...I Thought Turkeys Could Fly.

Inmates Running the Asylum.

2012-01-26T12:17:00.001-05:00

When I lived in Florida I referred to Georgia as a great place to be "from".

Now I'm not so sure.

Granted, when I moved to the Sunshine State from the Peach State I immediately raised the I.Q. in both places, but I managed to forget what I left behind. It's. Back.

We lovingly referred to Macon as the "Armpit of the South" due to its proliferation of paper mills, which replaced alarm clocks as the wake-up call of choice when I resided in Shorter Hall on the Mercer campus.

I'm beginning to think Atlanta may be the "Lobotomy Center" of the South. Let me explain.

Undercurrents of this idiocy have been around since 2008 when our current President was elected. Thanks to some ding-dongs under the Gold Dome the currents have become a tidal wave.

To wit, they want President Obama to appear before a Georgia Judge in a Georgia Court to prove he's a natural-born United States citizen. Because in order to legally serve as President you have to be a natural-born United States citizen.

When we moved back to the Moron State from the Sunburn State I had to, naturally, get a Georgia Driver's License. Here's what I needed to "change states"...besides having a VALID FLORIDA DRIVER'S LICENSE:

--be at least 18 years of age (covered a long time ago).
--surrender a valid out-of-state license (the term "surrender" was a leftover from that bastard Sherman's rampage through the South and should have risen several red flags, but, no.).
--have a verifiable Social Security number (it will be verified).
--provide proof of Georgia residency (current bank statement, utility bill, rental contract, or a relative with a valid Georgia Driver's License who must also be present when you apply).
--proof of identity (yes, finally, here's the good part)--birth certificate, marriage license, immigration card, and so on.

So I go to the Department of Driver Services office in Cumming, Georgia with my Florida Driver's License, Social Security Card, bank statement, Mama, my birth certificate and marriage license.

And waited. And waited, and waited some more.

Three and a half hours later my number was called and I approached the bench. To be stared down by Nurse Ratched's sister, recently relieved of her Milledgeville duties and now a cheerful employee of the DDS, paid by me and you. Our tax dollars hard at work.

I dutifully presented my life history on paper, got my picture took, and was the proud possessor (not owner) of a Georgia Driver's License.

I'm sure there are numerous felony cases waiting to be heard by the courts of our fair state, but someone, somewhere, has decided the "birther" case is more important.

There's tax reform, education bills, and the like that need to be addressed by our Legislature.

Instead our officials are ~~wasting~~ spending their time--and our money--on this non-issue.

If it gets big enough it will probably cost Republicans this state in November.

I think we should send 'em all to the local DDS office for a while. As a customer. That should do it.

Bar Stool Economics.

2012-01-20T08:58:00.002-05:00

A friend of mine emailed me the following...I don't know who wrote it, but I wish I did. Plagiarism at its unadulterated best:

Suppose that every day, ten men go out for beer and the bill for all ten comes to $100. If they paid their bill the way we pay our taxes, it would go something like this…

The first four men (the poorest) would pay nothing.
The fifth would pay $1
The sixth would pay $3
The seventh would pay $7
The eighth would pay $12
The ninth would pay $18
The tenth man (the richest) would pay $59

So, that’s what they decided to do.

The ten men drank in the bar every day and seemed quite happy with the arrangement, until one day, the owner threw them a curve ball. “Since you are all such good customers,” he said, “I’m going to reduce the cost of your daily beer by $20″. Drinks for the ten men would now cost just $80.

The group still wanted to pay their bill the way we pay our taxes. So the first four men were unaffected. They would still drink for free. But what about the other six men ? How could they divide the $20 windfall so that everyone would get his fair share?

They realized that $20 divided by six is $3.33. But if they subtracted that from everybody’s share, then the fifth man and the sixth man would each end up being paid to drink his beer.

So, the bar owner suggested that it would be fair to reduce each man’s bill by a higher percentage the poorer he was, to follow the principle of the tax system they had been using, and he proceeded to work out the amounts he suggested that each should now pay.

And so the fifth man, like the first four, now paid nothing (100% saving).
The sixth now paid $2 instead of $3 (33% saving).
The seventh now paid $5 instead of $7 (28% saving).
The eighth now paid $9 instead of $12 (25% saving).
The ninth now paid $14 instead of $18 (22% saving).
The tenth now paid $49 instead of $59 (16% saving).

Each of the six was better off than before. And the first four continued to drink for free. But, once outside the bar, the men began to compare their savings.

“I only got a dollar out of the $20 saving,” declared the sixth man. He pointed to the tenth man,”but he got $10!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” exclaimed the fifth man. “I only saved a dollar too. It’s unfair that he got ten times more benefit than me!” “That’s true!” shouted the seventh man. “Why should he get $10 back, when I
got only $2? The wealthy get all the breaks!”

“Wait a minute,” yelled the first four men in unison, “we didn’t get anything at all. This new tax system exploits the poor!”

The nine men surrounded the tenth and beat him up.

The next night the tenth man didn’t show up for drinks so the nine sat down and had their beers without him.
But when it came time to pay the bill, they discovered something important. They didn’t have enough money between all of them for even half of the bill!

And that, boys and girls, journalists and government ministers, is how our tax system works. The people who already pay the highest taxes will naturally get the most benefit from a tax reduction. Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just may not show up anymore. In fact, they might start drinking overseas, where the atmosphere is somewhat friendlier.

The End Of An Era. Again.

2012-01-13T14:21:00.000-05:00

I check the online edition of the Barnesville, Georgia, Herald-Gazette almost daily. I need to know who's died, who's living, and other assorted happenings from the Mayberry I grew up in.

It was here where I read Carter's Drug Store was closing.

I remember going to Carter's when I was a young boy. Mr. J. R. Smith would send me there, just around the corner from the Ford place, to pick up cigars for him. Yes, at six or seven years old, I could walk into Carter's and get Mr. Smith half-a-dozen Hav-A-Tampa Coronas. Without identification. And without money.

All I had to say was "Mr. Smith needs some cigars", and Mr. Stoney Carter would hand them to me, write the items down on a sales pad, and send me on my way. I was stimulating the economy by using credit before I was in the second grade.

For what it's worth, I could do similar things at Shelor's Drug Store down Main Street, Otis Roberts' Florist, and Burnette's Grocery, to name a few. Mr. Jim Murphy had a jewelry repair shop across the "square" from Carter's. Bought clothes at Romeo's Fine Men's Wear and Mansour's. Saw Santa at Wisebram's (strange that a Jewish store owner would have Santa, but hey--money's money). Bought my first ex-fiancee's engagement ring at Moore and Zorn's Jewelers.

I could walk across the railroad tracks from the Ford place to the Dairy Queen and Mrs. Pritchett would start grilling my hamburger before I got in the door. And give me a squeeze bottle of ketchup instead of those annoying little packets.

They're all gone now, along with Davis-Cooper Ford (which is what J. R. Smith Ford became), Daddy's Amoco Station (replaced by a McDonald's), the Frosty Palace, McConnell's and McClellan's Five and Dime, and just about everything else I grew up with.

