Football, Movies, and Not-so-stupid Questions.

My buddy Russ was a good football player. About my size, so not a moose, but strong. Sadly, he never really got along with our high school football coach, so his playing time was limited. One Thursday before a Friday game, the coach was going through the game plan: telling the assembled team in some detail general and specific assignments. The team we'd play was bigger, so we'd have to trap-block. The guards would drop back from their man, and run down the line and catch the advancing defensive tackle or linebacker on the opposite side of the line. The running back would take a fake and the fullback would hit the gap between the right-side guard and tackle. Stuff like that. After about 10 minutes, Coach Korn asked the team if we had any questions. Russ, knowing he was not going to be playing the next day- and knowing that the coach knew he knew this- raised his hand. Coach Korn eyed Russ warily: "What is it, Baggett?". "Coach", Russ said as the 80 or so half-padded players looked on. "Coach. If Jesus Christ and Superman got into a fight, who do you think would win?". Through considerable effort, I managed not to laugh. Fast forward thirty-five years: Last night, Lady Di and I saw "Man of Steel" at Walterboro's lone theater, Ivanhoe Cinema 4, and Russ's question popped up again. Confused? Well, yeah. See, in "Man of Steel", Superman is presented as a Jesus figure. Jor-El (played by Russell Crowe), a scientist from Krypton, seeing his planet about to implode, puts his infant son in a ship to a similar planet- Earth- to save his child and maybe to save Earth. Young Kal-El is found in Smallville, Kansas, by the Kent family. Dad (played by Kevin Costner), obviously knows his boy is different, because, you know, he found the kid in a space-ship. Mom and dad also discover his amazing strength, lazar vision, and lightning speed. Over the course of time, mom nurtures him, and Dad tells him he's obviously got a very special reason for being there, and eventually he'll know, but in the meantime, to keep his head down and not to tell anyone about his powers, because he doesn't know his purpose yet, and the world just won't understand him. Not hard to imagine another adoptive father, Joseph, telling young Jesus the same thing. When some bad guys- who, by virtue of their timely banishment managed to survive Krypton's destruction- arrive to conquer and colonize Earth, Superman has to step up to save Earth. Guess how old is at this auspicious moment? How's 33 grab you? There are plenty of other parallels between Superman and Jesus, and I'm quite sure they've been pointed out by lots of folks before (when I excitedly mentioned my theory in my post-mortum of the movie to Lady Di, she was all, "Duh!", so, I'm evidently not breaking any new ground here). Anyway, I thought of Russ, Leto Falcon football, and Coach Korn. And I've finally got an answer: Russ, Jesus wouldn't fight Superman. Jesus is Superman.

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!".

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.

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".

Whatsa Matta You?

You've seen the commercial with the Baby and the Italian tailor. You know the one I'm talking about: the one for the internet trading service. Well, years before internet trading- years before the internet, even- my brother, the Amazing AndyMan, lived that commercial. Like his brother, my brother can be kind of a smart-alec. Mostly, it's not intentional. Mostly. We just sorta see the absurdity in life, and we don't feel the need to keep it to ourselves. Case in point: Andy and the Italian tailor.

Many jobs and a career change ago, Andy bought a nice suit. It was, apparently, a nice enough suit that it came with complementary alterations. Now, we Mathews' are not known for financial acumen, but we not inclined to turn down anything if it's free; consequently, Andy was getting his new suit altered. Andy immediately noticed two things about his new tailor: first; he was a social sort who liked to talk. A lot. Second; he had not been long in Tampa from his native Italy. This was something that the tailor pointed out to Andy, but, because of the tailor's thick accent, he didn't really need to point out. All through the fitting, the dude is all, "No-a. No-a. Eets-a not-a like-a dat inna the old-a country" (sorry my Italian accent is-a not-a so good). Andy is straining not to tease this poor old fellow, being very careful not to mimic the guy. "Oh, really, kind sir? Is that the truth. Well, well". Andy was getting into it, and was patting himself on the back for his incredible restraint. They were getting down the home stretch when the tailor asked with great enthusiasm, "Now Howsa DAT?". Equally enthusiastically, Andy mimicked, "Oh, DATSA nice!". Somehow- and contrary to Andy's fear- the suit was hemmed perfectly, and the pants leg hems were not four inches different from each other.

