grew up in Dearborn, Michigan, as an avid Detroit Tigers fan. We struck a deal early on: she'd root for my Florida State Seminoles and the Braves, if I'd root for her Tigers and the Michigan State Spartans. As a bonus, I get to root for the Detroit Red Wings in hockey, if there ever is hockey again. We're free-lancers in professional Football: I can root for the Bucs, and she can root for the Lions as we please. But I digress... It's been a pleasure to root for the Tigers. I even caught a Tigers game in Comerica Park this year. Imagine my thrill to be rooting for a team that has produced the first Triple Crown batter in 45 years!

Odds and Ends.

St. Jude's just had its bi-annual rummage sale this Saturday gone. Piles of stuff that meant, and may still mean, something to the folks that drop them off. But, as comedian Steven Wright once noted, "You can't have everything. Where would you put it?". True, that. So what do you do with the odds and ends in life? You can take them to the rummage sale, I suppose. Then someone else can stuff them in a kitchen drawer with the eye-glass repair kits and crazy glue. Maybe. Or maybe, you can sneak them back into your own junk drawer, then one day when you're looking, perhaps you can even find 'em again.

Slap, Happy.

Tyler's had a full dance-card, of late. Rather fortuitous that Tyler got his yellow belt, given how the Bishop concluded Tyler's confirmation. Rather reminds one of this classic scene from Airplane!

Yellow.

My boy, Tyler (he's the dude to the far right in the picture at left), has been marshaling his arts, of late. He's been punching, kicking and grappling along (his twin, Taylor, has just started mixed martial arts training. Karl Douglas, he of "Kung Fu Fighting" fame, would be so proud). Tyler started Jiu Jitsu not too long back, and just earned his first belt: a yellow belt. The lad's smart and tough, and I have no doubt there will be a full palette of belts coming his way; but it starts with white, then yellow.


 A bunch of musicians have trended yellow, too: Coldplay gets right to the point: Donovan's brand of yellow was more laid back: The Beatles got nautical with it. Kingston Trio- Gave us the bird. Joni Mitchell put her yellow on a Big Taxi: That's a lot of yellow, right there. Wonder if I missed any?

The Truth Shall Set You Free

You know those stylized signs that hint at a function? A crooked arrow suggests a turn, or an illuminated stick figure let's you know it's okay to cross the street. Those signs suggest a reality. The sign at left, advertizing restrooms in Central Michigan dig a little deeper. By the time you get there, the truth is evident.

Putting on his Big Boy Pants.

Remember the Big Boy? Frisch's or Shoney's Big Boy was big when I was little. Shoney's diners are still very much in evidence, but I hadn't seen the Big Boy in years... until I visited Michigan recently. My not-so-little boy, Tyler is doing exactly what I did back in the day: messin' with the Big Boy. Ah, youth. Another benefit of youth is being able to eat a really big hamburger.

Shoot, with lots of bacon, two fried eggs, and chili, I'm not sure this burger isn't actually bigger than the one the Big Boy's brandishing!

Where's Waldo.

The fine folks from the Area Health Education Centers were not the only folks to invade San Antonio: the Texas State Coaches Association was also very much in evidence. It was not particularly difficult to tell the coaches apart from the AHECers. AHEC folks are typically a gentle people, with understated clothing, practical eyeglasses, and generally bareheaded. The coaches? Well, the following picture has two AHEC conventioneers (I'll give you a hint: Lady Di is one of them), and two coaches. Ready? Begin!

Look closely, now. No, the guy in the chair is unaffiliated. Here, I'll pare it down a bit...

Okay, look to the left. See the guy with the ponytail, seated with his laptop? No, he's not a coach. That'd be the two beefy guys to the right.

More coaches outside of the Italian Restaurant. Hooters was obviously full.

Remember the... what was that place again?

Lady Di was to speak at the National Area Health Education Centers convention in San Antonio, Texas last week. I mooched a cheap companion ticket and chilled out while she worked. Did I say "chilled"? That is perhaps inappropros: it was way hot in San Antonio. A dry heat? Maybe. Just felt more like an oven than a sauna to me. Anyway, we braved the hundred degree heat to pay our respects to the Alamo.

God Blessed Texas.