It was at Carter's that I encountered some cadets from Gordon Military College (then Gordon Junior College, now just Gordon College) one day. As I gathered Mr. Smith's cigars one of the cadets asked me who my "old man" was.

I told them I didn't have an old man, but my Daddy was Roscoe Berry. They just laughed.

I'd pick up the phone and tell Miss Sara I wanted to talk to Daddy and she'd connect me. We thought we'd gone big-time when we got dial phones. Our number was 358-3404 and you didn't have to dial the area code first.

We got air-conditioning in our house when I was twelve or thirteen. Before that we used a "draw-fan" to keep the air stirring in the daytime and cool the house at night. We left the windows open and the cars unlocked.

There's more--so much more--but suffice it to say I miss ~~Mayberry~~ Barnesville.

An Indiana Christmas. Apparently.

2011-12-27T12:22:00.003-05:00

One of my daughters-in-law is from the state of Indiana, otherwise known as the "Hoosier State".

Unlike Lumpkin County, Georgia, where the word "hoosier" would always be followed by "daddy", no one can say why Indiana is known by this nickname or what the word even means. What's a Hoosier? I don't know, nor does anyone else. I researched it on the Intraweb to no avail.

But I digress.

Friday (Christmas Eve Eve here in Georgia) a truck carrying at least 40,000 pounds of ice cream overturned on an Interstate 69 on-ramp, releasing over twenty tons of Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, Chocolate Chip, and whatever else Edy's Ice Cream makers make all over the road.

But that's not the real story.

Click on the link above and you'll see a picture of an Indiana Health Inspector inspecting the Interstate Sundae and declaring "Looks good to me...sell it."

I am not making this up. Apparently most of the ice cream was "salvageable" and therefore, fit for sale and consumption. Which makes me think of Jerry Clower.

He and I were eating breakfast one morning at a Shoney's restaurant. For the uninitiated, Shoney's had a breakfast trough with enough food to choke a horse. Bacon, eggs, grits, biscuits, and gravy on one end and an IV with straight cholesterol on the other. Take your pick, the results would be the same.

Anyway, I got some "breakfast potatoes" at the "breakfast bar" and sat down to eat across from Jerry. He looked at my plate and asked "Whatchu got theyah, Rayanday?" When I told him they were "breakfast potatoes" he replied, "Son, I grew up poor, but I was never so poor I had to eat taters for breakfast."

And like he said, I grew up poor, but I was never so poor that I had to eat ice cream scraped from off of the highway.

But then, I'm not from Indiana. Hoosier Daddy?

My Thrown-Up Christmas List.

2011-12-20T17:03:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year...

The War on Christmas has given way to Occupy Christmas. Happening at malls all around the country.

It's been in the mid-60s here in the North Georgia Mountains. This time last year it was in the mid-20s. Global warming has arrived in the Blue Ridge.

We saw some friends last Sunday we hadn't seen in over thirty years. The Queen is still the only person from her class who hasn't changed since college. Still beautiful.

The South Florida contingent will be arriving for Christmas today. There will be approximately 378 family members and two big-ass granddogs in a house on the lake for the holiday. Should be interesting.

I love Dairy Queen.

We've been attending the Methodist church for the last few months. I can't believe I said that, but there, I said it.

Dahlonega at Christmas. There's nowhere else like it. Transplanted furriners who loved our town for what it was, moved here, and then told us how it should be changed.

I really, really dislike Yankees. When the great General Robert E. Lee referred to them as "those people" he was being kind.

I realized that if my two sons don't get busy there will soon be no Berrys to carry on the family name that aren't in jail or in hiding.

I really, really love Mustangs. Except the Mustang II which was a dressed-up Pinto.

You really can't fix stupid.

I'm extremely thankful for all 2011 has brought to me and my family. God has been gracious in His blessing, allowing us to reconnect with some old friends and keeping others away.

May 2012 bring more of the same.

A Hard Candy Christmas

2011-12-15T16:22:00.000-05:00

I'll be fine and dandy, it's like a hard candy Christmas
I'll barely make it through tomorrow, but I won't let sorrow bring me way down
--Dolly Parton, "Hard Candy Christmas" lyrics

I couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old.

I was sitting in the middle of our living room floor, surrounded by the wrapping paper of what was left of what once was a pile of presents under a big Christmas tree in the corner.

I asked Daddy, "What was the best Christmas present you ever got?"

I'll never forget his answer. It haunts me this time every year.

"Son, a good Christmas for us was when we got an orange and a candy stick."

That was the answer. The entire answer. I never asked again.

Even at that age I felt ashamed at all the toys, books, and clothes I received, knowing that Daddy had never, ever had a Christmas like that.

We always went to Grandpa and Grandma Berry's on Christmas Day. They lived up on Wahsega Road, about six miles outside Dahlonega. The house is still there, Daddy's and Uncle Johnny's initials still etched in the chimney they helped erect in 1932. Daddy was twelve, Uncle Johnny thirteen.

Grandma and Grandpa had a Christmas tree, too. I can still see it next to the fireplace, the only source of heat for the entire house. It was one they had cut from their land, lit with old bare-wired lights, trimmed with older glass ornaments.

They didn't have electricity until after World War II. They never had indoor plumbing (i.e. a toilet). Grandma's phone number was 4-3128 (didn't need the "86" before the "4" in the prefix until they got "dial phones"). Most of the time you just picked up the phone and asked for whomever you wanted to talk to.

It's amazing what you remember.

I never, ever lacked for anything. Mama and Daddy made sure of that.

But sometimes I wonder how Grandma did it.

I bitch and moan if my cell signal's weak. Grandma cooked on a wood-burning stove.

I whine if my television's satellite signal is interrupted by the weather. Grandma milked her cows until the week before she passed away.

I drive to work every day. I still remember Mama and Daddy talking about walking everywhere they went, as did most folks who lived up here during that time.

It's Christmas again, and if we spent as much time talking about the meaningful things in life rather than what we don't have, can't do, or wish we had, we'd be much better off.

I'll be fine and dandy. Because Mama and Daddy had a lot of hard candy Christmases.

Leadership. Or Not.

2011-11-18T14:03:00.001-05:00

I make no secret of the fact that ~~I detest~~ I'm not a fan of the Florida Gators, but there's one former player that I have to admire on several different levels.

Tim Tebow.

He's been glorified, vilified, deified, and denigrated. Sometimes by the same people.

I read FBC Jax Watchdog almost daily, and today the blogger talked about Tim Tebow. And leadership.

In a day when leadership from the "White House to the Church house" is sorely lacking, Tebow offers an old but fresh perspective.

I hope my fellow blogger won't mind me lifting these passages from his post:

"There aren't many Christians who have had to endure public criticism like Tim Tebow has. Sure, he has many supporters who love him, but within his chosen profession he has many detractors. Sports writers have criticized him for being so public about his faith, unfairly criticizing him because he prays while he plays, and always mentions Jesus Christ when he gives his post-game conferences.