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.

Ash Wednesday.

On last year's Ash Wednesday, I wrote a serious post on the meaning of Lent, and on sacrifice generally. As you can tell from the stock photo at left that I poached from the Net, the priest or bishop in charge marks members of the parish with ashes in the sign of the cross. Episcopalians and Catholics have this service every year, generally using ashes taken from the palms collected from the previous year's Palm Sunday service. We walk around all day with soot on our forehead, while our well-meaning friends from other denominations point out that our morning's shower was not 100% effective. It's not forbidden for other Christian denominations to do it, but most Protestant denominations don't celebrate with an Ash Wednesday service.

There is something to be said for sticking with what you know how to do. A few years ago, I noticed that Tommy, a Methodist friend of mine from days gone by, had a red mark on his forehead. "Tommy, what's with the red mark?", I asked. "Let me tell you, Dave", he offered. "The Pastor at our church decided to impose ashes on us for Ash Wednesday, just as a new experience. He'd done this to about half the congregation, and one of the guys up front said, "I'm burning!". I thought he was just moved by the sermon, but then I noticed my forehead was really hot, too. Well, since that church didn't have any Palm Sunday palm leafs to burn, the Pastor just burned whatever he had around, which, on that particular day, turned out to be treated lumber". Anybody want to guess what you get when you mix hardwood ashes with water? Rookies!

Cleaning Out My Closet.

My junk tray is getting kinda full. Time to clean it out. Stuff's not that old, right? Now, let's see... Couple of old cell phones. Can I recycle those? Probably not. Throw 'em in the garbage. Belk's bill from a few months ago. I might oughta pay that. Hey! Free tickets for the Boro's only bowling alley! Uh, they apparently expired two months ago. Pitch 'em. An Einstein Bagels receipt from the Detroit Metro Airport. My server was Khalil. I wonder if Khalil knows Einstein was Jewish? "86" it. A CVS receipt. I got it marked "recorded". Wonder why I saved it. Ah, there's a coupon for a $25.00 gift card. Shoot, that'll come in handy for Christmas. Let's see how long I got to use it... Oops, expired in July. Into the wastebasket with you (does anyone ever say "wastebasket" anymore? My grandmother, Baba, I think used to say that. Perfectly fine word. No need to throw it out). Ooh, a warning ticket from the Charleston County Aviation Authority Police for Careless Driving. Musta been when I almost mowed over that pilot. Hey, it's not MY fault he was in the cross-walk when I was circling the airport waiting for Diane's brother to fly in from Seattle. Those pilots (and members of Congress) don't have to get those "up close and personal" patdowns. Perhaps I was prospectively harboring a little resentment. Wonder where that comes from? Eminem knows (Speaking of "warnings", you know Eminem's a fairly controversial rapper, right? Probably not a good idea to play the following video if you don't like that sort of stuff).

Prunes.

What's the saying? Time heals all wounds? Or is it time wounds all heals? Either way. I was reflecting, as I do from time to time, about Einstein's theory of relativity. No, wait... I think that was Ben Stein's theory I was thinking about. Either way. As I took a look at today's breakfast- Raisin Bran and prunes (I'm not sure calling them "dried plums" is better)- I was kinda hoping it wasn't a metaphor for, you know, life. I sighed, and thought about Hank Williams, Jr.'s "All My Rowdy Friends Have Settled Down". Then I remembered a cautionary tale from my (relative) youth.