Lady Di and I just got back from the Lone Star State. Pretty cool. My mix c.d. for the trip (to the airport) included Texas musicians Bob Wills, Little Texas, Willie Nelson, ZZ Top, Fastball, Possum Kingdom, Lyle Lovett, Buddy Holly, Butthole Surfers, Janis Joplin, and Vanilla Ice (yeah, he's all about Miami, but he started in Dallas), and one Louisiana gal, Lucinda Williams (hey, I like her). More, later.

Food Fight.

Dan Cathy, grand poobah of Chick-fil-A, has opined that marriage is a union of a man and a woman. If the leader of a chicken empire says it, I guess it must be so. Of course, he's not the only food vendor with opinions on matters of national import: Pizza man Herman Cain had plenty of opinions. If it turns out he's right, maybe we should seek the advice of other food vendors in other things: Want to know what to do about nuclear weapons advances in Iran? Consult with, oh, I don't know, Famous Amos? For the record: I like Chick-fil-A's chicken, and I like Chick-fil-A. Do I like their theology? Not so much. I'm no scientist, but my anecdotal observation leads me to believe that homosexuality is not a choice. Is it a sin? Guess that depends on how you read Chapter 15 in Matthew's Gospel, and how much of the list of "unclean" activities Jesus declared no longer verboten. I'm inclined to believe that homosexuality is not a sin. Although Jesus does mention "sexual immorality" in Matthew, he spent a lot more time putting down the establishment's abuse of traditionally disenfranchised folks than he did peeking under people's sheets. I'm inclined to agree with http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garry_Wills
that Jesus would've sided with the outcasts instead of the establishment on that one. I gotta say I'm relieved that I don't have millions of people relying on my interpretation of Gospel, as the leaders of the Episcopal Church and as the Catholic Church, and all the Protestant churches do.

I may not totally agree with the Cathys' politics, but I don't doubt their sincerity. I worked for Chick-fil-A back in the day, both back home in Tampa (thanks to my old Chick-fil-A supervisor, Dan P.,  for the picture at left, circa 1978), and also for the mothership in Hapeville, Georgia. They always treated their employees well, including me, and my experience in the Summer of 1979 (including a "witnessing" story that I might or might not blog one day) is what led me to seek another Christian employer in 1980 (see Alpine Camp for Boys, two posts ago). Dan Cathy is saying the same things he and his family have always said. They're not hypocrites. In fact, his father, Truett, took about thirty of us who were working for the "Blitz team" to his church, bought minibikes for us to ride on his ranch outside of Atlanta, and paid us to go to a Christian seminar, not to help sales, but because he cared about our souls. 


So, will I eat at Chick-fil-A? Of course I will; they make great chicken sandwiches... but I didn't go Wednesday.

Virginia's Finest.

Okay, where were we? Ah, yes, leaving West Virginia... (I know. I know. We came back from Michigan a couple of weeks ago, and I mixed in a story from my youth; still, I've got this completion thing).  We exited a tunnel from the relatively steep mountains of West Virginia into the relatively rolling mountains of Virginia. Both are pretty, but you can feel the difference. Virginia just seems more orderly. Some pretty good musicians from The Old Dominion, but for me it begins and ends with the providentially named Dave Matthews Band (Dave Matthews was named after me. What's that you say? Dave Matthews' parents had no reason to borrow my moniker? True enough. The fact remains that, since he was born seven years after I was born, he was named after I was). Though Mr. Matthews was born in South Africa, his famous band was formed in Charlottesville, VA. You've already heard some of the music from North and South Carolina, so I think that'll do for this roadtrip. Next week, I'll share my trip to the Lone Star State.

Alpine Camp for Boys, Circa 1980.