The criticism has been unrelenting. Criticizing anything and everything. Writers and fans have criticized him personally, his motives in being open about his faith, his stance on abortion, even criticizing he and his mother for a pro-life commercial aired during the Super Bowl. They even criticize how he does his job, his throwing motion, people doubting he even has the basic skills required to be an NFL quarterback...You name it - about his profession, his abilities, his family, and his faith - he has been criticized non-stop.

How does he handle it? Does he complain about his complainers? Does he criticize his criticizers? Does he try to shame the reporters who ask asinine questions?

Does Tim Tebow tell people about how great he is, or how important his "calling" is and how people should respect him? Does he call on other people to stop the criticizers? Is he worried one bit about the criticism?

No way. Never, not one time has Tebow retaliated or complained or criticized his criticizers. He just does his job and he lives out his faith. He has always done it his whole life, and he continues to do it now on a national stage and it just amazes reporters because they've never seen anything like it. A Christian acting like...well, a Christian.

Perfect example of this was last night after he led his team from behind to beat the New York Jets on a last-second 20-yard touchdown run on national TV. He came out to speak to the NFL Network sportscasters after the game. One of the talking heads, Deion Sanders, asked this question:

"Of course these fans in Denver, they love you. But nationally, I've never seen a guy that provokes so much talk, good or bad. What do you feel attributes to that?"

Tebow probably should have asked him "attributes to that"? What does that mean? Instead, Tebow answered:

"You know, I'm not sure, but I know one thing is I am extremely blessed. God has blessed me with so many people that support me, a great family that supports me, great teammates and a coaching staff and that's what I'm focused on."

Then Sanders follows up with this doozy, still saying that Tim "provokes" the criticism:

"Do you feel like it is your throwing motion, is it your faith, what is it that provokes anger or hatred or disdain from some journalists and publicists?"

Tebow simply smiled and answered:

"You know, I'm not sure, something I learned early in college was to not worry about what I can't control, and that is something I can't control. But what I can control is my attitude, my effort, my focus, every single day, and that is what I'm trying to worry about."

Wow. Words of wisdom from a young man that seminary-trained pastors need to learn from. Tebow could have used that question to blast critics, or claim he is attacked for his faith. He could have told Deion Sanders what an absolutely stupid question that is, that he doesn't "provoke" anyone. He could talk about how hurtful it is to his family to have to see him be criticized, and talk about how it makes his job no fun at all.

Tim just fields the questions with a smile, is a nice, polite person, and respectfully answers all questions, even the very stupid ones. Like maybe a Christian would do.

This is what true leaders are made of. Leaders who inspire others to greatness don't pay attention to the critics, they don't portray themselves as victims or martyrs. They just stay focused on the task at hand, they praise their fellow workers, and are grateful for being granted the opportunity to lead. They don't behave as though they have a God-given right to be the leader. They respect everyone, even the critic, and they focus on the positive.

Tim's leadership has caused his team to rally around him. He was named the starter when his team lost 4 of their first 5 games with Kyle Orton as quarterback, and now the team has rallied around their new leader by keeping the games close and allowing Tebow to win them in the end.

Tebow is 4-1 as a starter. Kyle Orton was 1-4 as a starter.

Kyle Orton was the one who was supposed to lead the Broncos this year. He was the one with the training, experience, and credentials. He was the chosen one.

But the real leader has emerged, the one who can inspire his teammates. Now Tebow is the leader of the Broncos and he is grateful for the opportunity, and doesn't take it for granted, and you can bet it won't get to his head. He does nothing but publicly praise his teammates and coaching staff for their hard work.

So pastors, learn from young Tim Tebow. He's a leader. Some of you are crybaby tyrants, demanding respect and love from those you want to lead, and complaining about those who don't succumb to your leadership. You may be in charge, but you won't be a leader who inspires.

Thanks, Tim, for being such a great example."

Real leadership doesn't have to tout its merits. Nor do real leaders.

Our Entitlement Mentality.

2011-11-14T14:02:00.001-05:00

What a couple of weeks it's been. The "Occupy" movement, Joe Paterno/Penn State, Hummon Cain, etc. My head hurts.

However, I noticed a common thread running through all the news reports, commentators, articles, and blogs. A variation on one word: deserve.

"Deserve", by definition, is "to be worthy, fit, or suitable for some reward or requital". I'm not sure anyone, anywhere, at any time in the last couple of weeks (or longer) has even glanced at the dictionary.

The "occupiers" say that 1% of the people have the majority of the wealth and that they, the "99-Percent-ers", deserve to have their "fair share".

Joe Paterno, ingloriously ousted as Penn State's head football coach in the midst of an awful child sex-abuse investigation, "deserves" better.

(As an aside, I'm steaming over this. Bobby Bowden gets fired for losing. Paterno gets fired for this. JoePa got the worst deal of the two. I don't understand. And my head hurts.)

Herman Cain is accused ~~once~~ ~~twice~~ numerous times of sexual harassment. Innocent? Perhaps. Tainted? Definitely. His supporters unequivocally say he doesn't deserve this treatment.

(In Hummon's case it's like wrestling with a skunk. You might win, but you're still gonna stink.)

We have mixed up our definitions. Folks are using "deserve" when what they actually mean is "entitled" (same dictionary--I love the Interweb--says that "entitle" means "to give a right" to someone about something).

For instance, the OccuWhiners say they deserve some (or all, I can't tell) of the wealth those awful One Percenters have earned or inherited (or stolen, I can't tell). What they really mean is that, by virtue of their ~~being alive~~ current position in society, they are entitled to this. One ~~idiot~~ person said that they had over $35,000 in student loans. For a degree in puppetry. I looked, and there are no "Help Wanted" ads for recently graduated puppeteers. Either it's a very volatile puppet-operators market, or there's no demand at all. Either way, it sucks to be him.

Anyway, he's part of the movement now because, guess what? He can't find a job. Apparently the college's job-placement folks aren't doing their job-placing very well in his case.

My Princess has a Business degree from a well-respected, four-year university. And the student loans to match. She's part of an "occupy" movement as well. She occupies her first part-time job at the Outlet Mall in Dawsonville four or five days a week, before she drives fifteen miles in the opposite direction to "occupy" her other part-time job at a beauty salon for three days a week.

Does she "deserve" better? Absolutely. Is she "entitled" to better? Absolutely NOT.

Several factors contribute to her situation--the economy, her degree, geography, availability. etc. But, instead of bitching and moaning about her situation in front of the camera, she...works. Two jobs. And still can't pay everything she owes.

If I'm in the 1%, then I'm 99% sure I'm 100% disgusted with hearing about what all these folks "deserve" every time I turn the TV on or read the news.

A wise man once said that we'd better be glad we don't get what we "deserve". Or, as far as that goes, what we're "entitled' to.

I agree.

My Veteran

2011-11-11T11:13:00.001-05:00

I've said this before...

I'm thankful on this Veteran's Day for all the men and women who served in our military during peacetime and war. My uncle Robert was an Army Medic with the forces who stormed Normandy. I don't know all that he saw, but I know he gave me a Nazi blanket that he brought home after the war. He never talked about his service, and I never asked.