When I was in, I think, my second year of Law School, a few of my buddies and I had been invited to a Halloween party. One of my buddies (to protect his identity, I'll call him "Randy") had been working construction while he looked for work more suited to his college degree. We'd all been extensively partaking of adult beverages that day, and, by the time we were supposed to leave for this party, Randy'd caked out. Now, during those days, almost any sins were forgivable; however, failing to rally for a round of pre-planned partying was not. We cajoled. We wheedled. We threatened. No movement. Finally, we pulled out the trump card: we cranked up "All My Rowdy Friends". Randy slowly, reluctantly, rallied. No time to pick out a costume, Randy went to the party as a construction worker. He went to the party where he met the woman he ended up marrying. I'm not sure if the story has a moral, but I like it, anyway.

Jerry the Hobart.

I was a professional dish-washer in law school. There, I said it. Although my maternal grandmother, Gina, footed the bill for my legal education, I'd gotten an independent streak along and along, and decided I wanted some extra spending money. My buddy, Scott Anderson (click on his name if you want a repeat of an old post with a pic of Scott and me and some of our buds during this era (yes, Frandy, Russ is there, too)), got me a job washing dishes at Steak and Ale in Tampa over the Christmas holidays in my first year of law school, and I decided to stay at it for a couple of months after the break (it was not a smart decision. My grades were abysmal that semester, and I ended up having to repeat a class, as I've posted before.

The dishwasher was the lowest form of being in the restaurant universe. Look at it this way: In the genteel space out front in the customer-contact world, the Bartenders and waiters/waitresses were the knights, with busboys as their squires. The kitchen was more like a military operation, with the chefs as the Top Sergeants. Prep cooks were, maybe, Lance Corporals. In those categories, dishwashers were the serfs and buck privates, respectively.

I say I was a dishwasher; actually, they called us "Hobarts", after the machine through which the dishes moved. Talk about no respect. Anyway, the busboys'd bring in stacks of dishes, which we'd spray off, stack in dishtrays, and set on the Hobart conveyor belt. The dishes would come, steaming hot, from the other end, and we'd stack them up on the shelves and send the next batch through. It was hot, kind of nasty, work. I lost fifteen pounds or so during my three month tenure there, and I always struggled to stay ahead of the busboys. 'Course, this was only a temporary gig for me. Not so for Jerry. Jerry was born to wash dishes. While I struggled, he'd lean up against the wall and smoke a cigarette until his stack of dishes got chin-high; then he'd knock 'em out in a trice. One night as he bemusedly watched me busting my butt, he commented, "Dave, you're not REALLY a Hobart, are you?". What do you mean, Jerry? "I bet you're a student, huh?" He's on to me, I thought. "Yes", I said. "Where ya goin'?", he inquired. I don't want to overwhelm poor Jerry, I thought, I'll soft pedal it a bit. "Why, I go across the Bay, over in St. Pete". "St. Pete Jay Cee?", Jerry wondered. "No", I offered (trying not to sound too superior), "I'm going to Stetson Law School". "Law school!", Jerry blurted. "Gonna be a cop, huh?". I'm tellin' you, I don't get no respect.

Tyler's Big Adventure.

Last post I mentioned home improvement stores. That reminds me of a tale from the past. I got four kids. I've mentioned that a time or two. The youngest two, my identical twin boys, Taylor and Tyler, are 14 years old and getting kind of big. They were mighty cute when they were young, but they always had a propensity for mischief. When the Lads were three of four years old, I took them with me to a home improvement store in another county. I was discussing appliances or countertops or something of that sort with one of the experts there, when Tyler mentioned an urgent need to "go number 1". "Hold on just a minute, Son, and I'll take you to the bathroom". As I continued to discuss the finer points of countertops with the sales dude, I noticed that the Twins had disappeared. I was mildly distressed, and started looking about for the boys. They strode from the front of the store, smiling. "All right, Tyler, let's go to the bathroom", I offered. "No, Daddy. I already went". Hmmm. The bathrooms are to the back, they had emerged from the front. This didn't bode well. "Uh, Son, could you show me where you went?" "Sure, Dad". Well, no plumbing for the floor models, but it was, technically, a toilet. I wonder if they sold it.