I got a call from an old buddy of mine the other day. Jim and I were camp counselors at Alpine Camp for Boys in Mentone, Alabama in the Summer of 1980. Two of my friends from the Fellowship of Christian Athletes at Sewanee, Woody (with whom I played football) and Margaret, hooked me up with Alpine. When I got there, I wanted to teach/coach football, or some other team sport, but was assigned to teach non-competitive sports, a/k/a "Earth Games", where Jim had also been billeted. In honor of our unsolicited appointments, Jim took the moniker "Earth Lizard", and I appropriated "Earth Duck". Jim forwarded the picture at left. I'm in the middle; he's to the far left. I think we were teaching them how to sing "Swing low, sweet chariot", in the picture, but I'm not positive. E-Lizard and I had a blast. There were some loose guidelines on "Earth Games": we had a parachute that we'd all flap up and down, and there were a few more or less organized activities, but mostly we just led the kids in whatever silly game we could imagine. If a kid scraped his knee, we'd celebrate it by giving him a stick or a pine cone as an award. We'd be patient about most things, but didn't brook bullying... or whining. If a kid was moping about, Earth Lizard would give him a "woodgie", which consisted of an exaggerated pout.  Egregious behavior might rate "the pit". I'm not gonna explain that one. Maybe Jim will. I also remember lots of little things, like drinking Tab, and doing laundry at the "disco-teria" in Ft. Payne; as well as some bigger things, like being grateful to talk about Jesus to kids who wanted to hear about him, and  the spiritual growth that I had. It was a long time ago, but I don't think I've ever had a better Summer. Thanks, Jim, for bringing it back.

Almost Heaven, West Virginia?

We left Ohio and cut through West Virginia. About all I knew about West Virginia until very recently, was that Bobby Bowden coached at one of their universities before establishing his dynasty at Florida State, and that "Devil Anse" Hatfield, of the notorious Hatfield/McCoy imbroglio, and my ex-wife's husband were from there (no relation, as far as I know). My impression of the music scene, before I bothered to look into it, was that the following video was typical of the State:



Turns out I was wrong. We decided to stay overnight in West Virginia, because it is about half way between Lewiston, Michigan and home. We had a tough time getting a room. The place was pretty, and all, but we were perplexed. Turned out that the hotels were packed because the massive storm that bedeviled the East knocked out the power for about 120,000 West Virginians, and as many as could we trying to get away from the stifling heat. We talked to a few of the locals, and they were prayerful, pleasant and long-suffering, and I liked and admired them.

Musically? In addition to John Denver's ode to West Virginia, Country Roads (I was gonna put a link here, but blogspot changed the format on me, and I'm not sure how to do it. Anyway, YouTube's got it), there are a couple of amazing artists from The Mountain State: Country star Brad Paisley shouldn't be a huge surprise, but Bill Withers? Yep, R & B legend Bill Withers is from West Virginia.

Pure Michigan!

Michigan has an embarrassment of musical riches, from Motown to rock to jazz, Classical and new age (oddly, I didn't notice any Country music bigshots). Among the many musicians with Michigan roots: Diana Ross and the Supremes, Ted Nugent, Madonna, Anita Baker, Stevie Wonder, Cub Coda of Brownsville Station (Smokin' in the Boys' Room), Bob Seger, Al Green, Jack White of the White Stripes, , Aretha Franklin (well, she was born in Memphis, TN, but moved to Detroit when she was six), Smoky Robinson, Sony Bono, Alice Cooper, Eminem, and Bill Haley of Bill Haley and the Comets. 

Way to Go, Ohio.

We left the 'Vent Sunday morning heading North on I-75 through miles of flat land and places like Lima (Lima is real, apparently, though "Glee's" William McKinley High School exists only as so many pixels on my television screen), then up through Toledo near the Northwest corner of the state. On the way back, we took caught the Eastern part of the state, where they have coal, mountains, hardscrabble football, the Pro Football Hall of Fame (which we visited and which I'll post at some point), and Akron, home of two of my favorite 1980's musicians: Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders and Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo (Mothersbaugh later parlayed his New Wave fame into a gig as composer and performer of the theme music for Nickelodeon's "Rugrats").  Ohio, I'm told, also has college football, though Lady Di's Michigan connections forbid me from mentioning any of the particulars.

Conventional Wisdom.

A little break from the musical mystery tour (don't worry, I'll get back to it). My mom was an Episcopal nun. I've mentioned this before. She was born in Cincinnati, lived out West, then Florida, then in Cincinnati at the Convent of the Transfiguration as a Sister, then to various outposts owned by the Convent, then back to Cincinnati, where she died six years ago. As we traveled North, Tyler, Lady Di and I zigged a little off course, and stopped in Cincinnati to see the sisters . We worshiped, ate and visited with Sister Teresa and the crew. Later, we ate ice cream at Graeter's, a confectionery of note in the Cincinnati area, then headed to the cemetery to visit mom's grave. When we got there, the gates were closed and locked. The brave nun who escorted us was undetered. As is her habit, the sister was in full nun garb when she popped in to the abutting Baptist church to announce our presence. There, the plot thickened. As Sister met with surprised quasi-clergy, Ty and I scaled the fence (well, Tyler vaulted it. I sort of oozed over it), and paid our respects. While I'm not totally sure mom would've approved; I doubt she'd've been surprised (love you, mom). The next day, we were on the road again.