My cousin Raymond was a career Air Force man, retiring after more than 20 years, many of them during the Vietnam War. Thankfully he never had to go to Vietnam. Every time I asked him what his job was he told me he ran the bowling alley. I still don't know what he did, and I think that if he told me the truth he'd have to kill me. I'm glad I don't know.

My uncle Johnny was at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the "day which will live in infamy" and was on his way to church when the bombs started dropping. He spent the rest of the war in the Pacific theater.

Which brings us to my dad. Roscoe Athens Berry joined the Army in late December 1941, after growing up poor in the northeast Georgia mountain town of Dahlonega. He was twenty-one years old. While this was where America's first major gold rush happened, from pictures and handed-down stories I don't think my Dad saw any of that wealth. He grew up in the country, raised by self-sufficient parents, Miles and Pearl, who grew the vegetables and raised the livestock they survived on.

I've seen pictures of Daddy at Civilian Conservation Corps camps from Rock Eagle, Georgia to Wilmington, North Carolina. He looks young and skinny...not malnourished, but like James Taylor says, "soft as smoke and hard as nails". Life is in front of him and he looks up to the challenge.

Then comes the war.

Daddy went from Fort Bragg to San Francisco to Guam, the Phillipines, Guadacanal, Samoa, New Zealand, and Australia. He told me one time that if he could live anywhere else in the world it would be New Zealand (Mama used to tell me I might have some relatives there...I don't know).

He never talked about his experiences voluntarily. If I asked him specifics he'd tell me, in short answers, what happened. I asked him once if he ever saw anyone die. He told me about spending a silent night in a two-man foxhole only to find his partner dead of a slit throat when the sun came up the next morning. He wondered why the Japanese didn't kill him as well.

Dad came out of the Army with Sergeant's stripes as a part of the 82nd Airborne Division and stayed in the reserves for some time after that. I used to wear his dress uniform jacket and hat when I was four or five years old. I don't know when he got rid of it, but one day it was gone.

If my dad, and thousands like him, had not been willing to serve we wouldn't enjoy the freedom we have today. No wonder they're called the "greatest generation". They did what they had to do, without complaining or making a big deal out of their service. It was what we would call today a strong work ethic. It was what they called doing the right thing.

In this age of putrid self-glorification there are few people who would do what they did without wanting everyone to notice and praise them.

Daddy taught me about patriotism. When we'd have parades in my hometown and the flag would pass by, he'd stand at attention and put his hand over his heart. There were times I thought it was corny and old-fashioned.

Oh, to stand next to him one more time and salute the flag.

When Dad died we draped an American flag on his casket. It's still folded like it was the day Mr. Matt Haisten gave it to my Mama. My sweetheart framed it for me and it sits on the bookcase right next to Daddy's picture in his dress uniform, smiling confidently at the world.

Every day I want to live up to his example.

Every day I miss him. And Uncle Robert, and Uncle Johnny. But mostly him.

I didn't say it often enough when I could have. And should have.

Thank you, Daddy. I love you.

Velma Coppage.

2011-11-04T18:47:00.000-04:00

Mama always said if you're going to say something nice about somebody, say it while they're here.

My mother-in-law, Velma Floyce Milton Coppage, is here. But she's not. She's one of the sweetest, humblest women I've ever known. I can name on one hand (with fingers left over) all the people I've known whom I've never heard say anything bad about anybody. Velma is one of them. Her qualities live in the woman I love, so I get to see her every day.

Velma has Alzheimer's and is in an assisted living facility in Vero Beach, Florida. The Queen, Princess, and I last saw her earlier this year when one of the Princes got married. She was so happy to see us...but I think she was happy anytime she saw anyone. She kept saying "I'm so glad y'all came to see me". It hurt in a sweet way.

My Queen lives nine hours and a world away from her Mama. Mine's ten minutes away. It's rough on her, not being able to see or talk to her Mama. I talk to my Mama every day. It's not fair, or right.

It's hard to find a good woman, and you can't find Mamas like mine and Jennie's.

My heart breaks when I think of Velma. The other side of that is that she's happy. By default.

I heard a while back that Glen Campbell had Alzheimer's and was embarking on his self-confessed "last tour". He wanted to play one more time while he still could, and he has his children playing with him.

This song is called "Ghost On The Canvas"...my favorite lyrics are

We dream in color, others they color their dreams
It takes one to know one...the spirit always knows what it sees

If the Spirit knows what it sees, I'm not worried about Mama, or Velma. God watches over them, and that's good enough for me.

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Florida Gators: Profanity, No. Stupidity, Yes.

2011-10-19T09:56:00.001-04:00

I make no secret of the fact that I ab-so-lute-ly detest the Florida Gators. Remember that, because that's the last time I'll write the name of that team in this post.

They're arrogant, cocky, and obnoxious. While FSU has to make sure all their players are out of jail by Friday for a Saturday game, apparently the Alachua County Sheriff's Department just runs a bus full of players to the stadium the day of the game.

Last Saturday they played Auburn (let's not go there as well). Will Muschamp apologized yesterday for using profanity on the sidelines during the game.

Now, let's not be naive. Football is a man's game, and men sometimes use profanity to express themselves. I'm from the South. We call it "cussing".

So the Coach Cussed. Not a big deal. It only became one because ESPN (again, not going there), broadcasting the game, thought it would be a good idea to mike everybody and everything that was said on the sideline.

A train wreck just waiting to happen.

The picture of Coach Expletive above could have been taken anytime, anywhere. It's one of his better angles. Here, shoot me doing THIS. No, wait, just shoot me.

And his apology?

"I do want to apologize for my language on the sidelines the other night," Muschamp said. "That's not something that's going to be tolerated here at the University of Florida, first of all, by me and our program.

Let me see if I understand this. The coach cussed, it's not going to be tolerated by the school or by him or his program.

Isn't putting the person who stole your car in charge of protecting it kind of stupid?

I can't wait to see how he disciplines himself. After that, the intolerant school will also have to do something, and last of all the program itself will smack him around. Because none of me will tolerate what I did, as will not the Archer Avenue Trade School, neither nor the ~~Alachua County Sheriff's Department~~ university's Athletics Program.

What have we learned here today?

--Don't cuss. Especially on live television.
--If you do cuss, you'd better go easy when you give yourself a whipping because there are others waiting in line for their turn.
--Apologize, but don't.

Makes perfect sense if you're ~~a Gator~~ one of "those people".

Occupy.

2011-10-11T17:17:00.001-04:00

I've heard it on the radio, seen it on television, read about it online.

Occupy DC. Occupy Wall Street. Occupy Atlanta.

This "occupying" stuff ain't new to me. I witnessed it in fifth grade at Gordon Grammar School.

The seventh- and eighth-graders decided to stage a protest march. Against Math.

Did you know I scored 1260 on my SAT? It had four English sections and one Math section. Thank God.

Math has never been my strong suit. But, like that great humanitarian Jethro Bodine, I can do my times tables.