Childhood of the Travelling Pants.

This episode of "Zits" hit pretty close to home. As I struggle trying to inculcate my brood into the "real world", I'm reminded of the daunting job Sister Mom had. Borrowed credit cards and pants figured prominently. As a seventeen year old getting ready for Grad Night, I informed mom that the pants I had were wholly inadequate for the occasion. Might she purchase a new pair for her oldest child? With great reluctance she handed me her credit card. "Don't lose it, and don't spend too much". She might ought've defined "too much". Some slick salesman at one of the mall haberdasheries sold me the most expensive pair the store sold. The tally came to about fifty 1978 dollars. Correcting for inflation, in 2009 dollars that'd be... well, it was a lot of money, particularly for a single mother of two working as a community college librarian. To say that mom was upset would be an understatement.

"That salesman should be ashamed of himself", she offered. I doubted he was. "You need to march right back into that mall and take these pants back". Now, if you know anything about guys- particularly guys whose pride is stinging a little- you know that we don't take stuff back. I objected. "I like them, Mom". This was not, strictly speaking, true. I'm no fashion maven. I needed new pants because, well, it was Grad night, but pretty much my only requirement for pants, then and now, was that my ankles not show. "I like them, and I'm not taking them back". "David, they're way too expensive. You must take them back". I hunkered down. I also acted like a jerk. "Nope. I'm not doing it". I got a jar of change (maybe four or five bucks' worth) and pushed it at her. "This is all the money I have. Take it. And I'll tell you what: my 18th birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. Just don't get me anything". "Fine", she said.

Grad Night was not that great. I'd stayed out all day with my buddy Russ harvesting oysters in Tampa Bay, and I was way sunburned. But I wore the pants. For my birthday, from mom I got what I'd asked for (and what I deserved): nothing. At least, that's how I remember it.

Hitchin' a Ride.

Last time I picked up a hitch-hiker was about twenty years ago. I'd just started working for a small, but successful, personal injury and criminal defense firm in Beaufort. I lived in Ridgeland, which is about a 45 minute drive from Beaufort. On my commute back home one day, I saw a fairly neatly dressed dude hitch-hiking, and decided to give him a lift. A couple of minutes into the trip, I notice the guy is looking at me. I said, "Hey, you look familiar to me". He said, "I oughta, you represented me". This made me a little nervous; the last place I'd worked was the Beaufort County Public Defender's Office, which meant, if I'd represented you, you were 1) poor, and 2) charged with committing a fairly serious crime. I tenatively offered, "So, how ya been?". "Not too good" he said, "I just got out of prison". Did any of you ever see the movie Cape Fear? Well, I had seen it not too much earlier than when I picked this ex-con up. I've embedded the trailer, case you wanna figure what was running through my mind. I'm thinking of saying, "Gosh, I've forgotten something, I'll be needing to drop you off pretty much immediately". Ah, what the hell, if he's gonna kill me, he's gonna kill me. "So, you ever get off of that crack?", I asked. "Mr. Mathews" he answers, "Getting off of crack is like leaving a bad woman; you know you got to do it, but it's hard". Dude obviously didn't kill me... but that is the last time I picked up a hitch-hiker.

One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer

The Jacksonville Jaguars, referenced in my last post, were not the first professional football team in North Florida: before there were Jaguars, there were the Jacksonville Bulls of the old United States Football League. What? You don't remember the U.S.F.L.? Well, for a couple of years a few rich dudes, armed with Herschel Walker and the New Jersey Generals, tried to create a league to compete with the N.F.L. (Before Steve Spurrier brought the Gators their first of many SEC championships and its first national college championship, he coached the Tampa Bay Bandits in that league). The league didn't make it, but Jacksonville's fans turned out for the games, and apparently impressed the money men enough that Jacksonville ended up with Florida's third N.F.L. franchise. Anyhow, when I was a law student at Stetson in St. Pete, and mine and AndyMan's buddy, Steve Davis was a law student at the University of Florida, Steve scored a couple of Bulls tickets and invited me on up to catch the game.

