Things you should never say to someone over fifty - last day.

11. "Wow, are you thinking about getting Botox now?"

Why, yes, I am considering Botox. I have found that small lines and wrinkles are appearing on my forehead, my eyes and around my nose. I see wrinkles forming around my mouth too, when I smile. I have found that utilizing these new methods to slow down the aging process and make you look younger almost immediately. Even though Botox is a neurotoxin that is made from botulinum toxin A, part of the same family of poisons as botulism, a common cause of fatal food poisoning...wait, I think I hear the Fed-Ex truck pulling up to the gates of hell, delivering the much rumored ice machine for making sno-cones and smoothies. Of course I'm not thinking about Botox! There are folks, who are allowed to vote, that have fooled themselves into thinking they can't see the changes that injecting poison directly into their face causes. They look like the face they were born with is frozen in time, except it is frozen with the same look that most face lift victims have, to some degree. I might not age gracefully but I will age ruggedly. A little wrinkle here and there never did a respectable person any harm. Narcissism, when taken to those extremes, can't be good for you. Oh, and did I mention that Botox is injectable botulism? Poison? 

12. "It's great to see older people wearing 'young' clothes." 

If we do in fact wear those "young" clothes, it's because we actually purchased them and didn't have our mommies buy them for us. I have as of yet to see a person my age wearing clothes designed for "young" folks not have someone who cares about them say "It's great to see older people wearing 'young' clothes.", from my experience, any true friend would say "Dude, you can't be serious, I'm not going anywhere with you looking like that". Men, tread softly when you say this to a woman. Usually when a person dresses way below their age, the only person who doesn't know it is the person attempting to get away with wearing the clothes in question. I mean, it's their money, they can blow it any way they please. If you read my entry yesterday, most times, and for women, they look like 200 pounds of chewed bubble gum in a fifty pound sack. I really feel for women on this issue. Advertising has convinced females that growing old gracefully is a mortal sin. Nothing is further from the truth. Men, fortunately, can get away with more. I'm not talking about a grown man in skinny jeans (the dumbest looking thing since Cannon leg jeans or the 'ass hanging out look'-don't get me started). Although any male in skinny jeans gets exactly what they deserve. I only hope someone they love takes a picture of them so they will always know that being a slave to fashion also means looking like a complete dork. There's nothing more entertaining than a grown man wearing kiddy clothes.

13. "Have you had some work done?"

Yes, I had the transmission rebuilt in my Extended cab Silverado last week, and I got hammered for 1,600 dead presidents. You should read the Botox explanation above before you go any further. I'm convinced that any surgery that isn't required for survival is risky. If you've read any of my previous stuff, you'll know I spent a few years laid up in the hospital after getting clobbered by a four wheel drive Jeep, head on. I was riding my ten speed bicycle at the time, so the Jeep basically won that battle. I had my body operated on 68 times, and that means getting knocked out cold by anesthesia and waking up next to people who were hollering and screaming a few times too. Primarily because they had no idea where they were or how they got there. These were folks who got knocked cold the old fashioned way, in a car crash, and required emergency surgery for survival. I have calmed down more than a few unwilling participants in the recovery room who woke up to find themselves there, unable to move, and not know why. Ladies, if you are going to have elective surgery, make sure of two things: A. It's for a boob job, but only if necessary. Most men like boobs of all sizes and shapes. B. If you are going to make them bigger, go ahead and make them bigger. Not a little bit bigger, I mean check the box that sez "bigger". Not watermelon or basketball bigger, but cantaloupes bigger...a nice, manageable size.. A recent study in Germany has proven that staring at big boobs for ten minutes is like a 30 minute aerobic workout for men. I figure getting slapped for staring that long might be bad for your health, but who am I to judge doctors, and the health of my male brethren. Gosh, if the price of admission is the same and you are stepping up to the proverbial plate, make it count, swing for the fence. Again, most every dude I know likes boobs of any size. Bigger never hurt. And only if you are going to the trouble. That's all I've got to say about that.

14. Younger co-worker: "You remind me of my mom/dad!"

Then he must be one hansom, intelligent, and popular guy. Oh, and humble too. Unless you want me to buy your lunch or make your car payment, or run cable into the basement where you reside. Or buy you skinny jeans. If that's how I remind you of you parents, then move along sonny.


15. Store clerk: "You should see if you might qualify for senior citizen discount."

Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I'm not here to eat dinner at 4:00 in the afternoon yet, so I'm not that old. When the time comes that I eat dinner at 4 p.m., lunch at 10 a.m. and breakfast the night before, then I'll let you know if I need the senior discount. Right now I'm good.


16. "Dude."

Nope, total disagree on this one. I've heard this word used to express every thing from anger, sadness, happiness, surprise, sickness, health, and any other numerous situations a dude might find himself at a loss of words for. Also includes variations, such as Dude-icus, Dude-inator, Dude-meister, Your Dudeness, and just about any other variation on the Dude name. This is a most important part of any dudes vocabulary. I've heard entire conversations carried on by using this one word, and other than speaking Jive, I understood the entire conversation. It went something like this:

Dude 1- Dude! (Good to see you)
Dude 2- Dude! (return greeting- usually accompanied with half hug/double back tap)

Dude 1- Duuuude...(Guy has brought along a twelve pack of delicious adult nourishment)
Dude 2- Dude? (Guy pulls out his wallet and offers to go in for half)

Dude 1- Doooode...(usually accompanied with  a hand wave, indicating "I've got it")
Dude 2- Duuuuude...(meaning 'thanks man, I'll get the next 12, combined with a thumbs up)

Dude 2- Dude?!!! (usually host pointing to a big bag of Doritos or Chips)
Dude 1- Duude (shorter 'duuuuuude', usually indicating "excellent choice")

Simultaneous "DUUUDE!!!!" Usually when a bikini contest, racing, or anything on ESPN is found.

So, with this explanation, do you see why "Dude" can never ever be excluded from the Male vocabulary?

 Well, Dude, do ya? Duuuuude...(cool)


And last but not least:

17. "You're old."

I'll just share some song lyrics by Waylon Jennings, then you decide.


                                                 "Old Age And Treachery"

                          Old age and treachery always overcomes youth and skill
                      Ain't too much that we won't do what Waylon won't Willie will
                Even though we've spent our lives charging up the wrong side of the hill
                          Old age and treachery always overcomes youth and skill

                         Some people say that our get up and go's got up and gone
                                             I don't know bout you Willie
                        But I can still jump as high I just can't stay that high that long
                Even though we've spent our lives charging up the wrong side of the hill
                          Old age and treachery always overcomes youth and skill

                     Young bull says old bull let's run that heiffer down and have a ball
                                                       Let's make her squawl
                     Old bull says young bull let's just ease on adown and love 'em all

                           Old age and treachery always overcomes youth and skill
                      Ain't too much that we won't do what Waylon won't Willie will
               Even though we've spent our lives charging up the wrong side of the hill
                           Old age and treachery always overcomes youth and skill

   Any questions?

Things you shouldn't say to someone over fifty - continued...

6. "Your hair is thinning!"

Let's see....my hair is thinning. Yep, it's thinning. I've got what Proverbs (yes, the biblical Proverbs) calls a "Crown of Glory" earned over the years of toil and heavy yokes. It's obtained from the daily funding of programs self-designed to feed the hungry, those in need of education (even to the point where they are convinced they are smarter than you), clothing the naked in the latest fashions, a car under the butts of the same, keeping the rain off those who'd otherwise get wet (as long as it has air-conditioning, heat, a personal shower and jetted tub with unlimited hot water, a private balcony with a lovely view of the forest, and the ability to come and go as they please without the added guilt of ever doing anything wrong as far as chores go (english for "they don't do anything"), and a myriad of other issues that have forced the gray hair out of their hiding places long before their appointed time. Gray hair? Damn right I've got gray hair, what about it?

