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.
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.)
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.
Maggie had a huge hole to fill. No dog should've been asked to replace Buzz. But with her funny, funny personality and good disposition she did her best. We began to think she had an ailment of some sort that kept her from barking. She never met a stranger that she wanted to bark at - anyone that entered our house was just someone else that could provide a belly rub. And she's a "retriever" in every sense of the word, with repeated instances that serve as proof that someone did considerable training. Her skills and concentration when simply bringing back a ball or a toy are just too good. One afternoon she pointed at, then snatched up a bluebird she thought was dead (it wasn't) in the backyard. She brought it up to me, dropped it at my feet and then sat down at my side. The bluebird gave a quick shake of its head and flew off. She looked at me dumbfounded - "You let it go??????????"
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.
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.
It's probably not the most recognizable song she's written, but if you are at all familiar with Mary Chapin Carpenter's music, you've probably heard "Halley Came to Jackson." It wasn't a "commercial" success but I think it's the best song she's ever written. Take a listen...........
I've dabbled a bit with songwriting myself. Granted, no one outside of these four walls will probably ever hear any of these songs. There are only two souls on this planet who have heard me take out my guitar and sing some of them - my wife (because if you write a song about your wife and you don't sing it for her you will go to hell when you die) and my buddy Mark (a helluva songwriter and singer with whom I spent many long nights back in the days when I had hair. Most of the time we were killing brain cells and either listening to or making some music.) Those yellowed and tattered notebooks containing dozens of songs may never serve as anything more than something that keeps my creative juices flowing. But, because I have dabbled, I always enjoy finding out what inspires songwriters. So I did a little digging on this tune about a comet and a baby. I found out it's not just a good song, it's a true story.
The first thing I found was a video of it being performed at the Ryman Auditorium back in October 2012. Because a visit to the Ryman is high on my bucket list I played this video to start my search . The quality wasn't about much (someone holding up a phone?) but before she sang it she told the story of how the song was born. Turns out she'd read a passage from Eudora Welty's "One Writer's Beginnings" about how her father had told her that he'd held her up to a window when Halley visited Jackson, Mississippi (and the rest of planet earth) in 1910. Just as the song illustrates, he prayed that the baby he was holding would be around to wave at Halley on its next visit. Intrigued, I felt compelled to see what I could find out about this Eudora Welty and whether or not she had any other good stories to tell.
I immediately got my hands on a copy of "One Writer's Beginnings." It's not a long work, based actually on a series of speeches she'd given. I'm not through with it yet, but one passage quickly caught my eye:
“Long before I wrote stories, I listened for
stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to
them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on.
Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and
begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a
mouse from its hole.”
―
Eudora Welty,
One Writer's Beginnings
Looking back on my childhood, I remember being surrounded by and fascinated with good stories. I honestly believe it's because it was a time when people communicated whenever they found themselves sharing time and place with someone else. What resulted was conversation and conversation that became the foundation for memories and the passing down of stories that were part of everything that made your people what they were. A simple "how was school today?" could become drama when recreating the day for everyone else at the supper table. Even if our primary connection to the outside world WAS lying on the breakfast table (we called it the morning paper) I remember family perusing it together - not sticking their noses in it and ignoring everyone else. "The Braves can't get any pitching!" "Cost of milk is going up again!" "There's a man that lives in Sandy Springs who's had the hiccups for two years!" As the youngest of four children I was always the youngest in the room (I was usually the only child, in fact, always surrounded by adults.) Children were - generally speaking- to be seen and not heard. Consequently, I did a lot of listening. From my spot at that dinner table, that breakfast table or even the backseat of a big 1964 Chevrolet I absorbed plenty of stories. People, places and events that were either well beyond my years or things of the past that came alive for me in their first-hand recollections. Most of my peers at school had parents younger than my own. Often I was jealous of that. But now I realize the treasures I was privy to.
My mother used to often talk about "porch-hollerin' " After supper, in a part of the country where we're blessed with warm weather most of the time, folks retreated to the front porches and front stoops of houses in neighborhoods that were part residential and part "village" (in that "it takes a village..." sense of the word.) Everyone had a father, an uncle, a brother, a cousin, a friend who was off fighting the world there in the 1940's. My Uncle Hank, Mother's brother, was himself a prisoner of war and listed missing in action for a long time before they knew where the Germans were holding him. Folks hollered the news of these loved ones from porch to porch and no was alone in their grief and worry. And then, just as in my childhood, the young ones were sponges to all that information and all those emotions. Consequently, a generation later, my sisters and I had the gift of knowing what those days felt like and what they did to your insides. It wasn't U.S History in 4th period...it was part of your family's living, breathing storyline. It's why I learned to love a good story.
I pity the families I see in restaurants where every member (young and
old) has a phone out, checking facebook or texting earth-shattering
information to friends. I pity the cars I pass on my morning commute
where the backseat is illuminated with media displays showing cartoons
or kids' movies,,,anything to keep the kids quiet. They don't play
games that involve counting cows and cemeteries? They don't play "I
spy"?? Forget games....they don't TALK? My father never talked
around the house - but put him behind a steering wheel and he laughed,
told stories, hell he SANG. I didn't have many memorable conversations
with the man (he died when I was relatively young) but most of the ones
I remember occurred during a ride to somewhere (and I'm not talking on
long trips...I'm talking a run for milk or gas or to the hardware
store.) IT'S WHY I LEARNED TO LOVE A GOOD STORY.
