Thursday, March 14, 2013
Amazing...
Sometimes there really are no words. Epic? Classic? How about just "hilarious" ??? I read an interview recently with the folk duo Brewer & Shipley. If you think you've not heard of them you're wrong - you'll recognize their greatest commercial success in just a minute. In this interview, they mentioned that "Gail and Dale" from the Lawrence Welk Show had performed this song, declaring it a "modern spiritual." Obviously, I had to find evidence. Thank God for YouTube. Make sure you're sitting down.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Wednesday...
"....Praise Father, Son and whole wheat toast..."
Confession time - The "chimney cam" that CNN had in the lower corner of the screen during the news this morning made me chuckle. ("forgive me father for I've sinned....It's been, well, NEVER since my last confession...see, I'm Methodist and we don't have confession..in fact, we really don't like to discuss what sinners we are with folks that ain't even family") News folks love to make the day to day here on planet earth "breaking news" don't they? Though I don't darken the doors of a church like I should in my old age, I did grow up a fairly active United Methodist. But I don't remember what happens when the North Georgia Conference chooses a new bishop. I'm pretty sure there's no smoke involved... unless someone brings some barbecue to the proceedings.
I jest - I'm not trying to make light of the sanctity of this selection for those of the Roman Catholic Church, I promise. In fact, there lives in me a tinge of jealousy towards those who can lay claim to such antiquity in things of importance - whether it's your faith, your home, your city or your church. I'm jealous of folks in other parts of the world that say things like "someone in my family's farmed this land for the last 500 years" or "our offices are in a structure that was built in 1625..." In our young nation, only Native Americans are afforded such legacy.
Speaking of Methodism, I've always been fascinated with its founder, John Wesley. Any reading you can do on the person John Wesley (as opposed to the founder of a religious movement John Wesley) is time well spent. He was the 15th born in a family of 19 children (yes, I said 19....fertility ran in the family - his mother Susannah was the youngest of 25 children born to a Puritan minister.) The young John survived a fire in the family rectory in 1709, giving birth to the conviction in Susannah's heart that her son was destined for greatness. She schooled all her children at home, insisting that they were able to read by age four. But when he was 11, she sent John off to Charterhouse School in Godalming, Surrey (which - speaking of living artifacts - is still in operation as an independent boarding school.) The other day, while reading about his life as an 11 year old away at boarding school, I noticed that each day began with a breakfast of "bread, cheese and beer." This probably kept any homesickness at bay as he was accustomed to beer with meals at home. Susannah, you see, was quite the brewer and always kept her family supplied with beer. Consequently, in addition to accidentally founding Methodism, in adulthood he also became quite a brew master himself. He considered hard ("distilled") liquor the doorstep to hellfire and only to be used for medicinal purposes. But beer was dang near a food group!
JUST DON'T POUR HIM A GLASS OF ALE THAT'S BEEN BREWED WITH HOPS! In 1789, so distressed by brewers' tendency to reintroduce this "poisonous herb" back into their wort, he wrote a letter published in the Bristol Gazette that's every bit as much fire and brimstone as his sermons on "salvation by faith" (1738) or "Free Grace" (1739.) From that letter to the Gazette:
"I am man, hear me roar..."
Were I not such a loyal driver of Ford products (mostly large ones - I'm on my fourth F150) I just might go out and buy me a Subaru. Have you seen their commercial depicting a father waiting with his little girl at the bus stop? On what is presumably her first day of school he discusses his overly-protective nature as the reason he drives a Subaru. He then gets in his very dependable Subaru and follows the bus to school to make sure she gets there ok. What a treat! A commercial where a man is depicted as something besides an all-thumbs, "Neanderthalish" goober that only understands chicken wings, sports and naps on the couch! You've seen these commercials - the ones where the cold medicine really needs to hurry up and work because Mom needs to save her family from the idiot she married that damn near burned down the house trying to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Or the one for some cleaner so tough on stains it can even get the mud off the kitchen floor when jackass drags a hose in the house and tries to bathe a 700 pound St. Bernard in the kitchen.
I'm going to channel my inner ad-executive and ask you to consider these:
-A beer that advertises itself as something that can help a married man get through THAT week every month ("When she reaches for Pamprin, you reach for a cold Bud.")
-A pain reliever "so effective even headaches caused by a weekend with your mother-in-law are gone in just one dose!"
-Car insurance with an accident forgiveness clause anytime you drive your vehicle into a tree because she just wouldn't shut the hell up!!
-"When you tell her to get in the kitchen where she belongs and fix you a sandwich, make sure it's Boar's Head meat..."
Those "The View" chicks' craniums would simultaneously explode. Everyone from Gloria Steinem to Oprah to the ACLU would call for boycotts and lawsuits. I use extremes for the sake of a joke, obviously. But still, my extremes aren't that much more overtly insulting than some of the stereotypes I see suggested by real commercials. It's no longer an "Ozzie and Harriett" world. Men are doing as much housework and shopping as their spouses. My thanks to Subaru for recognizing this. We're neanderthals but we have feelings for God's sake! Can't someone just hug me?
(Full disclosure - none of the jokes I've made here apply to life in my house. My bride is a better driver than I am and I worship the ground my mother-in-law walks on.)