 It's better to go gray, than go away.


7. "Is that your grandson/granddaughter?"

Why, yes, this is my grandson (I don't have a granddaughter yet). And let me remind you that he can do no wrong. I really like this kid. I have two but the younger two year old still likes the boxes the toys we buy him come in.That's actually a good thing, revenue wise,because we can buy him a crappy toy with a colorful box, and he's happy. Not that we go cheap on him in any way, but truth is truth. My older grandson, on the other hand, gets and deserves cool toys every chance I get to give him one. I like to make sure he gets his candy group covered every time we get to hang out. My dad, my grandson's great grandfather, asked me this year what he might like for a birthday present. I told him that he told me specifically that he wanted a 1967 Corvette Roadster, 427 tri-power, 4 speed, side pipes, red with black stinger. Those were his exact words. I told my dad I would stand watch over it until our grandson was 21 years old, old enough to appreciate a machine like that. I'm certain my dad isn't buying it.


8. "Aren't you too old to do that?"

I'm also to old to whip someones ass, but I might just give it a shot. I'm at the age where I'm concerned about my knees, ankles, liver, gizzard (I think we have one), the color of my fingernails, my prostate, moles, warts, taking a dump, not taking a dump, whizzing, eating sweets...OK, I'm just kidding. I'm starting to consider things like retirement or the lack thereof, parts of my body I can't easily see, parts of my body I can see, the mirror, sleeping, not sleeping, cataracts (I've actually had one), hoof and mouth disease, fleas, ticks, mad cow disease, and tons of other stuff that I'm sure my insurance, and Obamacare, won't cover for anything less than a winning lottery ticket. There are a lot of things I've discovered I'm too old for. I've also figured out that most things that make me worry shrink away when I have a good steak and my lovely bride by my side.Those are two things I'm definitely not too old for. Most things I've determined I'm to old for, I can hire someone who isn't. It's the circle of life, and I'm somewhere on the "past 50" side of the circle.


9. "Why are you even applying for this job? You're way over qualified!"

I know I'm getting old, because I have actually heard this said on a job interview. Five years of gross underemployment, and I am over qualified. I've been called incompetent (not to my face), an asset, a great employee, caring, considerate, and numerous other things related to employment. I've even been called perfect before...a perfect A-hole by someone who I had to turn down for a loan, but perfect is perfect. Usually the gray hair tells a potential employer that I am experienced, meaning they can pay a college graduate one third of what my experience would bring them. I guess the screw ups a younger gent might cause is outweighed by the ability of the employer to fire said underpaid, inexperienced, employee. Plus, firing an incompetent underpaid inexperienced employee means the employer has taken drastic steps in correcting whatever mistakes might have been made in the process. It seems to me, these days, that an employer considers a job a form of largess to whomever it employs. Bottom line thinking, though up by the bottom dwellers.


10. "Wow, you're on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/etc.?" or "Do you even know how to work your computer/phone/iPad/digital device?"

My answers to the subject question is as follows and I quote: Yes, No, No/etc. and Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes. Young whipper snapper. Most young folk who have the nerve to ask don't know how I can go from zero to fully pissed in less than one second, brought on from years of dealing with idiots who get to vote. I have an advanced degree in sarcasm, wise-ass and smart-ass...and foot in the ass. My generation might not have stormed the beaches at Normandy, but we did make damn sure we saw Disco music die, saw polyester became a secondary and lesser blend in clothing, ushered in the cassette tape, radial tires, pet rocks, doppler radar, computers (even if the were the size of a small house), cobol and fortran, and diet coke. Oh, and Star Wars is ours too. Don't screw with us...you've been warned.

Remember, turning fifty doesn't mean you become a Luddite, a Honey Boo-boo, or a Swamp People.
 .

Yes, there are a few more awaiting you tomorrow. See you then.

"Things you shouldn't say to someone over fifty" - my take on it.

1. "You should really learn to act your age."

Lets see, act my age. I read somewhere that a man's brain is perpetually stuck in the years between 17-19 years of age. It's probably why most men don't get upset about stuff unless provoked by their wife, girlfriend, or significant other. Most men, I should clarify, meaning there are exceptions to every rule. I'm talking most dudes I know here, not the exceptions. I only wish I could have had the experience and mind set I have now at age 17. If it means you (I) have an adventurous spirit and an "I've got a GED and a 'can-do' constitution...let's roll!" attitude, then where's the wrong in that. I've seen many folks allow the circumstances of their lives drag them down to the point where it appears they are just waiting on death to come visit for tea and crumpets. I would like to do more with this one life I'm allotted. I've got a blown out knee and a bad ankle, but I'm willing. Let's roll! If we can get there and back on a few tanks of gas and you are willing to split it with me, we're on.

2. "You look good for your age!" 

If someone says that to me, I know a few things immediately and they are as follows: A. They are sucking up, and most times I can recognize a suck up maneuver immediately. Sometimes a little strategic sucking up is a good thing, but don't push it. B. You want something and think it's better to BS me rather than ask me straight up for it. Trust me, just ask. I can say NO with the best of them. It comes from all the spins of the globe I've survived. C. If you are a friend, then the answer is yes. Just bring it back clean.

I also know this one undeniable truth, and it's this. I do not look good for my age. I got hit head on by a Jeep whilst I was riding a bicycle when I turned thirty. It didn't damage my face but it purdy much red-lined every other part of my body. Again, read the strategic sucking up section above. But be careful. I've been places most folks never see or have only seen done by actors on the big screen, with CGI help, stuntmen and lots of make-up. That is make believe. I've been laid up for long periods of time with my inside parts hanging outside where they do not belong. It was not pretty, trust me, but I survived it. Maybe the best thing to say is "Damn, you look good for what you've survived!"...but keep your clothes on.

3. "Ma'am." or "Sir"

I'm not sure why anyone might get offended by this. I don't mind getting called "Sir" by waitstaff or young people. It' a sign of respect and I can take it. It's the inflection by which it is delivered that counts. I'm only fifty three and it surprises me to hear a young person with a semblance of manners these days. It's a rare art form taught by folks like me to their progeny. It's a shame that good manners began to disappear with the advent of the cell phone. That device gave everyone permission to interrupt a conversation or halt a nice dinner with an obnoxious ring tone. I've often wondered why a good conversation has to be substituted with another at the drop of a hat. I leave my phone in the car when I am in a restaurant or somewhere with friends. They are the most important person  to me right then. Oh, and did I mention the obnoxious ring tones  and loud conversations from the table next to mine? And don't get me started on NEXTEL, the redneck device that chirps like a dying anaconda.

4. "Isn't that outfit a little young for you?"

If Dockers and Polo type shirts look too young, then yes. I'm certain this is aimed more towards women than men.  I have one rule on mens wear, and it is this: you should be able to switch from Spring/Summer wear to Fall/Winter wear by simply adding a sweater vest, warm coat, boots and a hat, baseball, if necessary. Oh and never, ever, regardless of  a man's age, wear a ball cap backwards. It is only cool on kids 12 years and younger. Men look like total morons when they do it. Women, on the other hand, have a totally different set of rules altogether. I've got a dear friend who likes his wife "A little on the trashy side" as he puts it. I've seen grown-assed women, who ought to know better, wear clothes that I wouldn't let my nineteen year old daughter wear. If you've seen pants so tight that the wearer looks like 200 pounds of chewed bubble gum crammed into a fifty pound sack, or and equivalent amount of cottage cheese, then you know what I mean.