Mama Ginn and Miss Dunn were the two saints who watched the nursery there at Martha Brown United Methodist Church on Moreland Avenue in East Atlanta. (I THINK that was their names?) When my parents left me in the nursery, I apparently had no interest in playing with blocks or pulling around the Fisher Price telephone with the scary eyes. Rather, I'd put a little stool in front of the two rocking chairs where Mama Ginn and Miss Dunn rocked and fed the crying babies. From my perch I would tell them many outlandish adventures that my family had been through since I'd seen them the previous Sunday. We're not talking about "we went to the bank Thursday and I got a lollipop story" stories. We're talking about "one night my daddy killed a mountain lion in the backyard" stories. I'm not sure if they're still alive but, if not, the fact that they had to sit and listen to me week after week got them into heaven, even if nothing else in their lives did. Later on, the projects and assignments I remember enjoying most from my school days all involved telling stories. A poetry anthology - some original, some from the classics. A story I wrote about the War of 1812, only written from the perspective of "someone on the ground" (a historic figure from that war whose name completely escapes me now...I had to write a daily journal that sounded like they were actual excerpts from the man's journal.) I wrote some story (again, don't even remember the subject matter) in ninth grade and the teacher wanted to know where I'd heard it or where I'd copied it from. "I asked YOU to write a story! Not copy one from some book somewhere!" It took much convincing including a note from my mother to assure the woman that I'd written the damn thing myself. She apologized and suggested that I write more. In high school I had a sports column in the school newspaper. I seriously doubt anyone still has copies of "Extra Points" that appeared in "The Galleon" but my dear mother saved all of them (probably fearing it might be the pinnacle of success for this goober son of hers!) I'm not bragging about my ability to tell a story (then or now.) I say all of that to say this - I told stories because I HEARD stories. And I still love telling stories. I like to have people listening to my stories. My nieces and nephews probably grow very weary of them. I'm probably now the crazy uncle at family gatherings ("Oh crap,,,,Uncle Tim just shook up another martini....pretty soon we're going to hear about the time he met Dan Akroyd or the time Hank Aaron tipped his cap to him...") The next time you're around a kid - yours or anyone else's - talk to the child. Tell it something interesting. Perhaps the passing down of good stories will be the one thing that keeps us all from turning into robots.
I think it started way back in the 1990's (it just occurred to me that if one wants to start feeling their age you need only to start a story with "way back in the 1990's) I was single and living the high life in a crash pad basement apartment. I was the stereotype single guy and playing the part well. I was late nights and ballgames, chicken wings and hangovers, concerts and closing times. As I'm fond of saying, a proud neanderthal. Quite convinced I was living the life, I knew those poor bastards I used to hang with - the ones who had decided to tie the knot and pick out china patterns - were quite jealous of me and my "pool room life." (to quote Mellencamp.) But then, everywhere I found myself, someone wanted to know if I'd seen "Les Miserables" yet (of course they said "Lay Mizzz" ) "Hell no! That's something a woman would drag you to see and I'm way too cool and happy to have some female dragging me off to some musical!" "You go to the Fox and see LAY MIZZZZZZZZZZ....I'm going to Manuel's and watch the Final Four and act like a man, by God!!!" I have no idea why this musical that the civilized world seemed to be enjoying so much became the antithesis of, well, ME.
If you held a gun to my head, I could not (to this day) tell you the subject matter of Les Miserables. I'm sure it's an amazing story that translates into a fine production on stage. And I'm sure it's now quite something to see on the big screen. Now a bit more open-minded than I was wayyyyyyyy back in the '90's, I'd probably enjoy it to some degree, though I'm still not a fan of musical, theatrical type proceedings (I'm still hanging on to some degree of 'neanderthalness.") At issue is not the subject matter - it's just that it's yet ANOTHER opportunity for folks to take some innocuous something and turn it into a measuring stick - measuring both their degree of high society and my degree of uncultured, uncouth and uncivilized commonness! They're a Parisian bistro and I'm a waffle house! They're a 12 year old scotch and I'm a Budweiser! They're ballet and I'm a night at the fights!
Maybe it's a rationalization. Maybe it stirs up some degree of insecurity in me, that I'm the lower rung of some evolutionary ladder because I'm just not finding enjoyment in things so breathtaking for others. But, as I say, that's fed by those who -with dropped jaws and wide eyes - tell me "oh you MUST see it!" Or you "MUST eat there and try the risotto!" or you "MUST read it! There aren't that many big words in it, you should be ok!" I'm Rodney Dangerfield having dinner at Bushwood, and I'm ok with that!!
I hate to wax poetic...oh, no I don't. It's my silliest habit. So here goes....