Confession time - The "chimney cam" that CNN had in the lower corner of the screen during the news this morning made me chuckle. ("forgive me father for I've sinned....It's been, well, NEVER since my last confession...see, I'm Methodist and we don't have confession..in fact, we really don't like to discuss what sinners we are with folks that ain't even family") News folks love to make the day to day here on planet earth "breaking news" don't they? Though I don't darken the doors of a church like I should in my old age, I did grow up a fairly active United Methodist. But I don't remember what happens when the North Georgia Conference chooses a new bishop. I'm pretty sure there's no smoke involved... unless someone brings some barbecue to the proceedings.
I jest - I'm not trying to make light of the sanctity of this selection for those of the Roman Catholic Church, I promise. In fact, there lives in me a tinge of jealousy towards those who can lay claim to such antiquity in things of importance - whether it's your faith, your home, your city or your church. I'm jealous of folks in other parts of the world that say things like "someone in my family's farmed this land for the last 500 years" or "our offices are in a structure that was built in 1625..." In our young nation, only Native Americans are afforded such legacy.
Speaking of Methodism, I've always been fascinated with its founder, John Wesley. Any reading you can do on the person John Wesley (as opposed to the founder of a religious movement John Wesley) is time well spent. He was the 15th born in a family of 19 children (yes, I said 19....fertility ran in the family - his mother Susannah was the youngest of 25 children born to a Puritan minister.) The young John survived a fire in the family rectory in 1709, giving birth to the conviction in Susannah's heart that her son was destined for greatness. She schooled all her children at home, insisting that they were able to read by age four. But when he was 11, she sent John off to Charterhouse School in Godalming, Surrey (which - speaking of living artifacts - is still in operation as an independent boarding school.) The other day, while reading about his life as an 11 year old away at boarding school, I noticed that each day began with a breakfast of "bread, cheese and beer." This probably kept any homesickness at bay as he was accustomed to beer with meals at home. Susannah, you see, was quite the brewer and always kept her family supplied with beer. Consequently, in addition to accidentally founding Methodism, in adulthood he also became quite a brew master himself. He considered hard ("distilled") liquor the doorstep to hellfire and only to be used for medicinal purposes. But beer was dang near a food group!
JUST DON'T POUR HIM A GLASS OF ALE THAT'S BEEN BREWED WITH HOPS! In 1789, so distressed by brewers' tendency to reintroduce this "poisonous herb" back into their wort, he wrote a letter published in the Bristol Gazette that's every bit as much fire and brimstone as his sermons on "salvation by faith" (1738) or "Free Grace" (1739.) From that letter to the Gazette:
Brew any quantity of malt, add hops to one half of this, and none to the other half. Keep them in the same cellar three or six months, and the ale without hops will keep just as well as the other. I have made the experiment at London. One barrel had no hops, the other had. Both were brewed with the same malt, and exactly in the same manner. And after six months that without hops had kept just as well as the other. "But what bitter did you infuse in the room of it?" No bitter at all. No bitter is necessary to preserve ale, any more than to preserve cider or wine. I look upon the matter of hops to be a mere humbug upon the-good people of England; indeed, as eminent an one on the whole nation as "the man’s getting into a quart bottle" was on the people of London.I'll probably not share this bit of history with my father-in-law. A good southern Baptist, he takes great delight in ribbing me about us Methodists and our tendencies to have a sip now and again. At family gatherings held at any home on my side of the family you can hear him "Now which of these punch bowls is the Methodist punch bowl and which one is for Baptists?" I'll not add any fuel to that fire! I'm quite certain there's as many Baptists who imbibe, they just don't admit it. I gather this from some wisdom my father once shared with me when explaining the difference between denominations - "Presbyterians are Baptists who will speak to you at the liquor store."
"I am man, hear me roar..."
Were I not such a loyal driver of Ford products (mostly large ones - I'm on my fourth F150) I just might go out and buy me a Subaru. Have you seen their commercial depicting a father waiting with his little girl at the bus stop? On what is presumably her first day of school he discusses his overly-protective nature as the reason he drives a Subaru. He then gets in his very dependable Subaru and follows the bus to school to make sure she gets there ok. What a treat! A commercial where a man is depicted as something besides an all-thumbs, "Neanderthalish" goober that only understands chicken wings, sports and naps on the couch! You've seen these commercials - the ones where the cold medicine really needs to hurry up and work because Mom needs to save her family from the idiot she married that damn near burned down the house trying to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Or the one for some cleaner so tough on stains it can even get the mud off the kitchen floor when jackass drags a hose in the house and tries to bathe a 700 pound St. Bernard in the kitchen.
I'm going to channel my inner ad-executive and ask you to consider these:
-A beer that advertises itself as something that can help a married man get through THAT week every month ("When she reaches for Pamprin, you reach for a cold Bud.")
-A pain reliever "so effective even headaches caused by a weekend with your mother-in-law are gone in just one dose!"
-Car insurance with an accident forgiveness clause anytime you drive your vehicle into a tree because she just wouldn't shut the hell up!!
-"When you tell her to get in the kitchen where she belongs and fix you a sandwich, make sure it's Boar's Head meat..."