Kentucky.

I got people in Kentucky. Cousin Paula, I'm talking to you! My mom was also born just across the river in Cincinnati. In addition to Wildcat Basketball, the Bluegrass State has a deep musical tradition. Wynona Judd (and her mom and sister Ashley) are Kentuckians, and so were the Everly Brothers (who knew?). Ricky Skaggs, you might not be surprised to learn, is a Kentuckian; but so are alt-rockers Cage the Elephant. First, Ricky Skaggs: Cage the Elephant (warning: this one's got some salty language and is a bit, er, sick):

Tennessee.

We slipped in to Tennessee a couple of hours later. Tennessee's got tons of good music. The Allman Brothers hailed from the Volunteer State. Okay, everybody knows Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, but there aren't many folks more intimately associated with Tennessee than the King:

The Tarheel State.

Three hours after left from our South Carolina home, we hit North Carolina on the Northwestern border. Lots of good music from the Tarheel State. Here are a couple of the songs we listened to: North Carolina's "Carolina Chocolate Drops" played at Spoleto last year. I really love their sound and energy. Folk music legend Doc Watson (R.I.P. last month) was from North Carolina, and this next song provides an apt bridge for the next leg of our trip.

Incredible Journey

Did a couple thousand miles of traveling over the last week or so. We also sort of took a musical tour of the Southeast.

South Carolina's got some fine musicians. Here are a few we listened to on our way up North. You already knew that Hootie and the Blowfish are from the Palmetto State, right? But can't you see that the Marshall Tucker Band are, too? Another South Carolina group that didn't get the exposure that Hootie and Marshall Tucker Band got was Cravin' Melon. Not sure what other songs they had, but you've got to love a song dedicated to "the wine of the South": Sweet Tea.

Vacation.

I got a vacation coming up. Got me to thinking about stuff. Dangerous, I know. I've heard lots of folks saying, "Life's a journey, not a destination". Maybe. 'Course, that's not the way my dad viewed trips. Like a lot of dads, he was all about getting there. Rocketing down the highway at a few miles an hour above the posted limit, windows cracked a half inch to allow some of the smoke from the chain-smoked Pall Malls to leave the car. Bathroom breaks? "You should've thought about that before we left". Dad was a classic guys' guy, who always voted Republican and who rooted against Muhammad Ali (or, as Dad would say, "Cassius Clay"), because he was a draft-dodger. But there are other memories, too. Like on a trip to New Smyna Beach, Florida, when dad suddenly stopped the car to pick up and relocate a turtle that was trying to cross the road so it wouldn't get run over. So, we should try to get where we're going, but we need to remember, at every moment, we're also already there. Or, as John Travolta said as the angel Michael, "You gotta learn to laugh".

According to a couple of articles in the Charleston Post and Courier it's an especially good week to hate, whether it's Local, or International. Sounds like maybe we all need to put a copy of South_Pacific in our Netflix queue.

...and the Oscar for best soundtrack goes to...

I always enjoy the Oscars. Best Actor. Best Director. Best Screenplay. Best music in a film often gets short shrift. It shouldn't. Think background soundtracks don't matter? Thanks to my oldest son, for unearthing this gem:

Time to Get a Gun, Redux

There are a lot of issues that get people's blood up. Guns are one of 'em. I've been hunting a few times. I'm not really good at it, but I've been. Don't worry, Bambi's safe; I've only ever seen two deer on the few deer hunts I've been on, and I didn't get a good shot either time. Still, I love to eat meat, and I'm under no delusions about where it comes from. Hunters also have been prime movers in conservation. Ducks Unlimited has been responsible for conserving lots of land for hunting. You can't (legally) hunt in a subdivision, right? Trees, spotted owls, snail darters benefit, so I'm good with Ducks Unlimited. Shotguns? No problem. Pistols? Well, it's a little more complicated. I'll bravely take a spot on the fence, for now. Automatic weapons with extended clips? Armor-piercing ammo? Nah. Include me out. You gotta love the old debate on Boston Legal:

Racing Along, Redux.