5. "You look tired."

You know why I look tired? Because I am! I've been dealing with folks that do not agree with me...my kids! I deal with friends, church, employees, bosses, morons, kids, wives, in-laws, out-laws, jack-legs, peg-legs, reality TV, lap-tops, cell phones, bills, entitlement people, liberals, racism, Trayvon, Zimmerman, Obama, Pelosi, Reid, Democrats, Republicans, liars and thieves (oops, mentioned Democrats and Republicans already), the IRS (oops, mentioned liars and thieves already), FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, The Patriot Act, ass hats, ding bats and generally people who don't realize that I am a genius when it comes to everything. So, yes, I'm tired. It's a kind of tired that a big stack of money wouldn't fix. A good book, a campfire, a river and a good fly-fishing rod and reel might put a dent in it. But just short of that. I'll stop right here for the day.

Nobody likes a whiner.

We'll finish up tomorrow.

Memories of being the last white kid in the West End-Part Deux.

This entry is from a short story I wrote a few months back titled "Last one out, bring the flag" in two parts. It tells of how a kid learned about racism and how to cope as best as he could in the turbulent late 60's.


Towards the end of my teacher’s pet days and before I was asked to take ten steps backwards (poem reciting) in my still developing manhood, I’d ask Mrs. Gladfelter to drop me at the curb close to my house so I didn’t have to explain myself to anyone, specifically my Mom. My mom was militant before I knew what the word meant. It didn’t cotton well with her to know I might be getting beat up or fighting every day. I’d flat out lie to her and say we played rough at recess, and that much was true, but coming out on the short end of a two and sometimes three on one scrap would mean my mom would show up and the Yankee in her (she was from Maryland, born this side of the Mason-Dixon in a small railroad town named Cumberland, but I called her a Yankee anyway just to piss her off) would reveal itself in all its Gray and White Union colored glory. It would be like the Civil War was being fought all over again and something I’d just soon avoid back then. God help you if your Mom ever showed up at school to defend your honor. It meant one thing and one thing only, you were a dead man. I was convinced my mom didn’t give a rat’s ass about me back then, but you were not going to beat up her kid. It was more of a personal pride thing for her, not a love your son thing as far as I could tell. If she knew what I was going through and not winning 100% of the time, I was a dead man. If she showed up at my school and raised all manner of hell because I was getting the shit kicked out of myself a few days out of the week, then the terrorists I attended school with would kill me dead. I figured that out after the next to the last white kid’s mother did just what I feared mine might. My buddy Pat McGill was a scrappy red-headed kid (aren’t all of them?) of Irish descent who lasted about two more weeks and those two weeks were filled with face down, dirt-sniffing, torn clothed ass-whuppins from the new locals. His family moved away shortly thereafter, leaving the duty of flag bearer to just me. Years later Pat and I attended the same high school, as fate would have it, but by then we were both just distant memories remembered by an occasional “What’s up” in the hallways of higher learning. Maybe we just both wanted to forget what we’d been through and seeing each other brought back those memories, unpleasant for us both.

Life’s like that.

I feel like I need to make one thing clear here. I was not a whiner or a pussy back then. The first term, whiner, was just that, someone who complained about every little thing that went wrong. The second term, pussy, might mean a lot of different things to many, from a critter of the feline persuasion to woman parts. What it meant to an athlete was you were unable, unfit, and worst of all, unwilling. It also meant you pissed sitting down, played with Barbie Dolls (as opposed to “action figures” like G.I. Joe) wore dresses, anything that might mean you weren’t a man or at least well on your way there as far as athletics were concerned. Back then I played every intermural sport, save for basketball, that a kid could play. I would not ever be known as a pussy as long as I lived, so I learned one inalienable truth; I was going to have to fight for the rest of my life if the fifth grade was a window into my future. “It’s going to be alright” meant that I’d better learn to fight, like it, and somehow balance the victories and the defeats so I could survive. I learned one thing in the fifth grade, and that was that for every kids ass you kicked, there was an older brother, a cousin, a second cousin and sometimes even a sister whose ass you’d have to fight after your pugilistic dismissal of their “kin”. I needed to win if I wanted to eat my lunch that day.

My daily activities did force me to learn how to dance back then. It made me take full advantage of the one fiftieth Cherokee Indian it was rumored I possessed; it made me do the rain dance. And pray too. I'd dance and pray for rain, and do both a lot. But I also learned I didn’t want to fight during recess and have to fight my way home to boot. So when I’d get in a fight, I’d make sure I knew who and how many family members I was going to engage afterward. It was a balancing act most nine-year olds might never consider. At one point it got so bad and frequent, I wore the same pants to school for three weeks straight because I had fought Dexter Washington, his six brothers, four cousins, his sister (twice) and Dexter one more time, and getting my clothes torn up would set off warning shots with my mother. I think I have adequately explained the slings and arrows of that scenario, so I avoided it like a potential life-ending plague.

I remember those green “Docker” style pants well. They were hand-me-downs from my older brother, who I guessed was fighting his own wars in Junior High (aka middle school), and they got a year’s worth of wear in the three weeks I donned them to do battle. It ended when the principal of my school called me into his office and asked me if my family was in some sort of financial straits. I told him that I was not aware of any hardships that had befallen my clan and my clothing was not a reflection of those unknown straits, if they indeed existed. Mr. Saffo was a man of action, and any trouble would be dealt with by a principal with a no-nonsense approach to young people. What that meant in English (based on my now innate sense of survival) was that if he stepped in I’d be fighting on my way to school, from school, during school, and possible week-ends… and maybe Christmas and Easter too. That was a prospect I’d just as soon avoid. So I lied to my principal that day, in my ragged green slacks and ragged mind-set. I lied to him so I might survive,  not just that day, but the many days that lay ahead.

Around then, I was already fighting my way through the Jackson family. The Jacksons were a huge family big enough to field a football team (both offense and defense), a basketball team and a baseball team to include a bull pen and farm league. There was what seemed to me, to be a few hundred Jacksons. Their mom and dad named them all after the books of the bible. I am not kidding when I tell you this. I fought Genesis Jackson, Exodus Jackson, Leviticus Jackson (now he could scrap) all the way to Malachi Jackson. I skipped a few books, but did duke it out with both first and second Samuel (known as the twins), Isaiah, Ezekiel, Nehemiah and even Ruth and Esther Jackson. I had punched my way through the Book of Moses, The Prophets, most of The Writings. I guessed names like “Lamentations, Kings, Numbers and Deuteronomy” were just way too strange to name a kid, Biblical or not. What I didn’t know was those were used as middle names for other Jacksons, like Bubba, Leroy, and Skillet Jackson, one mean SOB.

I was busy fighting my way through the New Testament and had the shit kicked out of me by Luke Jackson, a dude who was a foot taller than me at the time and the first Jackson to have pity on a neophyte scrappy white kid born on Peachtree street. I had whipped Matthew, Mark and John Jackson, even-steven with “Jesus” Jackson, who hollered for me not to punch him in the face (and for some strange reason I didn’t) because, as he said “I am the chosen one, mutha fukka”. I was working my way into Acts Jackson (his family called him “Action”), when it all stopped suddenly with the Jackson clan. I was ready to fight it out now and explain my blasphemous altercations with the biblical books expressed in human form, to God himself if necessary, but later.