Ought times ought is ought. Ought times one is ought. Ought times two is ought.

I could go on like this for hours. But I digress.

The "upperclassmen" made signs and walked out of class. They marched around the buildings, they occupied the sidewalks and the playground.

Looking back, I'm surprised they didn't do what a lot of protestors back then did--go home and burn their houses down.

Eventually they put their signs down, returned to class, and finished Math. And all the other subjects.

Signs and tents and marching don't make a protest. The same corporations "those people" (the great General Robert E. Lee's term of affection for the Yankee hoard) are railing against paid for the parks, the benches, and the lights they're using to stage their protests by.

I understand that soon they're going to march on some rich folks' houses in New York City. I say have at it. I bet those folks know their numbers.

Like 911.

The Nancy Hanks.

2011-09-28T15:10:00.000-04:00

I don't tell her often enough or quite well enough, but I really do love my Mama.

She and my sister Susie are "one-of-a-kinds"--sweet with a backbone of steel, sensitive and blunt, they're everything to me.

I don't know what got me thinking about this today, but some of my fondest childhood memories come from riding the Central of Georgia Railroad's Nancy Hanks from Barnesville to Atlanta.

Every now and then Mama and I would board the train at the Barnesville Depot and make the scenic haul to downtown Atlanta. Once off the train we'd go to since-forgotten places like Rich's, Davison's, and the S&W Cafeteria.

It was on the Nancy Hanks that I saw a steward in the Grill Car pour a six-and-a-half ounce Coca-Cola (the only genuine Coke) into a glass without producing any foam or spilling a drop. This was done by flipping the bottle completely upside down almost to the bottom of the glass and removing it as the Coke filled it up.

It was Ice-Cold, delicious, and I haven't had any Coke since that tasted as good.

As for the glass-pouring Coke trick, don't try this at home. I tried it to impress my children, I didn't, and Coke is really sticky when it's all over the glass, the counter, and the floor.

I can still smell the aroma of burning diesel, hear the conductor say "All 'boooarrrrd!" and feel electric motors whirring, causing the clackety-clackety-clack on the iron tracks as we sped through places like Aldora, Milner, Griffin, Southside, Jonesboro, and finally rolling into Atlanta. Whistles blowing all the way.

We'd walk from Terminal Station up to Rich's. I can't remember one thing Mama bought there, but I do remember riding the Pink Pig at Christmastime and falling in love with books while at Rich's.

The Charl-Mont restaurant was in Davison's, just up Peachtree Street from Rich's. Probably the best hamburger I ever had came from there, and Mama drank coffee from the first clear-glass coffee cup I'd ever seen. She didn't even "saucer" it before drinking it. My Mama, what a lady.

Sometimes we'd cross the Mezzanine at Rich's (site of Atlanta's Great Christmas Tree) and go the the S&W Cafeteria. The only thing I remember eating there was dessert--well, not really dessert. I had some cake with whipped cream on it (real whipped cream, not some pasty-foamy mess out of a spray can or tub). I told Mama I thought I could eat a bowl of that stuff and she got the waiter to bring me some.

Food for thought--not only can you NOT drink an entire gallon of milk in an hour (don't ask), you also CANNOT eat a bowl of genuine whipped cream. I know this.

At the end of the day we'd get back on the train and watch the sun set on the trip back to Barnesville. I'd rest my head on the best pillow I've ever known--Mama's shoulder--and sleep all the way home.

Clackety-clackety-clack.

Terminal Station was demolished in 1970, Amtrak took over the railroads, and the rest, as they say, is history.

But I can still see the horseshoe seal on the engine car of the Nancy Hanks. And I still have my memories...and my Mama.

But oh, for one more train ride.

A Baptist By Any Other Name.

2011-09-26T13:56:00.002-04:00

Looks like my ~~former~~ beloved Southern Baptist Convention is considering changing their name.

I'm reminded of that great theologian Lewis Grizzard who once had to comment on the Dixie Redcoat Band at the University of Georgia changing their name in order to become politically correct:

That prompted my stepbrother, Ludlow Porch, the famous radio talk show personality, to fire off a letter to the editor suggesting the following: "I applaud the dropping of 'Dixie' from the name of the University of Georgia band, but let us not stop there.

"How can we allow the word 'red,' which stands for communism? And the word 'redcoat' itself is an affront to the memory of all those Americans who fought against the redcoats of England in the Revolutionary War.

"And 'band.' Pancho Villa had a 'band' of desperadoes and we had to send brave young soldiers to Mexico after him. So 'band' should go, too, and that just leaves 'The,' which is a dumb name for a large number of musicians, so I guess they're just out of a name altogether."

So, using that set of parameters, let's change the name of the SBC.

"Southern" definitely has to go. The SBC has churches on every corner of every town in the South and has been making inroads on every corner of every town in every other part of the world for years. "Southern" no longer applies. And it's politically incorrect since the first thing the word "Southern" reminds me of is The War of Northern Aggression. And let's face it, I'm probably the only unbiased arbiter of politically correct definitions you'll find.

"Baptist" won't survive, either, since most SBC members (especially pastors, paid staff members, denominational employees, etc.) have been fighting (see "Southern", above, for clarification) over what it means to be "Baptist" for years. Theology doesn't make you Baptist. Cooperation sure won't make you Baptist. Attendance doesn't qualify you, since, ministerially speaking, SBC church members comprise the largest Protestant denomination in the world. But you can't find most of 'em in church on Sunday.

What's the difference between a Baptist and a Methodist? A Methodist will speak to you in the liquor store.

"Convention" will never make the cut. Sounds too much like politics (see "Southern", above, for clarification). SBC churches hold State and nationwide "Conventions" once a year, but that doesn't qualify them as a true convention. How do I know? I looked it up.

The primary definitions of "convention" are Noun. 1. A way in which something is usually done, esp. within a particular area or activity. 2. Behavior that is considered acceptable or polite to most members of a society.

I've observed Southern Baptists for years, both from the inside and outside. Trust me on this one...only Number 1 comes close to defining them ("That's the way we've always done it" is the National Motto for Southern Baptists, see "Southern", above, for clarification). They've never even come close to Number 2.

So, that leaves the former Southern Baptist Convention with "The", which, to paraphrase Ludlow Porch, is a stupid name for a large number of church people, so I guess they're just out of a name altogether.

Not to worry, though. SBC folks are a resilient, stubborn bunch. It won't be long before they'll be arguing over how to use "The".

Two Methodists, two Presbyterians, and two Baptists were stranded on a desert island. The two Methodists promptly started the First Methodist Church. The two Presbyterians started the First Presbyterians started the First Presbyterian Church. The two Baptists started First Baptist Church. And Second Baptist Church.

I have a suggestion for a new name. Believers Untied under the Term "The". Or "BUTT" for short.

That oughta fix things.

Boycotting Georgia.

2011-09-24T13:51:00.001-04:00

I know y'all thought I'uz dead, but no...I'm not.

On that note, I read in the AJC today that the filmmaker Michael Moore is telling folks to boycott Georgia over the execution earlier this week of Troy Davis.