Those "The View" chicks' craniums would simultaneously explode. Everyone from Gloria Steinem to Oprah to the ACLU would call for boycotts and lawsuits. I use extremes for the sake of a joke, obviously. But still, my extremes aren't that much more overtly insulting than some of the stereotypes I see suggested by real commercials. It's no longer an "Ozzie and Harriett" world. Men are doing as much housework and shopping as their spouses. My thanks to Subaru for recognizing this. We're neanderthals but we have feelings for God's sake! Can't someone just hug me?
(Full disclosure - none of the jokes I've made here apply to life in my house. My bride is a better driver than I am and I worship the ground my mother-in-law walks on.)
Friday, March 8, 2013
Friday
"I don't get no R-S-P-E-C-T around this joint..."
Did you ever watch a game (any game/any sport) and despised both teams so much that you wished for a way they could both lose? For me, it'd be Notre Dame playing the University of Georgia...if anyone asked who I was pulling for I'd say "the meteor." The same with the Phillies and the Dodgers. Saints and the Cowboys. You get the picture. I had similar emotions watching a video of Skip Bayless and Richard Sherman go at it on ESPN's "First Take" on Thursday. "Those that can't, talk about it" vs. those that can generally makes for pretty good exchanges. And, usually, I'm able to differentiate between protagonist and antagonist in the drama that ensues. Not this time - I was praying for spontaneous combustion in both chairs. Bayless may, in fact, get paid just to play the jerk role...if so he does it well. "Judge not..." and all that not withstanding I get the sense he's of the ilk that's quite certain the reason we have sporting events is so that they (the ones who consider themselves artists and paint with keystrokes and microphones) can hone their craft. "Aren't you just the cutest thing Joe Sports Fan...sitting their in your recliner pounding beer and chicken wings and thinking you know what's happening here! No, there's a reason I'M the one with the press pass." Richard Sherman, on the other hand, is everything we try not to like about professional athletes. Ego and a mouth that's been known to write checks his body can't cash. Not quite "money for nothing and chicks for free" but almost. Remember his "golf clap" for Roddy White in the divisional round of the NFC playoffs? AFTER he'd been smoked for 47 yards and 6 points? He's the reason I'm president of the Trent Williams fan club.
In case you missed this clash of egos...
"IF YOU WANT TO STOP SOMETHING, SCREAM, 'TYRANNY!' "
Hey, I've seen Jimmy Stewart pull off a filibuster....and you, Rand Paul, are no Jimmy Stewart. I admire the stamina - physical and mental - required to pull of a filibuster - the only thing that could shut up Paul was his own bladder. But I'm not really buying what he's selling...because,see, I've seen it before. It wasn't that long ago that folks on one side of the aisle were telling me to be wary of someone who's middle initial was "W." They warned me that his "warrantless wiretapping" was going to infringe on all my civil liberties and ALL my inalienable rights! The government would know everything from my favorite curse word to what's on my grocery list!!!!!! Now, the other side of the aisle is working hard to push the same panic button for all us ignorant masses. Drones are going to be doing everything from flying by my window to see what I'm reading and what I'm watching on television (there are certain times of the day that a passing drone looking in my window is going to get a view that will cause it to crash itself into the nearest mountain so as to remove the image from memory banks.) Dear GOD, make it all stop! Those that take the floors of our statehouses, chambers and rotundas and use such delusional paranoia to do nothing but push POLITICS (you CAN'T call it "governing," for God's sake) are no better than the mental giants who jump on the pages of our social networking sites, sounding the daily alarm! My Facebook page stays filled with these modern-day Paul Reveres. They quote everyone from Nostradamus to Thomas Paine to tell me that our current president is in secret talks with the Canadians to buy up all of our libraries and churches and turn them all into hockey rinks! "Please share if you don't want the world to end!!"
click here - David Weigel, Slate magazine says it better than I'm able to...
"...tell me where is sanity..."
If someone from another planet asked me "what is rock & roll?" I'd tell them to listen to Alvin Lee and Ten Years After peel off "Going Back To Birmingham." Alvin unexpectedly died Wednesday after some "routine" surgery. Few things make you feel the passing of years as quickly as losing people and their craft (be it singing, acting, writing etc...) who became a part of you, especially in your formative years. I stuck my foot squarely in my mouth when I came home one day many years ago and found my mother sitting on the couch crying. I thought something horrific had befallen our family. She looked at me and said "Bing Crosby died." I said "SO?? You didn't even KNOW Bing Crosby?? Why are you crying?" She gritted her teeth and said "it's not just that some singer died...something I've loved for a lot of years isn't around anymore. One day you'll understand." Damn, if she wasn't right.
"So I'm sitting on Jekyll Island,
when I hear that Jerry Garcia died.
I take my cold beer and my coozie,
I look up and I toast the sky.
Seems everytime I turn around,
something that always was is gone...
without a sound."
I wrote that song in 1995, coincdentally 4 days after my first date with the woman that now shares my name (August 9, 1995.) After our first meeting I went to the beach with my friends and she went to the mountains with her friends. And, after only one date, I remember sitting on that beach and talking to The Almighty "God, please let this be her....I'm tired of wandering around. Then when I heard that Garcia had died - "see? I'm not getting any younger!"
Take a listen...if you can't get into this forget it, 'cause you can't get into nothing at all....