I would soon learn why the fights all stopped, and that right soon.

It seemed that the Jackson family was regular attendees of the Baptist Church in the burg of Atlanta where they were all bussed from. The political lottery deciding that all the Jackson family between the Seventh grade and Kindergarten would receive the earliest part of their education at the same school I was required to attend. It seemed like the lottery favored some and not others, if you saw things from my point of view. My brother was in Junior High School, smart as Hell and a decent opponent when it came to fighting. He was 457-0, kicking my younger ass every single time I stepped up to the plate to take his crown. It would be many years later before I took his title away and he and I became more like friends than siblings afterward. I guess you get used to your bigger brother watching your back when you are physically smaller than him, meaning you had something with which to threaten a larger threat with. The first time I bested my older brother, and the last time I tried, my thin layer of protection vanished like a fart in a hurricane.

The Jacksons, it seemed, had “testify day” at the Baptist Church a few Sundays back, where they all were supposed to confess their sins in front of the church. As fate or God would have it, my name came up during said confession from one of the kinder (I’m guessing Hebrews Jackson or maybe 2nd Timothy…he was a bit of a sissy and his turn was coming soon) more gentle books of the Jackson Bible. In other words, one of the family members confessed that I had to fight the majority of the family and by no fault of my own. It seemed that the heads of the Jackson family (it was an even proposition in the black family… Mom had as much sway over the family as the father did) made sure that it was known that continuous willful sin would place them in the hot-seat of Hades faster than rejecting Jesus as Lord and Savior (and not Jesus Jackson either-the real sho-nuff Jesus of Nazareth, Son of the most high). That’s the same Jesus whom I was now proclaiming as my personal savior.  Although the source of my thankfulness was a by-product of the Jackson family’s public confessional, the best part of that Sunday was the cessation of getting my ass kicked in by the biggest family in Atlanta. It did not, however, compel them to take that one extra step in their still evolving faith walk. That extra step would be protecting or even praying for their enemy. In other words, none of the biblical Jacksons I had locked horns with ever stepped in to halt any other scraps I was involved in. That was how I saw myself back then. I was the enemy and I didn’t even know for sure why. I guess any battle that gets fought too long ends up that way. Nobody remembers why it started or how it will end. It even took me a while to figure it out. Mine ended six months later with a large yellow moving van backed into my yard.

It was many years later when I discovered what “Last one out, bring the flag” really meant.

I guess I was that “one”.

Memories of being the last white kid in the West End-Part One

This entry is from a short story I wrote a few months back titled "Last one out, bring the flag" in two parts.

I used to hear it all the time from grown-ups, coaches, teachers, even friends…new friends I had made in the small town we moved to when my family finally moved away from the West End of Atlanta in late 1969.. Douglasville, Georgia was the new end of the world to me. I knew this because the main artery leaving the home of my birth, Atlanta, and I-20 West ended right smack in the middle of nowhere. Also known as Highway 5 and the aforementioned Douglasville. I guessed my Dad and Mom wanted no more than to escape the craziness of the hippy sixties, the militant Black Panthers, the race wars that seemed to be the dust on some as-of-yet reached horizon. These issues were hidden around every turn and enhanced by the still looming but soon to end conflict in Vietnam.

All the social issues that faced a young family whose patriarch was 31 and matriarch was but 29 and their children of eleven, seven, and the then nine-year old middle kid writing this story now at 52, meant that our little tribe was about to see changes. The first time I heard the term, “ya’ll musta brought the flag with ya” and numerous variations on the same theme, I was playing football for the Beulah Bulldogs, the first intramural team I played for after leaving the fighting fields of the fourth and fifth grade. I first thought it must have meant something noble and grandiose, but soon learned it was just a colloquialism for perceived poor white trash, too ignorant to recognize how important it was to “be with your own” meaning good intended Southern Baptist white folks who all thought alike as long as it was Jesus, SEC football, and a dry county. Never mind the “love thy neighbor as you love yourself” part Jesus said was the most important of commandments, it meant “love your neighbors as yourself, and keep the black folk living across the tracks, where they belong”. Add the fact that I saw a few of them (the White Southern Baptists) at the County line, in Cobb County, buying liquor at the “Spirits of 76” liquor store just inside the neighboring counties border, and a ten-year old  then sixth grader learns what a hypocrite is first hand. I'm not picking on Baptists, mind you, just hypocrites.

I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself here. To some degree, I drank the Kool-Aid. But let me make this perfectly clear. I know what it’s like to be discriminated against and I know personally what racial hatred is all about. How do I know? Here it is. I was the only white kid in my school my last year in the West End. I was threatened every day just for being white. I had my butt kicked for being different…a different color. I remember the last days at I.N. Ragsdale elementary school, just off Lee Street and a right on Avon Avenue. Back then, one teacher taught all subjects in the same classroom and I remember my last white teacher, Mrs. Gladfelter, an old-school, stodgy, mean woman who recognized my plight and took pity on me…sometimes. She’d see me with a black eye or a new bruise from scrapping on the playground because I’d have to fight off meaner black kids to keep my lunch money from winding up in the their belly instead of mine. I had been moved from my old school, Arkwright Elementary, located just a scant ¾ of a mile from my home, easy walking for an athletic kid. Segregation and forced bussing meant I had been changed to the aforementioned Ragsdale Elementary, cursed to walk almost three miles straight up Avon Avenue from our small home on Graymont Drive.

Some days I was so tired from walking so far and fighting at recess and being shoved and threatened, Mrs. Gladfelter would give me a ride home in her immaculate 1959 Buick, even letting me ride in the front seat (only after she laid a large towel over the tan leather sofa sized front passenger seat the Buick Motor Company somehow shoe-horned inside the giant green metal beast rolling on four wide-white wall tires), her reminding me that somehow, it would “be alright”. “Alright” as I knew it, had already changed, I just was either to naive or optimistic to realize it right then. It’s hard to convince a nine-year old who is getting the shit kicked out of him and at best, is 50/50 in a dust-up, that anything is ever going to be any different from what it was right then. Even though I was sure Mrs. Gladfelter thought I had cooties or some yet unknown jungle disease I’d contracted from fighting the natives (her take on it) on a daily basis, she was still kind enough to give me the occasional ride home. What I didn’t know at the time, was that the ride was somehow a way for her and I to be connected, like I was her “teacher’s pet”, mainly because I was the only white kid left in that particular part of her world. That meant I was called on for any manner of duties she thought an occasional ride home might warrant. The last “ride home for anything I ask of you” task I was assigned was to read, memorize and recite “Tree” by Joyce Kilmer. Now, if you have ever been trying to cross over into tough guy status from whatever status a fifth grader might have held, this is not the poem that a new-found “Rocky Balboa” type (me) might need to recite in front of a class full of ones short-term playground opponents. It goes:

“Tree”

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree;

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks to God all day,
And lift its leafy arms to pray;

A tree that in the summer wear
A nest of Robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me;
But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

Need I say more? I recited that poem once in front of my fifth grade class and under the hope-filled stare of Mrs. Gladfelter, teary eyed, as I looked to her for mercy. My eyes were begging for her to please spare me the humiliation of what was about to transpire. The respite I desperately sought would not come that day. If you’ve ever had that dream, the one where you find yourself naked in front of your entire class, it was something kinda like that. Her teary eyed stare meant something completely different and I recognized it for what it was. I somehow knew she needed me to close out her long and distinguished teaching career with the satisfaction that she had taught one last heathen child something as lovely as a tree. I guessed right then I was the designated heathen. So I obliged her and recited the poem with gusto, extending my fighting days and assuring myself long walks home there after. After the poem incident, I never agreed to a ride from my teacher again, learning what words like “ulterior motive” and “manipulation” meant. I also learned what an old woman who devoted her life to a task might like to see before she ended her career. I only hoped I wasn’t some de-facto bookend to her life’s work, devoted to educating young people. Maybe I was. All I knew, for sure, was she and I were “square” on the rides for poetry reciting exchange program. It was a life of limericks for me from that point forward.