I've been boycotting Michael Moore the entire time he's been making movies. I hope it hurt.

He also ordered his publisher to pull all his books from Georgia bookstores. I didn't know he could write.

He also told all who would listen not to travel to Georgia. He's apparently a big proponent of any vehicle which is a hybrid and not made in America. For the record, I've never seen a Prius on any road besides an Interstate highway, and they've never been going less than 90 miles an hour. I understand they have great acceleration.

In addition, Mr. Moore (Daddy told me to always show respect to all people, even idiots) directed his followers not to buy anything made in Georgia or do business with anyone in Georgia. This will eliminate all those who heed the call to boycott IBM, Kia, cotton, chickens, and most vegetables. The results are predictable.

I, for one, have resolved to continue my boycott of Michael Moore. And Alec Baldwin. And most of the Hollywood elites.

But I do issue a personal invitation to them to visit Georgia, the North Georgia mountain area in particular. We're a hospitable, gracious people up here.

And we own a lot of guns. And land where we can hide things that will never be found.

The Move.

2011-09-05T11:59:00.000-04:00

My son Carder and his sweetheart Megs moved from St. Petersburg to Duluth over the weekend (for the uninformed, that's Florida to Georgia, not Russia to Minnesota).

And I helped.

Thursday, September 1, 6:30pm--we leave Georgia and head south to the Sunshine State. Traffic's not too bad. On this Labor Day weekend Atlanta would host the following:

--Georgia vs. Boise State
--Georgia Tech vs. the Lorraine Girls' School
--the Falcons vs. Lamar County High School
--the Braves and Dodgers (the hated Dodgers)
--the AdvoCare 500 (this was once the Atlanta 500) at Atlanta Motor Speedway (which is actually in Hampton, Georgia, but I suppose the Hampton 500 would sound like a motel race)
--DragonCon (Trekkies, Star Wars, a virtual plethora of Science Fiction fans)

In other words, a traffic nightmare. We left just ahead of all these events, but would return in the middle of them. More on that later.

7:38pm--we stop to eat at Cracker Barrel, the Indigestion Pit Stop of the Interstates. The Princess observes that there is a marked difference between "Southern" and "Country". This is based on the folks sitting across from us. They are Country. We are Southern. And yes, there is a difference. It has to do with the volume and content of conversation.

8:21pm--gassing up at WalMart (we'd already gassed up in one sense at Cracker Barrel. This would become very apparent in another hour or so.). The Princess had me clean off dog-slobber from the interior windows of her Focus. I'm surprised Jackson the Wonder Dog has any fluids inside him after cleaning the rear windows.

11:13pm--we stop at the Berry Memorial Exit 5, Lake Park, Georgia, to get gas. Again. The pumps aren't working properly, there's only one guy working the entire store, and it takes over twenty minutes to get nine gallons of gas. This does not bode well for the remainder of the trip.

11:42pm--we leave Georgia, enter the Sunshine State, and immediately raise the I.Q. in both places.

Things were pretty uneventful until we reached Wildwood, Florida, home of the Truckstops of America Truck Stop. Welcome the Department of Redundancy Department.

The restrooms were upstairs...upstairs. Don't know what you'd do if you were on crutches, etc. We got snacks and such and as we were paying for them the Princess noticed that for sale, at this location, was "Something Truckers Love"--a small bottle of a solution called "Rock-Hard Weekend". I am not making this up. And I don't know why only Truckers would Love this Something called "Rock-Hard Weekend".

And you had to ask for it. Couldn't just pick it up and put it with your other stuff. Yes, I'll have a bag of chips, a Coke, that hair comb, and oh, a bottle of Rock-Hard Weekend.

We laughed all the way to St. Pete, where we arrived at 3:48am September 2.

Friday we loaded the Y'all-Haul, including "Mom's Attic", a little space just above the cab. Don't know who's Mama would choose that over a normal attic, but apparently someone's did and hence, the name.

Friday night we went to the Pub at Tampa, a pretentiously British bar and grill (as if there's any other type of British anything). I ordered a beer, they brought it, and it was room temperature. At that point I understood why the Princess thought beer looked like bull urine.

I sent it back and demanded a cold one.

Saturday, September 3, 9:22am--we leave St. Pete. I could've thrown a rock in one direction and hit Tropicana Field, where Carder worked for the Rays. I could've thrown a rock in the other direction and hit St. Pete Beach, where the Princess loved to go. Alas, I could only look at both.

Carder asked if the load on the truck would shift. To answer his question I revved the engine up, threw it in Drive, lunged a few yards, then threw it in Reverse and slammed on the brakes. No, the load will not shift.

5:48pm--we arrive in Duluth at the new Berry house. I like to make things as easy as possible, so to unload the truck I decided to simplify, simplify, simplify. I opened the rear door (nothing had shifted), pulled into the driveway opposite Carder's, and backed across the street at around 60mph, slammed on the brakes, and Voila!, the truck was unloaded.

Three days, two states, four vehicles, two houses, and we're back in God's Country.

All in all, a good weekend.

Cereal, Milk, and Life.

2011-08-24T13:23:00.000-04:00

It's pretty sad when you think a good day is qualified by finding Milk on sale for "Buy One, Get One Free" in a grocery store. Which I did recently. And which caused me to start thinking about cereal. And milk. And life.

The earliest cereal I can remember is/are Sugar Frosted Flakes. Look it up, that's what they were called then, before we as a people realized that sugar is BAAADDDD for us, and the Cereal Police changed my Sugar Frosted Flakes to Frosted Flakes of Corn. Just doesn't sound the same.

Milk used to be delivered to our door by Cecil Blackmon, Steve's daddy. Before you go to bed at night, you set any number of empty glass milk bottles out by your back door, and the next morning when you get up, Viola! There's the exact same number of glass milk bottles, magically full of fresh milk. That was before the Milk Police decided that A) Glass bottles are bad for you, 2) Plastic is preferred, and D) It's easier for the Milk Man to deliver the milk that used to show up on your back porch to some grocery store instead, therefore necessitating a drive that you wouldn't have to make otherwise. Because, seriously, you can "run out" of anything else and put off the trip until at least tomorrow. But, brother, run out of milk and the World As We Know It will--WILL--end unless you get to the store and get a gallon.

I navigated the Cereal Oceans and am still at sea. I sailed through Cap'n Crunch (found out that grains and marshmallows don't mix well), Cocoa Crispies (if I'da wanted chocolate milk I'da bought some on that urgent grocery store run), the old standby Corn Flakes (who knew that you could do that with corn?), Fruit Loops (eat 'em dry--they make the milk in the bowl a really funny color), etc.

At this stage of my life I kinda like Raisin Bran (obviously) and the occasional Rice Krispies. The Queen and Princess eat Kashi Kardboard Krunchies or something like that (their motto is "Trees Never Tasted This Good Before"). I'll take my chances with Mr. Kellogg.