So, I travelled the hour and a half or so from Tampa to Gainesville. I'm pretty sure it's not even legal to go to football games completely sober, so Steve and a had a few cocktails at his apartment in Hogtown. We'd've probably been okay, except Steve had recently gotten a new George Thoroughgood C.D. (or album), which contained the following song:



The problem with mixing drinking and catchy songs is that really bad ideas start to sound like really good ideas. Our rally cry for the evening became: One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer! We took the hour or so trip from Gainsville to Jackson, and watched the game in the rain. It's not a lot of fun watching a football team you don't really care about in the rain. A popular franchise nightclub in Tampa at the time was Confetti's, and we'd heard that Jacksonville'd had a Confetti's, so soaked and besotted, we invaded.

We made numerous trips to the bar. Each time, we demanded, "One bourbon, one scotch, and one beer". The bartender would sometimes ask stupid questions like, "What kind of bourbon?" or "how would you like your scotch?" or "bottle or draft?". We were having none of it! If George Thoroughgood had meant us to be specific, he'd have been specific. "I SAID One Bourbon, One Scotch and One Beer. I WANT One Bourbon, One Scotch and One Beer! You got our order, now get us a bourbon, a scotch and a beer!" This did little for either the bartender's disposition or ours, but ultimately, we got what we ordered. A few times. Each.

If you get "One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer" a couple of times, you've done some drinking. We were now bullet-proof, and it was time to find some companionship. On our best days during these years, neither Steve nor I were what you'd call "smooth". This was not one of our best days. Steve and I must have asked every woman in the place to dance. We got no play. Could our lack of success have anything to do with our ridiculous comments, our bedraggled appearance and extreme intoxication? Of course not! We arrived at the conclusion that we had walked into a lesbian bar by mistake, and we'd just go somewhere else. We went to another bar with dishearteningly similar results. Apparently, Jacksonville was a hotbed of Sappho inspired man-haters.

So, we did what anybody would have done in our condition, we went to Daytona Beach. Well, I say we went to Daytona Beach. We only made it as far as Ormond Beach, just North of Daytona. We couldn't go another mile, so we pulled into the parking lot of a private resort community on the beach. We walked by the pool, and I grabbed a deck chair and set it up on the beach. Steve just passed out in the sand. You know how, when you sleep outside, you generally get up when the sun first comes up? Well, that wasn't the case. We woke up at ten. People were walking by and staring at us. We were... ill. Nevertheless, we soldiered on. I grabbed my deck chair. Steve brushed some of the omnipresent sand from himself, and we waved to the security guards as I put the chair back whence I gotten it.

Off now to Daytona Beach. After a couple of hours of arcade games on the boardwalk, we decided to visit my grandmother in Orlando. She was not as pleased to see me as she generally was. Hey, guess we all have bad days. Maybe she was having one. Anyway, after a tunafish sandwich and some fairly stilted conversation, we went back to Gainesville, then I went back to Tampa. And I slept. A lot. And I learned something from my experience: Jacksonville is not a good place to pick up girls. Either that, or never take advice from George Thoroughgood. One of those.

There's No Recovery From That.

Brian Regan is a very funny fellow. Four or so years ago, my oldest, Davis, loaned me a c.d. of some of his material.
I enjoyed the whole thing, but the beginning riff on trying not to look stupid in normal conversation had some stuff about which Homer Simpson would say, "It's funny because it's true". Here. Here's the first part of it (set to the visual background of Kingdom Hearts videogame):