Did you ever watch a game (any game/any sport) and despised both teams so much that you wished for a way they could both lose? For me, it'd be Notre Dame playing the University of Georgia...if anyone asked who I was pulling for I'd say "the meteor." The same with the Phillies and the Dodgers. Saints and the Cowboys. You get the picture. I had similar emotions watching a video of Skip Bayless and Richard Sherman go at it on ESPN's "First Take" on Thursday. "Those that can't, talk about it" vs. those that can generally makes for pretty good exchanges. And, usually, I'm able to differentiate between protagonist and antagonist in the drama that ensues. Not this time - I was praying for spontaneous combustion in both chairs. Bayless may, in fact, get paid just to play the jerk role...if so he does it well. "Judge not..." and all that not withstanding I get the sense he's of the ilk that's quite certain the reason we have sporting events is so that they (the ones who consider themselves artists and paint with keystrokes and microphones) can hone their craft. "Aren't you just the cutest thing Joe Sports Fan...sitting their in your recliner pounding beer and chicken wings and thinking you know what's happening here! No, there's a reason I'M the one with the press pass." Richard Sherman, on the other hand, is everything we try not to like about professional athletes. Ego and a mouth that's been known to write checks his body can't cash. Not quite "money for nothing and chicks for free" but almost. Remember his "golf clap" for Roddy White in the divisional round of the NFC playoffs? AFTER he'd been smoked for 47 yards and 6 points? He's the reason I'm president of the Trent Williams fan club.
In case you missed this clash of egos...
"IF YOU WANT TO STOP SOMETHING, SCREAM, 'TYRANNY!' "
Hey, I've seen Jimmy Stewart pull off a filibuster....and you, Rand Paul, are no Jimmy Stewart. I admire the stamina - physical and mental - required to pull of a filibuster - the only thing that could shut up Paul was his own bladder. But I'm not really buying what he's selling...because,see, I've seen it before. It wasn't that long ago that folks on one side of the aisle were telling me to be wary of someone who's middle initial was "W." They warned me that his "warrantless wiretapping" was going to infringe on all my civil liberties and ALL my inalienable rights! The government would know everything from my favorite curse word to what's on my grocery list!!!!!! Now, the other side of the aisle is working hard to push the same panic button for all us ignorant masses. Drones are going to be doing everything from flying by my window to see what I'm reading and what I'm watching on television (there are certain times of the day that a passing drone looking in my window is going to get a view that will cause it to crash itself into the nearest mountain so as to remove the image from memory banks.) Dear GOD, make it all stop! Those that take the floors of our statehouses, chambers and rotundas and use such delusional paranoia to do nothing but push POLITICS (you CAN'T call it "governing," for God's sake) are no better than the mental giants who jump on the pages of our social networking sites, sounding the daily alarm! My Facebook page stays filled with these modern-day Paul Reveres. They quote everyone from Nostradamus to Thomas Paine to tell me that our current president is in secret talks with the Canadians to buy up all of our libraries and churches and turn them all into hockey rinks! "Please share if you don't want the world to end!!"
click here - David Weigel, Slate magazine says it better than I'm able to...
"...tell me where is sanity..."
If someone from another planet asked me "what is rock & roll?" I'd tell them to listen to Alvin Lee and Ten Years After peel off "Going Back To Birmingham." Alvin unexpectedly died Wednesday after some "routine" surgery. Few things make you feel the passing of years as quickly as losing people and their craft (be it singing, acting, writing etc...) who became a part of you, especially in your formative years. I stuck my foot squarely in my mouth when I came home one day many years ago and found my mother sitting on the couch crying. I thought something horrific had befallen our family. She looked at me and said "Bing Crosby died." I said "SO?? You didn't even KNOW Bing Crosby?? Why are you crying?" She gritted her teeth and said "it's not just that some singer died...something I've loved for a lot of years isn't around anymore. One day you'll understand." Damn, if she wasn't right.
"So I'm sitting on Jekyll Island,
when I hear that Jerry Garcia died.
I take my cold beer and my coozie,
I look up and I toast the sky.
Seems everytime I turn around,
something that always was is gone...
without a sound."
I wrote that song in 1995, coincdentally 4 days after my first date with the woman that now shares my name (August 9, 1995.) After our first meeting I went to the beach with my friends and she went to the mountains with her friends. And, after only one date, I remember sitting on that beach and talking to The Almighty "God, please let this be her....I'm tired of wandering around. Then when I heard that Garcia had died - "see? I'm not getting any younger!"
Take a listen...if you can't get into this forget it, 'cause you can't get into nothing at all....
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Thursday
"Hey, I'm came here to drink iced tea and kick butt....."
Proof that if there's something to talk about, there's someone talking about it. Meet the "BBQ Jew."