There used to be one kind of milk--milk. Pints, quarts, gallons, it was all just milk. Now there's Whole Milk, 1%, 2%, Skim, Organic, Soy...just a plethora of milk options.

By the way, Organic Milk apparently comes from "free-range" bovines. Think about it--would you rather have milk from cows living in an organized, well-fed environment or from cows who are allowed to roam in gangs, eating whatever they want (think goats here--and believe it or not, they also provide milk AND cheese) and giving you the residue?

I like--really like--Publix Milk. It comes from moovement-restricted cows who live on fenced-in farms. The closest Publix to the Queen of the Mountains is eleven miles away. Publix Milk is worth the drive. These same cows provide delicious Ice Cream and when their milking days are through become tender, moist Publix ribeyes. Yes, I am a Cow Man.

I'm convinced that if we still had milk delivered to our doorstep and sugar on our cereal our country wouldn't be in the mess it's in now.

Who can fight when you're eating a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes with some cold milk? No one I know.

August 16, 1977.

2011-08-16T11:39:00.000-04:00

I was a summer missionary serving on a Youth Revival Team in Georgia during the summer of 1977. The week of August 16 we were in our last church, First Baptist Marietta.

August 16 was on a Wednesday. Our last service was that evening, and Mama and Daddy had already brought my then-car, a 1969 fire-engine red Impala hardtop, to Marietta so I could drive straight home later that night.

I got back to the home where we were staying mid-afternoon and was greeted by Fred Pitts (we called him "Fred-O" because his middle name was Olin, which has no bearing on this story whatsoever). His exact words were "I've got some bad news...".

I thought a family member had died. And they had...almost.

Fred-O simply said, "The King is dead."

Funny how you remember things--where you were when some fateful event happened, for instance.

I was riding home from Gordon Grammar School with Mrs. House on November 22, 1963. I was working for Daddy at his service station on May 5, 1979.

And I was in Marietta, Georgia, on August 16, 1977.

I was an Elvis fan when it wasn't cool to be an Elvis fan. When he made all those movies, I was there. When he "came back" in 1968, I was there.

And in August 1977 I was still there. And in August 2011...I still am.

Unabashedly, unashamedly, undeniably an Elvis fan.

The King is dead. Long live the King.

And, After The Tropical Storm...The Warmth Of The Sun.

2011-08-04T17:34:00.000-04:00

"The Warmth Of The Sun" -- Brian Wilson/Mike Love

What good is the dawn
That grows into day
The sunset at night
Or living this way

For I have the warmth of the sun
(Warmth of the sun)
Within me at night
(Within me at night)

The love of my life
She left me one day
I cried when she said
"I don't feel the same way"

Still I have the warmth of the sun
(Warmth of the sun)
Within me tonight
(Within me tonight)

I'll dream of her arms
And though they're not real
Just like she's still there
The way that I feel

My love's like the warmth of the sun
(Warmth of the sun)
It won't ever die
(It won't ever die)

It Was Only A Matter Of Time.

2011-08-04T11:33:00.001-04:00

It was bound to happen sooner or later...I've know this for a while.

Of course she's going to hit Florida. And avoid Georgia. Of course.

I've lived with this storm a'brewin' in my house for 24 years.

Follow the link, and you'll see what I mean...Tropical Storm Emily.

The Debt Crisis.

2011-07-27T13:47:00.000-04:00

The current debt crisis in Washington isn't new to most of us.

I have a "debt crisis" almost every month, when I end up with more month than money.

Someone once said credit works like this: You buy things you don't need with money you don't have to impress people you don't like. Sounds like Congress to me.

Here's how my job works: Sell a car, get a check. Don't sell a car, get nothing.

Pretty simple. Just like the situation in Washington (that's simple, I said, not necessarily easy).

If I don't have enough money to pay my bills, I make the difficult decision to feed my family (including myself), pay the power bill and the rent rather than pay somebody I owe for something expendable. These other folks will get paid. I just may not know when.

You may think ill of me for doing this, and that's okay. Most self-righteous people do.

Let's just say I have an OUTSTANDING year selling cars. And I make exactly $174,400. I will be in the 28% tax bracket. If I make $174,401 I will be in the 33% tax bracket.

Now, I may be from the hills, but I think at any point in the above scenario I would have paid MY FAIR SHARE of taxes (which, by the way, I'm tired of hearing about, right along with words like BALANCED APPROACH and COMPROMISE). And paid for my own health insurance (unlike Congress).

Know how much your Congressman makes a year? $174,000. That's right, $401 shy of the 33% tax bracket. Wonder who decided what their salaries would be...oh, yeah...THEY DID.

The President said recently that folks who had $100,000 laying around that they didn't need (I'm paraphrasing here) should contribute their "fair share" in taxes so we can pay for necessary items like the Bridge to Nowhere, how to purchase Worcestershire sauce, the National Brewery Museum, and sech.

First of all, how would I know if I didn't "need" that extra $100k? Never know when a yachting emergency may arise.

And, B, if I made $174,401 (or more), I feel like I'd been punished for doing well. Like the line in that Travis Tritt song, "They're billing me for killing me".

Daddy used to say "If they were going to screw me I wished they'da kissed me first."

I have to live within my means, whatever they may be at the time. I don't have the option of a bailout, raising my debt ceiling, or borrowing from my master China. I just have to make do.

Now, I'm not complaining about my station in life. I just don't understand why the folks we elected to do their job won't...do their job.

Seems like they're all constantly running for re-election. Because they are.

We need some people with backbone in Washington who are willing to make some hard decisions and live with the fallout. Not a bunch of wimpy back-slapping politicians who are scared to death of giving a direct answer.

November 2012 isn't far away. I hope we make it that long.

Definitions Are Good For You.

2011-07-26T12:58:00.002-04:00

Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.

Ignoranus: A person who's both stupid and an asshole.

Intaxicaton: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future. Originated and is currently alive and flourishing in Congress in Washington D.C.

Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.

Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

Decafalon (n): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.

Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

But wait...there's more.

Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.

Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.

Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.

Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.

Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.

Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.

Flatulence, n. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.

Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.

Testicle, n. A humorous question on an exam.

Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.

Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.

Frisbeetarianism, n. The belief that, after death, the soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.

So there. Your free, worthless information for today.

The Best NASCAR Event This Year.

2011-07-25T14:02:00.000-04:00

Boogety, boogety, boogety. Amen.

Justice Served.

2011-07-07T11:29:00.000-04:00

Some say the justice system failed in the Casey Anthony saga.

Those "believers" who say she was guilty as sin (and I think she was) say the ultimate justice will be carried out by God and not the Orange County, Florida, judicial system.

They're right about that. But in the words of that great theologian Billy Mays, "Wait...there's more!"

The same God who will judge Casey Anthony will judge the rest of us as well.

Now that should bring comfort to those who are quick to judge and slow to think. It may not seem fair now that someone apparently "got away with it", but isn't that what we do every day?

I may not be a murderer, etc. But I promise you I'm guilty enough on my own without any help from anybody else.

And so are you.

So...lest we become overly self-righteous (too late) let's keep some perspective here.