It should be said, however, that I have never looked upon any tree without thinking of that particular poem. I thought of it when I chopped down a pine tree, or when I saw a giant Sequoia in all its massive splendor. I recited the “Tree” poem once in front of my fifth grade class forty plus years ago and I have been able to recite it, by memory, ever since. I guess that truth is Mrs. Gladfelter’s legacy for me. I have used that poem to surprise folks (mostly wine and cheese types) concerning the legitimacy (or existence) of my greatly doubted cultural standing, and it has served me well.

Ironic isn’t it?


Part two comes tomorrow-check back then.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I speak Jive"

I start today's entry with quite possibly the funniest and most unpredictable line used in movie history. It was uttered by none other than Barbara Billingsly, the actress who played the mother of Beaver and Wally Cleaver, pearl wearing wife to Ward Cleaver, on the fifties show titled "Leave it to Beaver". I'll explain the set up to maybe the one person who has not heard of or ever seen the show by telling you that the show was about as "white bread" of a show as has ever been seen on TV. I mean, Ward and June didn't sleep in the same bed, didn't do the tongue dance when they parted company in the mornings or reunited in the evenings. There was never ever any hint of sexual impropriety or sex at all for that matter. Save for the fact that Wally and Beaver weren't portrayed as immaculate conceptions, you'd a thought they had actually been dropped down the chimney by the baby-toting stork himself. Two grown boys delivered from the land where the dance of the two-backed beast isn't required for conception. This is the straight laced mom June Cleaver was made out to be, and she was a standard by which all mothers were judged for a number of years. Right or wrong, every kid somewhere deep down inside wanted a mom like June Cleaver at one point or another in their life. I know I did.

I'll take an exit here to share with you the fact that I, indeed, speak Jive. As a matter of fact, I usually list it as a second language when I fill out a job application or list my accolades on a resume. I can speak it like a second language. It is a cool and delightful (not a word I use very often-this may be the second time ever) take on the English language. Unlike ebonics, the evolution and bastardization of our native tongue. I'll not go into any more detail about it, save to say its a lazy man's way of speaking Jive. Jive, on the other hand, was an ethnic take on standardized words, altered slightly so Mr. Whitebread didn't understand exactly what was being said. I don't hear it spoke much anymore except by the old school Black men and dudes from my generation of the African-American persuasion. And, yes, I speak it fluently. I was the last white kid to leave the West-End of Atlanta. "Madea'", as portryed by Tyler Perry, has said in numerous Madea' movies and I quote; "Don't fuck with me, I'm from the West-End". And black folks know what I am talking about. I mean I lived off Avon Avenue, halfway between Lee Street and Cascade road, as "middle" of West-End as you could get. The road I lived on, Graymont Drive, would take you to the back gate of Fort McPherson, right in the heart of beautiful downtown West-End. OK, there was no downtown, but it was as deep into the notorious (and it was notorious when I left in 1969) neighborhood as you could get.

Now June Cleaver, again played by Barbara Billingsly, saw the end of her acting career when "Leave it to Beaver" closed out it's run out in 1963 when I was three years old. The show was and still is on the air fifty years after it went out of production. I won't lie to you and say I remember seeing any of the episodes when they first aired, but I have seen every episode since. "Leave it to Beaver" had twenty-five episodes in its last season, a regular mini-series by today's standards, with 234 total episodes produced in it's six year run. That's unheard of these days, with the magic number being 100 for syndication purposes, meaning big money. Ms.Billingsly was shoe-horned into being Mrs.Cleaver for the rest of her life. The character was, ans still is, as Iconic as it gets. It's hard to believe that Ms. Billingsly almost passed on the role of June Cleaver, but thank you God she didn't. She didn't do much more acting after that show, save for a cameo or two and a sequel to "Leave it to Beaver" where Beaver is divorced and trying to get custody of his three kids. I never watched any of those shows, wanting the problems Beaver got himself into as a kid to stay just that, uncomplicated and innocent, and all solved inside of a thirty minute show, including commercials. That all changed when a movie titled "Airplane" came to theaters in 1980, and Mrs. Cleaver cemented her status as the coolest mom in the history of history. Movies or otherwise.

I learned jive as a survival mechanism. My family moved to the West-End of Atlanta after the now Hartsfield-Jackson Airport political thugs showed up at my mom and dads door, informing them to either sell their property for airport expansion to the city of Atlanta, or have the property condemned. It was politics at its growth oriented best. My dad took the offer and moved us to 1178 Graymont Drive in 1964. I lived in a restricted neighborhood back then, meaning blacks couldn't move into it as rumor had it. That changed a few years later with the civil rights movement and liberals insistence on forced busing, meaning black and white kids would be bussed into areas other than the school districts they lived and paid taxes in. It was a new word back then and it was called integration. What it meant to me was the threat of forcing white kids and black kids to go to school together meant all my friends moved away inside of six months. I was moved from Arkwright Elementary, within spitting distance of my house, to I.N.Ragsdale Elementary, three miles away. And did I mention there was NO bus to haul us unwillingly to a different school? I walked it every day, by myself, because every white kid I knew was gone. I was the last white kid on my block. What that meant was I learned how to fight, and a whole lot. What it really meant was I got my ass kicked in most every day for my lunch money. I heard someone say that hunger is the best flavoring, and let me tell you, that is true. I starved a lot until I became better at "scrapping", Jive for fighting. When I became more pugilistic-ly proficient I started eating my lunch every day, instead of getting "my lunch ate" for me-also Jive for getting my ass kicked. It was then, after I whipped a few of the same asses that were whipping mine, that I was invited to be an honorary brother. I listened and ciphered out the lingo, figuring out what meant what, and what inflections went where and what words were slightly altered to mean the same thing, and sometimes have two meanings, depending on the circumstances.

I became quite proficient at Jive. On the days when I'd get to go to work with my dad at the Post Office, not the local P.O., but the bulk mail centers where he supervised an entire crew of black folks, the Jive would fly around like bees on honey. My dad had two assistant supervisors under him, both black, and when my dad would hand out daily duties, he'd give his two assistants their marching orders and they'd relay the orders to the floor workers in fluent Jive. My dad remarked to me once that he had no idea what they were saying, but whatever it was translated to the exact orders he'd given. I was maybe eight or nine at the time and I knew exactly what the assistant supervisors were saying to their co-workers. I told my dad exactly what the exchange was and the two assistants were amazed, and immediately began speaking Jive to me. The others on the floor also came over, slapping fives with me and telling me how cool they thought I was. I explained my honorary Home-boy status and how I acquired it, and they appreciated it a lot. I think it even helped my dad out with race relations, it being so strained back then in the hippy sixties of my youth. I was happy to help out my dad, in any way possible. I just never dreamed it would be that way.