Life's not bad in the Boro, of late. Not perfect, but not bad. After an unseasonably warm Winter and Spring, the mornings have been glorious and cool in June. Go figure. It's got me feeling Celtic. Don't ask me why. Anyway, here's a Chieftains tune I've been digging:

Poison.

Alice Cooper just played in North Charleston. I couldn't see him, because I had to spray the yard. These seem to be unrelated things, but they're not. I continue in my quest to gussy up to grass. Moles continue to make a mockery of my efforts. We water and feed and seed the lawn; while moles, in search of succulent grubs, dig it up. "Kill the grubs", they say, "and the moles will leave quicker than you can say Jack Robinson". We've tried the pricey grub killers; however, our lawn must be pretty tasty, because the grubs always come back. With the return of the grubs, the moles return as surely as the tourists traveling South on I-95 pull into the Cracker Barrel at Exit 53. So what's a gardener to do? Well, I took a tip from Alice:

Hairy Potter and the Craft Show.

Lady Di and I did the Spoleto thing again this year. Old Crow Medicine show. A funny play by Thomas and Judy Heath. Art exhibits. Lots of food. And, oh yeah, the craft show. Whilst at the craft show, we happened on the dude at left (the picture at left, and the guy with the Tilley hat. No, that's me. The OTHER dude with the Tilley hat). The guy worked with clay, which, by his own admission, made him a potter. I asked him how long he'd sported the beard. He said twenty years or so. I told him that made him a hairy potter well before J.K. Rowling came up with the idea. He told me I'd gone to an awful lot of work for not that great a joke. He still let have a picture with him, though.

Take it Easy.

I don't really mind squirrels. Heck, when they're not bogarting the bird food, they're kind of entertaining. This dude was chilling out on the back porch a little while back. I've been acting squirrelly for years, but I used to feel a little guilty about my love of naps. I don't feel so bad about taking it easy as I used to, though. I used to have big plans, but it's occured to me of late that I will probably never be the President of the United States. I'm never gonna be a billionaire. Or a millionare. I have been a thousand-aire, but I managed to burn through it with alacrity. It's okay. Shoot, I even got a little support from Psalm 131:

Lord, my heart is not haughty, Nor my eyes lofty. Neither do I concern myself with great matters, Nor with things too profound for me.

Or, you can listen to the Eagles, or Alan Jackson, if you'd rather.

The Play's the Thing, Redux

The Lowcountry Players are putting on "Tales and Fables by Dale and Mable" at the Colleton Center in the Boro. Opening night was last night, with performances scheduled for 7:oo p.m. tonight, Saturday and Monday, and with 2:00 p.m. shows on Saturday and Sunday. Three directors for five skits, narrated by Dale (Megan Gooding) and Mable (Janet Princess Taylor). Director Heather Tuten has done a fine job with her two segments: "The Dragon Prince" and "To Tell the Truth". I mention these skits in particular because I'm in the inner-circle of one of the actors (well, inner-circle is not exactly right. What word am I hunting for? Hmmm... Ah, yes: Son. That's it. My son, Tyler, is pictured above, in the dragon suit. He's also the chief in "To Tell the Truth"). Heather has worked hard- as have the actors, and I'd imagine the other directors, Christopher Williams ("Jack and the Beanstalk", "The Rabbit Grows a Crop of Money", and Amanda Broderick "Me Wish". The Dragon Prince is a Chinese "Beauty and the Beast". Tyler eventually gets to take off his dragon garb, once actress Brooklyn Thurston's Chee (also above, together with Vaughn Spearman as her fearful Papa) calms him down.

Daniel Mullin plays a tune between skits. He did a fine job with the guitar, and as Devon in the Irish skit "Me Wish".

Vaughn Spearman is the prince, Strong Wind, in a "Cinderella" reimagined as a Native-American skit in "To Tell the Truth". Tyler plays Chief Glaring Hark, a not-very-nice father of three daughters: favorites his favorites, Talking Bird (Kathleen Vassar Richardson) and Swimming Loon (Amanda Broderick), and outcast Diving Swan (Brooklyn Thurston). ). No glass slippers here, but a vision of integrity insures that the best gal wins the prince in this one. The costumes were lovely, and it was fun to watch. 'Course, I may be a bit biased. (Richardson, Tyler, Spearman, and Broderick are pictured above).