"What happens when the chosen people choose pork"
I found this blog linked on the Charlotte Observer website. The keeper of this trove of information and entertainment tells us he has found either his "new best friend, or perhaps arch-enemy" working as editor of Texas Monthly Magazine. This editor is "one Jake Silverstein (a Jewish name if there ever was one.)" Based on the fact that he allowed one of the latest issuesof Texas Monthly to be all about Texas barbecue, he's contemplating the notion that he's not the only "BBQ Jew." (that's really fun to say out loud...try it.) I'm not sure if Jake was coming out of the closet as a "BBQ lovin' Jew" or simply catering to the masses there in Texas who are quite passionate about their BBQ (as any God-fearing American who knows how to make a killer rub should be.) But I'm reminded of the wisdom of the late/great Ludlow Porch who, after a trip to Texas, said "Texans are very proud of their barbecue. It's ok, but we have the same thing right here in Georgia...only we call it steak! Everyone knows when you're talking 'barbecue' it's time to get a board and hit a pig between the eyes and dig a pit." Hence, I'm thinking one can enjoy good 'cue in Texas, even if you're one of the chosen ones. I laugh because I'm bitter - if I could cook a good brisket I'd be more willing to allow the fine folks in Texas to thump their chest and call whatever it is they're doing barbecue. But chewing through my only attempt at brisket was like chewing through the backseat of a '69 Volkswagen I used to drive. The fat in a pork shoulder is very forgiving and will give an over-done piece of meat some moisture. Plus pig fat just tastes better...does anyone eat "beef rinds" while drinking beer and watching 'rassling?
Make sure to check out the "Why Jews shouldn't eat pork" section...you'll find it when you click on the "Jew-B-Q" tab. I was aware of the "cloven hoof" and "cud-chewing" criteria - but the rock badger was a new one on me. Shame on me for not being up on my Leviticus.
The verse I've quoted above is from the English Standard Version of the Bible, 2001. Because inquiring (dysfunctional) minds want to know, I went out found that the King James version of the same verse reads:
Proof that if there's something to talk about, there's someone talking about it. Meet the "BBQ Jew."
"What happens when the chosen people choose pork"
I found this blog linked on the Charlotte Observer website. The keeper of this trove of information and entertainment tells us he has found either his "new best friend, or perhaps arch-enemy" working as editor of Texas Monthly Magazine. This editor is "one Jake Silverstein (a Jewish name if there ever was one.)" Based on the fact that he allowed one of the latest issuesof Texas Monthly to be all about Texas barbecue, he's contemplating the notion that he's not the only "BBQ Jew." (that's really fun to say out loud...try it.) I'm not sure if Jake was coming out of the closet as a "BBQ lovin' Jew" or simply catering to the masses there in Texas who are quite passionate about their BBQ (as any God-fearing American who knows how to make a killer rub should be.) But I'm reminded of the wisdom of the late/great Ludlow Porch who, after a trip to Texas, said "Texans are very proud of their barbecue. It's ok, but we have the same thing right here in Georgia...only we call it steak! Everyone knows when you're talking 'barbecue' it's time to get a board and hit a pig between the eyes and dig a pit." Hence, I'm thinking one can enjoy good 'cue in Texas, even if you're one of the chosen ones. I laugh because I'm bitter - if I could cook a good brisket I'd be more willing to allow the fine folks in Texas to thump their chest and call whatever it is they're doing barbecue. But chewing through my only attempt at brisket was like chewing through the backseat of a '69 Volkswagen I used to drive. The fat in a pork shoulder is very forgiving and will give an over-done piece of meat some moisture. Plus pig fat just tastes better...does anyone eat "beef rinds" while drinking beer and watching 'rassling?
Make sure to check out the "Why Jews shouldn't eat pork" section...you'll find it when you click on the "Jew-B-Q" tab. I was aware of the "cloven hoof" and "cud-chewing" criteria - but the rock badger was a new one on me. Shame on me for not being up on my Leviticus.
Leviticus 11:5 "And the rock badger, because it chews the cud but does not part the hoof, is unclean to you."I found the lovely portrait above at "welcometohosanna.com" the website for the Hosanna Lutheran Church in Houston, Texas. Pretty sure they were educating their folks on a bit of Judaic history, not broadcasting a warning on the evils of rock badger consumption (or swapping recipes.) The fact that the good Lord felt the need to add this creature to the list of forbidden foods tells me they were being dined upon somewhere and He had to blow the whistle. Hmmmm....being southern, I have, of course, a propensity for exploring exciting new sources of protein.
The verse I've quoted above is from the English Standard Version of the Bible, 2001. Because inquiring (dysfunctional) minds want to know, I went out found that the King James version of the same verse reads:
"And the coney, because he cheweth the cud, but divideth not the hoof; he is unclean unto you."At first I figured I'd happened upon the history behind the naming of that island in New York where they eat a lot of hot dogs (thus bringing my kosher food discussion full circle.) Alas, "coney" is the old english name for a rabbit. I can hear the King now, telling his scribes "what in the hell is a rock badger? Just say it's a rabbit, nobody will know the difference." Reckon why they don't have rabbit eating contests at Coney Island on the fourth of July? I think they taste a lot better than greasy hot dogs.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Wednesday stuff....