Fast forward to 1980, I'm in college at Troy University with my date and we are watching "Airplane" on the big screen. It was a hilarious take on the Big Movie productions popular in the day, but campy and a bit baudy, full of gutter college humor and right up my alley. It was about a plane flight that went completely south, the pilot and co-pilot expiring from the fish dinner they chose for nourishment, and the ex-fighter pilot who reluctantly saves the day all while he patches things up with his ex-girlfriend who is a stewardess on the same trip. Midway through the flight, there are two Home-boys as passengers, and one chose the fish also and was having belly cramps, trying to explain to the stewardesses, in Jive, what the ailment was about. When the two began their exchange, the group I was with all looked at me for interpretation, seeing I was the dude from Atlanta. I started to tell them what was going on when it happened, and history was made.

"Excuse me ma'am, I speak Jive' uttered by none other than June Cleaver herself. I sat there for a split second, and busted out laughing so loud, that I had to excuse myself from the theater. I laughed about it for another thirty minutes and still laugh about it today, every time I see the movie. It seems that speaking Jive has served us both well over the years.

June Cleaver, the epitomy of cool. Now who would have ever thought those two things would ever be uttered in the same sentence?

Miscellaneous thoughts with a chicken choking tossed in

Before I get to deep into my foray of wordsmith-ing, I hope I spelled "Miscellaneous" correct in my title heading. I made up a word in my first sentence, I know that because it has a big red squiggly line up underneath it warning me of impending doom. The word was/is "wordsmith" with "ing" thrown in to show action. Think of a Blacksmith with words as a medium rather than steel or iron. Note too that I am writing this today on my most ancient of laptops, two steps shy of ancient monks having to make their own paper and use the juice of fermented beets as ink.Yes, the keys are still sticking and its damping my "writing Jones" some. It's like writing this whole thing four times with all the sticky keys and run on words. I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to writing but I dang sure ain't the butter knife either. You do anything a whole lot and eventually it becomes second nature. Write the same thing four times because of sticking keys, and you have the desire too choke the life out of something cute.

Speaking of choking the life out of something cute, here's an excerpt from a book I wrote, titled "The Train Ride". It's concerning my time in College and an urban legend about how my college football teams name came to pass and choking a chicken. I thought you might like it and I'm going to lose my mind if these keysdontst op sticking....

From; "The Train Ride" (c) 2010-2013 by Jim Hall

Before I go further I must explain our team name, the Trojans. Troy University had been called the “Red Wave” for all the years up until the year before I had arrived. Our team had mirrored the Alabama Crimson Tide’s football program in every aspect. We ran the same offensive schemes and defensive schemes and it was well known that the one and only Bear Bryant and Charlie Bradshaw were long time best friends. It was rumored that their friendship extended back to the “Junction” days and The Bear had called Coach Bradshaw, and I quote, “The meanest son-of-a-bitch he had ever met;” documented in the autobiography of Paul W. “Bear” Bryant, and more in depth in “The Thin Thirty” by Shannon P. Ragland about Bradshaw’s days at the helm of Kentucky’s football program. I could attest to the out and out meanness of the man first hand, but I still respected him, concurring with Coach Bryant’s and Mr. Ragland’s assessments. In Alabama, Bear’s autobiography was the bestselling book just this side of the Bible. The Trojans remained the Red Wave until, according to local lore, a major prophylactic manufacturer had moved into town and made a major endowment (it’s what it’s called I swear) to the College. From that point forward, we were the Trojans. The year prior to my arrival the team sported a logo exactly duplicating the logo of said rubber company on the sides of the helmets worn by its participants. It must have been one hell of a donation as far as I could tell. Thanks to the powers that be, whoever they might have been, my years on the team we just had “TROY” painted on the sides of our helmets. I guess it was a good thing Kotex or a douche bag manufacturer had not made a donation to the school making the same mascot requirements…but I digress.

The aforementioned long jump landing pit had been prepared by Bubba One as a holding pen for the Game Cock he had purchased or stolen earlier that day. The pit itself was surrounded by chicken wire and the Game Rooster was brought in a bag and thrown into the pen. This was after Bubba One shook the sack with its irritated contents spilling out in what must have been a terrifying site for a male chicken or any other manner of fowl that day. Bubba One had managed to place a paper bull’s eye of sorts on the back of the Game Rooster and had concocted a great plan. It was amazing how the redneck mind worked and I had only hoped that Bubba One had not majored in Marketing as this was my chosen field. I did not want to compete with him for a job post graduation if this stunt worked. The idea was to have ten guys with “Chaws of Tobacco” surround the pit. The object was to have each man try to spit on the game rooster with tobacco spit and the one hitting the bull’s eye was declared the winner. He’d receive two free tickets to the upcoming football game with all the comforts afforded therein. The agitated Fighting Rooster was running for what he thought was his life (if chickens have a thought process, and, survival is one of those thoughts) all the while making it nearly impossible for anyone to hit said target and win. The charade went on for what seemed like an eternity with the crowd, at first, enjoying the festivities at least as much as spitting on a replica of our rivals mascot could deliver. But the mob grew restless quickly, as mobs usually do. What seemed to be a novel idea quickly became an exercise in the absurd based on the disapproving stares of the sorority girls. Every Greek lettered southern belle sported matched jerseys and color coordinated hair ribbons that day. It was their way of designating their collective yet individual affiliation according to what sorority they had pledged.

The show was getting old fast.

What happened next will never be forgotten by those in attendance and will be seared in my memory forever. Doc, our trainer and team Doctor, was a wild man from Louisiana and most likely insane. He had left the LSU Tiger organization by request of Coach Bradshaw and had flourished at Troy. To say he was a unique individual was like saying the Sistine Chapel had a neat painting on the ceiling. This guy was a complete loose cannon, always marching to his own drummer, but a brilliant doctor. I was standing with a glazed look on my face all the while watching the debacle that had become the Gamecock tobacco spitting contest. I almost jumped out of my skin when Doc came running by me, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Gamecocks must die!!” He cleared the hastily erected chicken wire fence with the ease of a high hurdler war whooping and grabbing the Game Rooster with one hand in what appeared to be one continuous motion. He then proceeded to swing the terrified chicken over his head with his forefinger locked tightly around the neck of the defiant Gamecock. He continued to scream, war whooping at the top of his lungs swinging the bird faster and faster all to the absolute horror of the sorority girls and the delight of every male in attendance, save for some of the guys in the band.

The next thing you know Doc snapped the head of the Gamecock off, sending its headless body flying into the crowd of horrified and fear frozen sorority girls. It was obvious to me that Doc had done this before at some point in his life and was no stranger to the procedure. The screams of the girls have never left my memory banks as I witnessed the melee that ensued. It was friggin awesome.

I must pause here to reflect on what I call “a learning opportunity.” Over the years I have heard the term “he/she/it was/is running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” I learned firsthand what that particular phrase meant and I considered myself an eye witness expert from “Pep Rally” day forward. I could, if needed, be called as a professional witness to any headless chicken activities or any occasion where a headless chicken might have reeked it’s mindless terror on an unsuspecting crowd regardless of how large or small it (the crowd or the chicken) might have been. I could also say to any person (usually a mother talking about a small child) using the phrase casually, “Nah, I’ve seen a chicken with its head cut off and what it can do. Your kid is, at best, running around like a chicken with its head firmly attached and not causing nearly as much damage.” I had acquired what one might consider a Doctorate in headless chicken, with a specific emphasis on Gamecock. I realized then I had been in Alabama way too long and needed to get back to the big city, sooner rather than later.