One of the lines in there was, "Did you ever get somebody's gender wrong? There's no recovery from that". Well, I've done it twice. Once at a outdoor shop in San Francisco (in my defense, the lady filled out her plaid shirt exactly the same as the male attendants in there, and her voice was deeper. For what it's worth, she seemed like she'd expected it. I actually said, when she'd rebuffed me with, "It's ma'am": "Well, I guess there's no recovery from that"). The other was last night at Applebee's in Beaufort. This time, it was a baby. I've sired four babies, and I'd've probably taken offense if folks got their genders wrong, but let's be honest about this: babies look pretty much the same. Oh, sure, some are cuter than others, but, as a rule, diapers are covering up pretty much the only indication of their gender. Isn't that why parents dress them up in pink or blue? 'Course, I probably SHOULD have read the "Where's my tiara?" plainly plastered on the front of Pat's pink shirt before telling pop, "Yeah, he's gonna be a stud". Hoo, boy. Well, take luck.

Shootin' the... Breeze.

Okay, this is not my story. Jodi, our paralegal at the Public Defender's Office told me that this happened yesterday to her husband, Ray. But it's funny. If I get some of the particulars wrong, Jodi will, I'm sure, correct me. Ray is a County Sheriff's Deputy and was on patrol yesterday with his partner. They noticed a older van driving way too slowly for the area, and got suspicious. They tailed it for awhile, when, suddenly, the van pulled over to the shoulder of the road, and the driver leapt out the the van, and tore off into the woods. Ray bolted after him. Ray's partner pulled his service weapon and approached the van. Ray's pretty fast, but this guy had a decent head start. Still, Ray was gaining on him. Ray had almost caught up with the guy, when the guy suddenly dropped his pants, squatted down, and took a crap. Pooped. Shat. Pinched out a grumpie. Evacuated his bowels. Made number two. Meanwhile, Ray's partner was talking to the passenger- an embarrassed wife- who explained that her husband had had an upset stomach all day and really, really needed to use the bathroom.Jodi didn't tell me whether the guy got a ticket.

More Raisins, Much More Raisins...

My oldest son, Davis, is passing the Summer with his mama in Beaufort, whilst awaiting his real life as a college senior in Sewanee, TN. He stopped by the Boro the other day and regaled me with tales of his college exploits. He asked, out of politeness, I suppose, about some of mine.

IIt's amazing what ridiculous things we remember. Ultimately, the events matter less than camaraderie, or purpose, or freedom that we felt through the events. Or sometimes, just the silliness. One such event was a road trip that two of my Frat brothers, Michael "Commander" McHale and Pat McInerney, and I made from Sewanee to see my brother (and Brother), Andy, at Auburn University in Auburn, AL. I have vague memories of the consumption of vast quantities of alcoholic beverages, late night trips to Krystal's for sacks of burgers, and crippling hang-overs.

Mostly, I remember AndyMan and his girlfriend- a proper Southern Belle who, I don't doubt, continues to have nightmares about this incident- driving me and my badly hung-over classmates over many hills and winding roads in his ancient Volkswagen beetle, ostensibly to a party at a lake. We stopped for food. This was not a good idea. I opted for Strawberry NeHi and a moonpie- an even worse idea: I promptly deposited those items on a constable's feet, ala Animal House, very early in the trip. My nausea necessitated a shift in seat assignments. Andy's girlfriend, Lisa, had to move to the back seat between Commander and Mac. Mac was a "playa", back before they called Lotharios "playas", and was leering at Lisa. Commander? Well, Commander was, er, unique. Poor Lisa looked anywhere for relief. She looked desperately to Commander, who looked back at her with understanding, and, out of the blue, began to sing a commercial jingle to her: the Raisin Bran song. What? You don't remember the Raisin Bran song? Here. Let me refresh your memory:



Lisa, as you might imagine, was mortified. Sadly, relief was not to be had. Mac joined in. Then, feebly, so did I. Lisa looked imploringly at Andy in the rearview mirror. In the end, AndyMan joined in as well. Anyway, that's how I remember it. Deeper meaning? Nah. It was fun, though.