Further evidence that I'm a dichotomy of epic proportions, The fact that I'm in a tizzy today because the season premier of Duck Dynasty is on at the same time as the finale of Top Chef illustrates the oddness that is me. Camouflage vs. Camembert. Sweet tea vs. Sweetbreads. I'd be as happy sitting in the woods talking trash with these characters and their beards as I would be putting on my suit and picking out a wine to go with our first course. I'm odd, I tell ya.
http://www.slate.com/blogs/moneybox/2013/02/26/ifpi_reports_that_music_sales_rose_last_year_for_the_first_time_since_1999.html
Seeing the headline on the story above I just knew I'd have much to say about the article...but I couldn't really figure out what in the hell the writer was saying. I think that the remark regarding "human welfare" is a bit overstated...but being one who grew up on vinyl, I do miss a lot in the digital downloading of music. Remember the magic of album covers? Remember reading liner notes? I've read similar discussions from folks who miss the physical comfort of holding a book when using an electronic gadget to enjoy the written word. I'm not saying that art must now stand on its own without the packaging to help carry it - album art never hid any bad music. Album art did sometimes, though, enhance one's enjoyment of the music.
someone agrees with me!
(by the way, yesterday would've been The Man in Black's 81st birthday)
"Comfort food" rivals "literally" as the MOST overused descriptive in our dialect today. So I won't use it-but a bowl of collard greens makes this child feel really good on a cold day. It's a bite of tradition and a bite of culture. It's the smell of your mother's kitchen in the morning, all coffee and bacon and biscuits. It's the bed you slept in as a child where you knew a daddy was lying close by lest the devil (or a cat!) was to sneak in and try to suck the breath out of you while you slept. It's someone you love at the end of a really crappy day, that someone who doesn't need details of why it was a crappy day ( but they know by the look on your face that it was.) Ok, so it LITERALLY IS COMFORT FOOD dammit! I honestly think collards may be one of the things on this earth I could eat every single day and never grow tired of (oysters is one of the others.)
http://www.slate.com/blogs/moneybox/2013/02/26/ifpi_reports_that_music_sales_rose_last_year_for_the_first_time_since_1999.html
Seeing the headline on the story above I just knew I'd have much to say about the article...but I couldn't really figure out what in the hell the writer was saying. I think that the remark regarding "human welfare" is a bit overstated...but being one who grew up on vinyl, I do miss a lot in the digital downloading of music. Remember the magic of album covers? Remember reading liner notes? I've read similar discussions from folks who miss the physical comfort of holding a book when using an electronic gadget to enjoy the written word. I'm not saying that art must now stand on its own without the packaging to help carry it - album art never hid any bad music. Album art did sometimes, though, enhance one's enjoyment of the music.
someone agrees with me!
"Comfort food" rivals "literally" as the MOST overused descriptive in our dialect today. So I won't use it-but a bowl of collard greens makes this child feel really good on a cold day. It's a bite of tradition and a bite of culture. It's the smell of your mother's kitchen in the morning, all coffee and bacon and biscuits. It's the bed you slept in as a child where you knew a daddy was lying close by lest the devil (or a cat!) was to sneak in and try to suck the breath out of you while you slept. It's someone you love at the end of a really crappy day, that someone who doesn't need details of why it was a crappy day ( but they know by the look on your face that it was.) Ok, so it LITERALLY IS COMFORT FOOD dammit! I honestly think collards may be one of the things on this earth I could eat every single day and never grow tired of (oysters is one of the others.)
Friday, February 15, 2013
What goes around...
It's seems such a slight to call Alan my cousin. Being the baby in a house full of sisters Alan provided all that a big brother would have provided...and that's what he became to me. I wanted to walk like Alan, talk like Alan, be strong as four mules like Alan and make everybody around me as happy as Alan made us. Alan had a huge, beautiful Irish Setter named Blarney. Blarney took every step that Alan took and wanted to go on every ride that Alan took in his truck. When that beautiful animal was run over by a car down on the highway one day, Alan dug a hole big enough to bury a piano so that Blarney would be comfortable. So it's no wonder that - after we tragically lost Alan to cancer - I badly wanted to have the same breed of dog as one that he had loved and lost.
And not long after he died, that opportunity presented itself. I got my Irish Setter. He was 2 years old, fully grown with that perfect, red hair that became even more radiant when the sun hit it. Mama - proud of the Irish heritage on her father's side of the family - insisted I give it a good Irish name. Her favorite book was Wuthering Heights and she said "Heathcliff" would be a fine Irish name. So Heathcliff it was. Proud name for a proud dog..he was smart and cocky and not afraid of anything. In the first 2 weeks I had him I grew to love everything about him and wondered what I'd ever done without him. Like Alan's Blarney, Heathcliff insisted on being wherever I was and doing whatever I was doing. But one day Heathcliff realized he could make it over the back fence and took off. He was just gone. I drove all over the place looking for that dog and couldn't find him. I was crushed, but Mama said "well, some men and some dogs have wandering feet and there's not a thing you can do about it."