The Gamecock went wild and headless throughout the crowd spewing blood out of its neck and clawing everything in its path. I have never witnessed a bigger riotous stampede, sorority girls running over each other (affiliations be damned, it was every man/woman for themselves) and band members scattering like marbles dropped on a hardwood floor. It was chaos akin to the final scene in Animal House where the Delta’s wreak havoc on the homecoming parade benefiting Faber College. There were passed out sorority girls with chicken blood covering their clothing laying everywhere from the stampede of Greeks avoiding the crazed and headless fighting rooster. Some girls fainted from what they had just witnessed, as delicate constitutions forbid witnessing animal sacrifice. I had become light headed with awe and reverence purely from the audacity of what Doc had just done. It was incredible to see and I am a better man for having been privileged to witness it. This was not, in any way, akin to Texas A&M’s stealing of The University of Texas’ mascot “BEVO” a massive Longhorn Steer. The story goes that A&M stole then barbequed Bevo before the much anticipated football game out of hatred for its interstate rival. It was intended to “fire up” the Aggies football team for the big game but had quite the opposite effect. Texas beat A&M like “it owed them money.” This was one small chicken and a couple a thousand people to feed. Snapping its head off was the right thing to do, in retrospect, as two legs, two wings, two thighs and two breasts were not going to satisfy this shocked and hungry crowd.

I, and the entire football team, stood in awe as the events unfolded before us. I even had to ask the co-captain standing next to me if what I had witnessed actually happened. It was as amazing a scene as I had ever witnessed in my life up to that point. The ASPCA got wind of it almost immediately and I am certain that the college paid a hefty fine with a promise of someone’s head having to roll (namely Doc’s). Doc got fired for that stunt and he immediately disappeared from campus. The newspapers showed up wanting an explanation of the events and it indeed made the national news. I guess the College’s condom fund must have gotten raided to cover the fines laid down by the Government for that stunt.

Doc went back to LSU and remained there until he retired. Over the years I would see him on TV, standing on the sidelines or attending to the injured warriors on the gridiron. Every time I saw him I laughed at his audacity and the balls that man possessed. He had single handedly produced a cock that indeed needed covering. This time it was covered with Troy University’s endowment money instead of rubber.

I told you you'd like it, didn't I?

Four weeks "in" and it's finally happened...

Well, I'm four weeks in on the blog thing and it's finally happened. I've been getting up early like I usually do, drinking my water and eating my "super toast"as my wife calls it, wheat toast with peanut butter and raisins on it with a big 32 oz. glass of ice cold water to wash it down, and typing my entire blog on my I-Phone 4s. I state the model number so you'll know this one undeniable truth: I am not trendy. I don't need to blaze any trails as far as technology is concerned. I call it my new car theory. A car is only new until you drive it off the lot, then it is used. Not AS used as most cars, but used just the same. I write this blog today on a used computer, a good ole Windows XP model, and it still somehow makes letters and I'm able to upload or download it to the same internet I-Phone 5 and whatever latest greatest operating system Microsoft offers these days on your Desktop, laptop, tablet, Android or I-Phone, automobile, and now glasses (from what I hear). Here's my point, I had (with great emphasis on HAD) written the greatest atom-splitting blog post in the history of this blog (work with me here), my right booger picker a-blazing away at just under the speed of light, way under to be exact, and then it happened. A call came in and interrupted my stream of consciousness, and I took the call. It, of course, amounted to nothing, but cost me (and you) much. When I returned to my little screen everything was in a blue box. I had no idea what that meant so I scrolled down to the bottom of my entry to put "THE END" ( I was done) and touched the screen to plant the blinking cursor at its rightful spot. When I did, the entire screen went blank. All of it, gone, no breeze blowing, no tornadoes, no thief in the night, nothing.

It was all gone.

So I'm starting over. On my trusty old laptop, bought used, with an Windows XP operating system that has a good old draft saving feature in case a call comes in or lightning strikes or the power goes out or I touch the wrong button, or fart crooked and erase the whole dang thing. The only downside is I attempt to type faster and tend to have a lot more screw ups, plus the added fact that our grandsons stayed with us over the weekend and played kiddy games on this old box. There are now some keys sticking or not functioning properly due to the fact that cookie crumbs were rained down upon the keyboard, lodging themselves under the keys and rendering them non-operative. I'm typing away here and when I look at the screen there are continuous red underlines and run on sentences. When I go back and correct my mistakes, the offending buttons "crunch", then resist my petition. There are apparently lots of partially chewed cookie crumbs or nuts under the space bar and the "e" buttons. Eating, as far as those two boys are concerned, is more like a competition with decorum and basic table manners be damned. Who, between the two of them, can eat the most the fastest is all that matters, and God help you if one thinks the other has "more". I'm having to go back and correct most every sentence I write, something I haven't had to do with my trusty I-Phone 4S. The same I-Phone 4S that betrayed me this very morning. The same one with auto-correct and a working space bar. The very same one that doesn't have a food particle stuck under the key of "e" making every word requiring the second vowel wear red underwear, causing me to manually correct each entry after I'm done (or think I am). This I know; in four short weeks I've gotten better at typing with one finger than I have with two. Not eight fingers, just two. Technology has it's finger around my throat.

Oh, the wisdom I had espoused on my original posting. I talked about big government and what you should and shouldn't say (or type) when blogging, as I read it on some other blog about writing blogs.Yep, that's right, a blog about writing blogs. I spent about ten minutes reading it and realized this; I'm not those people. I'm not a dude who needs to be told very much about how to think, how to write, how to do or don't do something some certain way. I write like I speak. I used apostrophes (apparently the death knell of writing) and use words like aren't, won't and ain't. Mark Twain did it with great success and if it's good enough for him (and it obviously was), it's good enough for me.Writing, to me, is like fashion. Rules are made to be broken. I operate under the "Hang onto your clothes long enough and they become "Vintage" and you can sell them for twice what you paid for them...to morons" theory. Meaning I'm purdy simplistic when it comes to clothes wearing. And using computers, and cars and other technology, as long as it doesn't have cookie crumbs underneath it's space bar and the "e" key. I dig the auto-save feature and will damn sure insist that the next computer I buy (used of course) will include that particular feature. It better or I'm screwed.

I've decided I'll not do any correcting on this last paragraph so you'll know whatI'm up against here. I have shaken the laptop upside down and enough crumbs havefallenout to bread a veal cutlet on both sides. I also blew out the keys till I got light headed, and that has helped some. I yanked off the "e" and "space bar" keys and found an old cell phone I lost, a paper clip, a TV remote, and a few other things I've been missing and since replaced. I'm remindedof one undenyabletruth (see what I mean) and for me it is this: Life is too short and too precious to be pissed all the time. After I realized my previous post was lost forever, I flipped open the laptop and produced what you see here.Not as good and as pure as what I originally intended, but here it is. And it happened on a Monday. If you've read any of my posts you'll know howIfeel about the day. Monday is as good a day as Friday. Being pissed off on Mondays means that if you live to be seventy, you've spent seven years of it pissed off about a day you can't avoid just short of death. If you spend Sunday's pissed about Monday inevitably coming, the you've spent fourteen years pissed about a day you cannot avoid. It's math at it's simplest and most basic form. I heard one smart fellow say, "The math don't lie"...gramatically disastrous but truth just the same. And right here that truth applies in spades. If you factor in raising kids (who most times do the exact opposite of what you want them to past twelve years old), dealing with ass-hats, the IRS, standing in line, your health, family stuff and all the other crap you are marketed into thinking will make you a better person if you own it, and then finding out it's all BS, then that alone doesn't leave a lot of time to be happy. Or what you've been led to believe happy looks like, feels like, tastes like, smells like or sounds like. Technology hasn't made me one bit happier than when I was listening to Led Zepplin 4 on the eight-track tape player in my 65 GTO. And I'm liking life as much now as I ever was then.