Memorial- Chicken Thomas

Point South is a small community on the Northern edge of Jasper County, South Carolina, right off of exit 33 on I-95. Not a lot going on in Point South. Most passers-by would notice that there are a couple of hotel/motels, some fastfood restaurants, a KOA campground, and three or four gas stations, but not much of interest on the trip to or from Florida. But if you park your car and walk, you might see one of the many small family cemetaries in the area. This is where I met Private Chicken Thomas. The little graveyard in which Private Thomas is interred is the last resting place of several African-American families. I recognize the names from my practice in Ridgeland. I knew a couple of the people that are interred there now. I didn't know Chicken Thomas, as I didn't get to Ridgeland until 1987 or so, and he died on June 22, 1975. I do know he had family who loved him, because he has a nice headstone. The one thing Chicken Thomas' family wanted you to know about him from his nearly seventy-nine years on this celestial ball, was that he was a veteran of World War I. Since the Army wasn't fully integrated until President Truman ordered it in 1948, most of the African-Americans serving in the Army in World War I were not permitted into combat, and, according to this article http://www.liunet.edu/cwis/cwp/library/aaffsfl.htm#WWONE , the few that were permitted into combat fought along side French troops, rather than with White American ones. Chicken Thomas never got any rank to brag about, and probably never got into battle, but was proud to serve his Country. This Memorial Day, I want to thank Private Thomas.

White and Nerdy

It has been called to my attention that I am not especially, er, ethnic. At breakfast today, Cathy a/k/a Sunny pointed out that I used the term "bellwether" in our conversation. Evidently, this is not a phrase that is widely used across the cultures. I know, because I asked. I was at Denny's, and I asked the cashier and my waitress, both African-Americans, whether they had used the term "bellwether" in the last two years. No, they had not. I asked one of my pale brethren who was waiting in line. He didn't answer immediately, but as he searched his memory for the context of the last time that he had actually used the term himself, it was clear he was every bit as white as I.

It's Go Time!

As I've already mentioned, Wednesday was prison day. After leaving the Broad River Prison facilities in Columbia, I began the trek back to the Boro. First of all, I've got an admission to make: I have, at times, driven in excess of the posted speed limit. There have also been occasions when I have reacted, er, less than kindly when other members of the motoring public, evidently believing- erroneously in my opinion- that they had adequate space and time to maneuver their autos in front of mine, thus moving sharply in front of my vehicle. When these misinformed motorists react on this faulty presumption, I generally wave to them; folding my thumb and three of my fingers against my palm to give them my estimate of their driving IQ. Mess with the bull, you get the horns (or, more accurately, the bird).

Well, it turns out that even fabulous drivers like me can make choices that turn out to be less than optimal. Around Orangeburg I decided to stop for gas, and glanced to my left at the exit, saw an approaching black Dodge 300 (equiped with a Hemi!), but figured I had time to turn. I did have time... because the dude braked. I proceeded to the next gas station, and to my horror, saw the the Dodge pull in to the pump next to me. I got out of the car and gave my best tough-guy look. This is not easy, because I'd thrown my back out last week and could barely move. Anyway, dude gets out of the car. It's Izzy Mandelbaum. Remember Izzy Mandelbaum from Seinfeld? C'mon, the character played by Lloyd Bridges that's, like 70 and is always looking for a fight? It's Go Time! Well, I'm imbedding some Izzy in case you forgot. Anyway, dude's looks at me, figures I'm probably 15 years younger than he is, but apparently can't help himself:

Izzy: Wow, that wasn't even a Hollywood stop at the exit there.

SD (suppressing my testosterone urge to request that he perform an impossible sexual act by his lonesome): Yeah, sorry about that.

Izzy: You didn't stop at all.

SD (feeling liberated by his desire to continue the discussion): Well, I figured you'd stop, plus, I had to beat you to the gas station.

Izzy: You couldn't beat me, you don't have the horsepower.

SD (a little hurt at the insult to the SpongeBobMobile): I did beat you.

Izzy: Grrr!

He then limps off into the foodmart. It's obvious his back is killing him even more than mine's hurting me. It's a good thing, too. For both of us. It was Go Time!