A week or so later, I was walking down Main St. in Stone Mountain and came upon an old, old man walking a beautiful Irish Setter. Sixth sense clicked in even before I got close to them and I knew he was walking my dog. By the time they were next to me on the sidewalk I could see the collar I'd bought for him and noticed his ears perking up and a strong tug on the leash that damn near pulled the old fellow right onto the ground. Definitely my dog. I was ready to plead my case and demand that this beautiful creature be returned to its rightful owner! Then the old man spoke; "Good Lord, he usually walks better than this. You shore got him excited for some reason." I decided to play it cool - "Where you'd get this dog?" I asked while giving Heathcliff a scratch behind the ears. He answered "Well, I was just sitting on the porch one day and he came running up and laid down next to me like he owned the place." You could hear both pride and contentment in his voice. I began to lose my resolve to take back something that - just a minute ago - I'd been ready to fight for. That resolve became even weaker when he continued "....and it was perfect timing, too. My wife died about 6 months ago. Only woman I ever loved...known her since we were kids. Got to where I sat on that porch all day...didn't matter if it was cold, hot raining or whatever...sat out there because I couldn't stand to go in that empty house. Well, now my house ain't empty." Game over. I gave Heathcliff one final scratch behind the ears, told the man he had himself a good dog and I walked off. I'd done my good deed for the day.........hell, maybe for a lifetime!
Fast forward to 2003. I'm married and living with my bride and a 130 pound black Labrador Retriever named Buzz. He was my roommate in my single days and when I got married my new wife learned to love him every bit as much as I did. But there in December of 2003, I turned 40 one week and Buzz died the next week. (There's a country song in there somewhere - I turned 40 and my dog died, all I needed was a broken down truck.) We were crushed and not sure when we'd get another dog, but we knew we wanted one at some point. A week after Buzz was gone the vet we'd used for him called and told us they were so sorry to hear that Buzz had died.....and wanted to know if we were going to get another dog. "The reason we're asking........" They'd found what they guessed to be a 1-year-old yellow Lab running loose down Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. She was housebroken, she'd been spayed (had a fairly fresh scar) and was smart and sweet (what Lab ain't??) They thought of us first because they knew how well we'd treated our last Lab. I told them we'd come by to LOOK at the dog. I emphasized "LOOK" to the lady of the house. I told her that we were doing this out of courtesy. And it was just a look and it was just a courtesy.....until this gorgeous creature ran and got a tennis ball and came and dropped it at my feet, wanting to play with me. Again, game over.
The older you get the more you learn that it really is all just one big circle. An old man in Stone Mountain needed an Irish Setter to make a house a home again. 30-something years later we needed a soul full of life and humor and mischief to help us smile again...and she came running down Peachtree Industrial Boulevard to find us. She's lying over there right now in a spot of warm sun shining in the window, snoring and dreaming ("chasing rabbits.") I'm going to be forced to go over and wake her up just so I can rub her belly.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Thursday stuff....
I could listen to that repetitive riff from "Stranglehold" for hours (and I've done so many times.) It's sitting right over there on the cd shelf and discussing it makes me want to go over there and pop it in. I dig "The Motor City Madman." But I don't know what to make of a 64 year old Ted Nugent and his role as, uh - what? A prop? A spokesman? An activist? Please explain this to me Steve Stockman. I'm not even addressing the argument over gun control itself - I'm asking what you were trying to accomplish by inviting Mr. Nugent to the State of The Union gathering last night. When you look at Nugent's resume, it's probably no more shocking than any other of the musicians I've enjoyed over the years. But I find it puzzling that to illustrate how absolutely by-God American the gun control issue might be you've chosen someone who might not fit the GOP's image of a by-God American. He told CREEM magazine that the only time he used any sort of drugs was when he did a line of crystal meth before his draft physical because he "wanted to see the look on the sergeant's face." He later told the U.K. newspaper "Independent" that he did that and enrolled at Oakland Community College (thereby earning a "1Y student deferment") because he "did not want to get his ass shot off in Vietnam." Again, that makes him not much different than a lot of young men in the late 60's. But can you imagine the NOISE that we'd hear from the right-leaning folks should the left-leaning folks ever put a "hippie/draft-dodger/drug addict/you must hate your country/bet you burned a flag/commie" right there in the gallery while a republican president made a SOTU speech? Forget the epic irony of trying to make him the face of the whole "when you pry it from my cold, dead hand...." manifesto. Swing and a miss Mr.Stockman. Your counterpart Charlie Dent, a fellow republican from Pennsylvania probably made a better choice when inviting someone to the SOTU...a constituent he's nominated for admission into the United States Naval Academy. That's how you sit in chambers and look by-God American should the cameras find you.
And once you mention "Stranglehold" you have to listen to it......over & over & over.....
Well Happy Valentine's Day. Noticing the kids at the bus stop this morning I was wondering if they still put them through the torture of having to bring Valentines for everyone in your class. I can't remember if teachers or mothers made us endure that torture there at Rockbridge Elementary. I do remember one girl who brought a box to share and - on all the boys' cards - she signed it "just kidding." I remember wanting to "return to sender" and tell her "get over yourself sweetheart! You ain't all that a bag of chips yourself!!! You think I WANTED a valentines from you?? I'm going to throw stuff at you on the way home today!!" Through the miracle of these social networking sites I've seen mention of where she and her husband are living. Perhaps I should've dropped one in her mailbox signed "No, I'm just kidding!!!! HA!"
Barney and I both move on very well....
On this day that Hallmark and jewelry stores have set aside for us to celebrate love that we should be celebrating 365 days a year, there was overwhelming evidence at our house that I married perhaps the only woman on earth who could put up with me. As she left for work she said "I know it's Valentine's Day and we can do something special if you like....but I'd really just like to come home and watch the Tech - Clemson game tonight." Thank you God!