No one can determine what happy is for you...but you.

Have a great Monday.

Facebook philosophers and boot piss pourers

I hang out on Facebook for a few minutes every day and I realized something. Facebook is like a High School and family reunion all rolled into one, updated everyday. You can talk about every thing from philosophy, religion and politics based on facts you read on the same internet that Facebook looms on. It is interesting that a lot of guys I knew in school who could not pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel (intellectually speaking) are now Facebook philosophers, espousing everything from life quotes and marital advice. “Hell, I oughta know about marriage, I’ve been married seven times, three times to the same woman” to advice on religion “God said be fruitful and multiply…so I tried with a lot of women at the same time and all my wives objected for some reason". Motivational speaking via the keyboard “Everyone needs something to believe in, I believe I’ll have some more beer” to ” Why I hate wearing underwear”. It’s all out there to read every day…and these people have drivers licenses and can vote. Makes me wonder when it all went south.

My daughter said, “Dad do you think high school educations will go away when everybody realizes that if you have internet access and google, you are a genius?” Whoa Nellie! She has a point there. What if it actually comes to that. Every body gets a cell phone (the name WILL get changed to something like INTELLIGENCE CONFIRMATION DEVICE or something along those lines). Information will be subject to Google or Yahoo conformation, or whatever the government (at the time) utilizes for information flow to the public. That will be just before the total collapse of society as we know it.. I’m not writing a “Pelican Brief” or some futuristic manifesto here, it’s happening right now. Don't believe it? Watch one episode of Honey Boo-boo, then lets talk. The funniest part of this calamity is how these folks who obtain their information second-hand and without examination (to partially quote Twain) and espouse it as their own, claim some sort of defacto ownership and pride solely based on their ability to type fast with their thumbs, and cut and paste!

Who will run this country someday. the fastest thumb typing kid?

I’m thinking over a few things that has drastically changed since I was a kid, and I’ve come up with a few worth noting.

1. When I was a kid, staying indoors was a prison sentence and standard punishment when I “cut the fool” as I heard one Mom call it. Now a days, sending a kid outside might get the ACLU or DFACS summoned with the I-Phone 5 the same kid got as a gift for being good that week or eating all his green beans.

2. Technology was a simple thing when I was a kid. The G.I. Joe with the Kung-fu grip was a mind-boggling thing. G.I. Joe didn't have feelings he needed to share. He was a butt kicker and name taker. Now G.I. Joe has a GPS built-in for flying in the G.I. Joe plane, and he has a G.I. Joe Corvette with the road sensing suspension. And he now has a therapist. We built stuff with rocks and sticks and it was all good.

3. Forts and tree huts. It’s a rare throwback kid that builds forts and huts these days. It was the basic building block of kid society when I was a young construction worker. My long time pal Zach and I built a tree house so far up a tree his Mom nearly wouldn’t let him get up in it. I fell out of it and landed in what we called “dookey creek” because it stunk so bad. Good thing it was there or my short-term future might have involved a large pillow in my face while lying crippled in my bed. There was barely enough room for the two of us up there, but when we were, we were Kings.

4. Cars. When I was in school, any car was an awesome car. These days, if a kid doesn’t drive a BMW, Porsche, Range Rover or some other foreign car, he/she might as well quit school and take up the janitorial arts. Up side is, most of the kids driving the same fancy cars will be working for those who didn’t some day. I drove a GTO that me and a buddy built, and I was glad to have it. Our school parking lot was filled with four door cars and grandma cars and a few station wagons, but every one acknowledged that having a car, any car, was cool.

5. Playing sports was a privilege that was not taken lightly. Being in the band wasn’t taken lightly, Cheerleading meant something other than being considered dumb. You worked hard, you tried out, and sometimes you just didn’t cut the mustard and you didn’t make it. It was a valuable life lesson on hard work and perseverance. If you didn’t make it the first time, work harder and try, try again. Everybody did not get a trophy. It was life.

6. Teachers were cool. They were allowed to teach and have personalities and we were all the better for it. These great humans are being squeezed out anymore and the entirety of young society is being dumbed down to think alike. There are teachers and coaches whose influence I will never forget, some good and some bad. Either way, a learning experience was had. I got my ass paddled when I acted up and couldn’t BS my way out of it. My folks didn’t threaten to sue the school, they usually doubled down on the whipping, warning me to never show my ass at school “or else”.

I’ll add more to this as it evolves.

Talking about an old friend...

I must take a few minutes to share a word about an old friend whose murderer was caught yesterday. My friend, a fellow car dude, father, husband, grandpa, brother, best friend to some and great friend to many had his life violently taken from him four weeks ago. My friend worked in the automotive industry, owning his own repair shop he ran for 25 plus years. He has fixed more stuff on cars I've worked on and couldn't sort out than I can say grace over. He was a real stand up dude, remaining loyal to his customer base, and sometimes fixing cars for those same customers when they were broke or between jobs. He was the husband to the same woman for over 42 years. He was found by his son, a police man in our local sheriffs department, and to say he is devastated would be putting it lightly.

I live in metro Atlanta, where the crime rate and murder statistics are alive and well. Sad thing is, black on black murder and other crimes is so prevalent here, it is suppressed by the local news as much as it is by the national liberal press. I'm not sure why that is. White on black crime, on the rare occasions it occurs, is reported with venomous exuberance. Black on black crime goes mostly unnoticed as far as the news reporting agencies. Black on white crime and murder, the second highest statistical murder category, generally goes initially reported until the truth comes out as back page news in the paper. It's amazing to me that a hate crime only depends on who was doing the killing, not the poor soul who was killed. Sometimes the poor soul that was killed was a thug or a punk who ran up against a man with a carry permit and the willingness to defend himself.

My friend, the subject of today's blog, was killed in his own home. His son, the sheriffs deputy, got a call from his fathers business partner saying his father had not shown up for work that day, wasn't answering his home or cell phones, most unusual for him. His honesty and compassion, plus his quality of work and skill level meant he was never short on work. When his son drove to his fathers home, he found his dad, my friend and friend to many, stabbed to death. I've read through the years that when a killer kills with a knife, it usually only requires one or two sticks to complete the task. Any more than that means sadism and/or revenge...or worse. My buddy fought with his killer. There was evidence of a great struggle in my friends recently paid off residence, his home for thirty years. According to police reports, his final battle involved someone who must have been laying in wait for him, upset over some past infraction that was surely perpetuated by the man who came out on the short end of the struggle. But every person the press interviewed, no matter how the questions were phrased, said emphatically that my friend had no enemies. I believe that.

They caught his killer. It took a few weeks but they caught my friends murderer. It was a hate crime but won't be reported as such. A Muslim radical with a hatred for white Christians decided they would get to the land of 72 virgins by killing my friend. When captured, the killer was aloof and combative, almost sarcastic about the crime. This person said that they, as a Muslim, was required to kill the infidel. I've seen infidels in my lifetime, many in the mainstream Christian church espousing biblical wisdom and begging for money on TV. My friend was no infidel. His killer was a radical hate monger, hell bent on pleasing Allah. This person clearly stated their hatred for the United States of America, but was on the full government give away programs. Welfare, housing allowance, free food via the food stamp program, and free health care compliments of folks like my friend. Tax paying hard working citizens of this great country. My friend was on the verge of retirement. He was a happy and joy filled man. He was my friend.

R.I.P. Jerry Wheeler. You are missed.