Lord knows, there's a lot of irritation in this world. At any given time, just by walking out your front door, one can encounter a thousand reasons to lose complete faith in humanity. So it's of great comfort to have occasion to find some sanity in one's life, simply by walking into an old friend's house.
"Age appears to be best in four things; old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust and old authors to read...." Francis Bacon.
A grin and a wink accompanies "whatchu' drinking?" Grinning and winking, you see, because they know very well what I'm drinking and they've gone to the trouble to have a full bottle of it sitting there on their bar. Hugs and handshakes are exchanged, coats are put away and a fire in the fireplace and a house decorated impeccably for the holidays becomes quite the shelter from the crapstorm that rains on us most everywhere else. That same "everywhere else" on planet earth where we monitor manners and political correctness and our behavior in general. Here folks relish in your stupidity and laugh it off because they already know you're an idiot..and the love that side of you.
"It's one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them." (Ralph Waldo Emerson.)
To sit over a dinner that would make any chef on television blush with envy yet realize that - because you're sitting there with people you love so dearly - you could be having "warm beer and bread" and the evening would still be as grand as some champagne and roses moment from an old Glen Miller song. They're the rare moments when one can sit and not be concerned with a receding hairline, an expanding waistline or crow's feet. That's because when an old friend looks across a table at you they're not seeing the toll that the passing of time is exacting on the outside of the package. They're just seeing the soul that used to sport a really bitchin' mullet and yell fairly inappropriate things at other cars on the way to a Buffett concert. Or the one that called you at some really strange hours and asked if you could provide taxi service. The one that yelled "Free Bird!!!!!!" at a very artsy, outdoor picnic/concert thing - and no one was horrified because, well, it was fully expected! The one with whom you cried when a parent was lost. Or the one person not related to you by blood but that you really needed to talk to when it felt like the world was ending. These are all straight-out gifts from God. No longer are you afraid of the fact that we're all getting older. You see, we're not becoming "old people." We're not becoming our parents. We're still "US." And although our modes of transportation have changed (and need more frequent tune-ups!) we're still just trying to enjoy the ride, however long it may last.
"Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were ’t the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
’Tis to thee that I would drink." (From Lord Byron's "To Thomas Moore")
I've said an awful lot to say this - thanks for dinner and thanks for being y'all.
And not just any Friday...it's the last Friday of 2012. Seriously, 2013 sounds like Star Trek territory. Shouldn't we be flying around with rocket packs on our back or visiting our condos on the moon by now? What am I saying? Hell, I have to take a Valium to fly Delta....I'd have to be fully sedated to fly NASA. So I probably wouldn't have a condo on the moon (I've heard the beaches there suck, anyway.)
Meanwhile, in Los Angeles.....
Well this a bit scary......
Not one but TWO rocket launchers (ROCKET LAUNCHERS??) turned in when during a Los Angeles police department gun buyback. I know the premise of these gun buybacks is that - with complete anonymity - people turn in weapons. But I'm thinking we might need to find out who had these in their possession. One doesn't rob a liquor store with a rocket launcher. One doesn't jack someone's Honda Civic with a rocket launcher. People do things like shoot airplanes out of the sky or shoot at government buildings with rocket launchers.
My mama would say "the devil's getting her room ready...." Nauseating....
Some things just speak for themselves and don't require discussion. Was the first thing in YOUR mind when you heard about the horror in Connecticut "how can I profit from that?"
I say let them drop a live possum.... USA Today link.....
Possums are proof that Satan exists. They are, you see, his spawn. Only the devil himself could create a creature so foul, so ugly and so useless. Not sure which bothers me more - their blank, black doll eyes or their filthiness. Some people's childhood are haunted by visions of ghosts, the boogeyman and other things that go bump in the night. My childhood was haunted by walking through the kitchen on the way to bed and those black, lifeless eyes peering at me through the screen door while a fat hairy good for nothing possum finished off our cat's food on the back porch. So I say let the fine folks of Brasstown, North Carolina drop a live possum. Any possum now alive - I figure - is related to those that haunted my childhood and they all deserve any unpleasantness we can heap upon them. Satan's spawn, I tell you....
Now that's funny..... Newt, Newt, Newt..........the never ending source of hilarity....
The former speaker of the house has "Dancing Queen" has his ringtone. Sometimes you can't think of what to say because there's just too much to say. I can't quit laughing......
Evil...
This link may be disturbing to those born in God's country...
Just doing a random search on collard greens and black-eyed peas led me to this travesty. The article was written in 2009 so I can only hope the creator of this recipe has since found Jesus. "Inspired by a greek dish..." Let's just paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa, record a hip-hop version of Handel's "Messiah" and quit singing "Star Spangled Banner" at baseball games.
Still love these guys....
If you're an old Zeppelin fan (and, let's face it, if you're a Zeppelin fan, you're probably old...like me) do yourself a favor and watch this interview. In conjuction with their Kennedy Center honors, CBS' "Sunday Morning" show did an interview with Zeppelin. My favorite quote from the interview was when Anthony Mason asked "You weren't getting any White House invitations then?" and Robert Plant answered "No...we were being questioned quite often.."