It's easy to take what's "everyday" for granted and forget how beautiful some people are. Case in point- Last night, during a visit with my in-laws, my bride's father pulled me aside (as he often does) to share a sentiment with me that he didn't necessarily want the whole room to hear. I know that many of you reading this remember my father-in-law as your elementary school principal and probably still tread lightly at the sound of his name. But his heart is huge and getting more so as he advances in years. He gave us a Valentine's card that had a sentiment regarding "My daughter and son-in-law." He pulled me aside last night to tell me "I nearly took a pen and scratched out that 'in-law' part...but it was a pretty card and I didn't want to ruin it. But remember that you aren't anything but a son to me...there's no 'in-law' to the situation...ok? Promise me you'll remember that." Without losing all dignity and crying in front of another man I assured him that I'd always remember that. Again, thank you God!
Well we didn't leave the womb as married people. There were a lot of years I was alone but not lonely. See, I came dangerously (DANGEROUSLY) close to getting married when I was very young to a female human whose name I dare not speak (and only refer to her now as "Satan's Daughter." Worried she might read this? I'm not.) When I escaped that I celebrated freedom and got to know myself. Even learned to like myself a little bit, recapturing any self-worth that relationship had drained from my soul. Still, though happy, I wondered if finding someone with whom I wanted to share a life was in the cards. Even if I was now liking myself I had to admit to myself that I didn't fit the husband prototype that I'd learned from....well, uh, not sure where we learn these parameters of what a husband looks like and acts like. I only knew I didn't fit it and it would take someone quite unique to put up with me. I was relieved, then, to hear an interview with Gregg Allman and find out that such thinking was his inspiration for writing one my favorite songs. He wrote it in 1967 and it's not about anyone in particular. It's about the "idea" of someone who could put up with his less than traditional life. He got the name when he heard a woman calling after a little girl named Melissa in the grocery store. I used to say I'd get married if/when I ever found someone that considered this a love song. But I had no idea that a wife wasn't someone I had to find. She was living right down the street. I just had to quit looking for her to find her.
And once you mention "Stranglehold" you have to listen to it......over & over & over.....
Well Happy Valentine's Day. Noticing the kids at the bus stop this morning I was wondering if they still put them through the torture of having to bring Valentines for everyone in your class. I can't remember if teachers or mothers made us endure that torture there at Rockbridge Elementary. I do remember one girl who brought a box to share and - on all the boys' cards - she signed it "just kidding." I remember wanting to "return to sender" and tell her "get over yourself sweetheart! You ain't all that a bag of chips yourself!!! You think I WANTED a valentines from you?? I'm going to throw stuff at you on the way home today!!" Through the miracle of these social networking sites I've seen mention of where she and her husband are living. Perhaps I should've dropped one in her mailbox signed "No, I'm just kidding!!!! HA!"
Barney and I both move on very well....
On this day that Hallmark and jewelry stores have set aside for us to celebrate love that we should be celebrating 365 days a year, there was overwhelming evidence at our house that I married perhaps the only woman on earth who could put up with me. As she left for work she said "I know it's Valentine's Day and we can do something special if you like....but I'd really just like to come home and watch the Tech - Clemson game tonight." Thank you God!
It's easy to take what's "everyday" for granted and forget how beautiful some people are. Case in point- Last night, during a visit with my in-laws, my bride's father pulled me aside (as he often does) to share a sentiment with me that he didn't necessarily want the whole room to hear. I know that many of you reading this remember my father-in-law as your elementary school principal and probably still tread lightly at the sound of his name. But his heart is huge and getting more so as he advances in years. He gave us a Valentine's card that had a sentiment regarding "My daughter and son-in-law." He pulled me aside last night to tell me "I nearly took a pen and scratched out that 'in-law' part...but it was a pretty card and I didn't want to ruin it. But remember that you aren't anything but a son to me...there's no 'in-law' to the situation...ok? Promise me you'll remember that." Without losing all dignity and crying in front of another man I assured him that I'd always remember that. Again, thank you God!
Well we didn't leave the womb as married people. There were a lot of years I was alone but not lonely. See, I came dangerously (DANGEROUSLY) close to getting married when I was very young to a female human whose name I dare not speak (and only refer to her now as "Satan's Daughter." Worried she might read this? I'm not.) When I escaped that I celebrated freedom and got to know myself. Even learned to like myself a little bit, recapturing any self-worth that relationship had drained from my soul. Still, though happy, I wondered if finding someone with whom I wanted to share a life was in the cards. Even if I was now liking myself I had to admit to myself that I didn't fit the husband prototype that I'd learned from....well, uh, not sure where we learn these parameters of what a husband looks like and acts like. I only knew I didn't fit it and it would take someone quite unique to put up with me. I was relieved, then, to hear an interview with Gregg Allman and find out that such thinking was his inspiration for writing one my favorite songs. He wrote it in 1967 and it's not about anyone in particular. It's about the "idea" of someone who could put up with his less than traditional life. He got the name when he heard a woman calling after a little girl named Melissa in the grocery store. I used to say I'd get married if/when I ever found someone that considered this a love song. But I had no idea that a wife wasn't someone I had to find. She was living right down the street. I just had to quit looking for her to find her.
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