You may not agree with me on any of this, and that's okay. As I've said numerous times before, you're entitled to be as wrong as you choose to be.

$15 = $25 = $1100.

2011-06-20T11:01:00.000-04:00

Last Tuesday I had the good fortune to be seated in the Superior Court of Lumpkin County along with my oldest son, who had been stopped months ago for not wearing his seat belt.

He was guilty, and ready to pay the $15 fine.

Apparently he didn't have his Driver's License in his possession, which added $10 to the total which was now $25.

Lawyers got involved at that point, and, as they say, the rest is history.

Rather than accepting the $25, our District Attorney decided to make an example out of John and things ratcheted up to the point where John had to drive up from South Florida to make an appearance at his arraignment last Tuesday.

He:
--took two days off from work
--rented a car to drive up here ($250 plus gas)
--paid his lawyer over $800 to go with him, and
--spent four and a half hours sitting in court waiting to resolve the issues

I went with him for moral support. I thought my head would explode.

The DA (which can represent more than just "District Attorney") was obviously already way ahead of the game. I'm not sure which office he's running for, but he's campaigning for something.

I will not vote for him, even it's just for dogcatcher.

Again, John was guilty, said so, and was willing to resolve all of this before he moved back to Florida. The DA wouldn't hear of it.

Our Justice system hard at work.

His was the second case called, at 9:08am. It was postponed until "later" in the docket.

At 12:32pm, the judge lit into the DA with full force, questioning why
--John had to drive up from Florida for a $25 ticket
--why the case was in Superior Court, when it was a Probate Court issue
--why there were no court costs involved, and
--basically, why were we all there

The DA had no answer. John went downstairs, paid the fine, ate lunch with his family, and went back to Florida.

There are rapists, murderers, drug dealers, assaults, etc. which all have to come before the Superior Court of Lumpkin County, Georgia.

And then, there's John Berry, threat to society, fugitive, and lawbreaker.

Justice is expensive.

Put Down That Cellphone, You Idiot.

2011-05-31T14:12:00.000-04:00

It was only a matter of time.

Everything I've known and loved either causes cancer or tries to kill me. Dairy Queen, cigars, alcohol, you name it, it maims and destroys.

Now, to top it all off, it appears that cellphones cause cancer.

But wait. Maybe, maybe not.

Seems an "international panel of experts" (as opposed to your Mama, the real expert) decided that there are "possible" human-harming carcinogens in the "electromagnetic radiation" found in cellphones.

WHATTTT? There's radiation in my Crackberry? Who'da thunk it?

I have some issues with this report.

A--these folks met in France. That's right--nation of wimps and wine.

2--it took them a week to decide on the report. No telling how many people contracted phone cancer in that time period. I feel a lawsuit coming on.

D--the test group may be flawed. The testing began with a survey of people who already had cancer and asked them how often they used their cellphones. Ten years ago.

These experts are part of the World Health Organization. WHO? That's right.

In 2007 the USA contributed over $101 million dollars to these bozos. And we get a French report about a ten-year-old test on sick people who used cellphones.

I want my money back.

It's Been A Long Time, Baby...*

2011-05-27T12:04:00.000-04:00

*Elvis Presley, during the 1968 "Comeback" special.

Oh, the places ~~you'll go~~ I've been since the last time I wrote.

I attended the Wedding Of The Century. No, not that one. My son John married the beautiful Amanda in Melbourne Beach, Florida. We've decided that if he blows it we're keeping her. On a side note, if you happen to stay at the Radisson Beachfront in Melbourne Beach do not deal with Andy at the front desk. And make sure your air conditioning is working before you check in. Wisdom from experience.

We survived two rounds of tornado weather. I know this will sound callous, but once you've been through a Florida hurricane--or eleven of them--tornadoes just don't seem like that big a deal. But they are.

We've apparently gone full circle in church-hunting, presently attending Dahlonega Baptist Church, where a friend/classmate of the Queen is pastor. I can't believe it, and neither can I.

I'm more convinced by the day that life imitates the car business. When gas hit the $4-a-gallon mark folks scurried to buy more fuel-efficient vehicles, which our dealership had plenty of at the time. These same folks got irate when we wouldn't sell them these same vehicles at invoice, thereby essentially losing money. We really are crooks, us car people.

Speaking of gas prices, somebody asked the other day why stations were charging so much. I told 'em it was because they could. And get away with it. Of course, in Georgia, when fuel prices hit a certain level a tax is levied (included in the price per gallon) which never goes away, no matter if prices go down. Like Daddy used to say, I wished they'da kissed me first.

I think that's about it for bringing y'all up to date. But I'm sure there's more just ahead.

Real News.

2011-03-23T10:40:00.004-04:00

I was fortunate enough during my college years to have Billy Watson, then editor of the Macon Telegraph, as one of my professors. I took a 7am class on newspaper writing from him.

I'll never forget the day he brought in a book entitled All The News Not Fit To Print. It contained a compilation of "news" articles published over the years by various periodicals which weren't exactly...news.

Well, Billy, I think I found another one.

Forget the Japan earthquake and the tsunami. Bypass the economy and the uprisings in the Middle East. This is Real. News.

Apparently, in the middle Georgia town of Forsyth, an entire section of I-75 was shut down earlier this week. By the Wienermobile.

It was the wurst that could happen, but, on a slow news day this particular reporter must have exclaimed, "Hot Dog!"

Frankly I was surprised that Oscar Meyer (whose bologna has a first AND last name) wasn't in the vehicle at the time.

But I also have it on good authority that Oscar's really a big brat.

Anyway, don't miss the picture of one of Monroe County's finest pulling over the Wienermobile.

The driver was cited for impeding the flow of traffic, escorted to the dog pound, and the vehicle was inspected for further health violations. The officer was accused of fondling the vehicle's buns. The vehicle was impounded by Nu-Way Wieners in Macon and was found to be filled with top-quality meat and meat by-products, then topped with chili and slaw and served on a steamed bun.

Eat your heart out, Billy.

RIP, Ronnie Hammond.

2011-03-17T13:43:00.000-04:00

Ronnie Hammond, legendary lead singer for the Atlanta Rhythm Section, died Monday at age 60.

I first met Ronnie when I was Student Body President at Gordon Junior College in 1975. Well, not exactly.

I met him at Atlanta Recording Studio prior to that. ARS was recording a cover of "Spooky", I already knew Buddie Buie, his son, and J. R. Cobb, guitarist for the band, having done some studio work there.

Ronnie started off in Macon, singing on then-gospel-singer-later-turned Mayor "Machine-Gun" Ronnie Thompson's television show on WMAZ.

Man, was he good.

Rarely do you find a white boy with as much soul as Ronnie had. He put his heart into every song he sang, a result of a conflicted life at the time (resolved later on with the help of God and friends).

I had to beg and plead with the GJC administration to get them to schedule the band for a campus concert. Not many people had heard of them at that point, and they were a calculated risk for the school.

I called Mr. Buie, got Ronnie, who said they'd love to do the gig. We laughed later about how desperate ARS was for paid dates.

By the time the show came around weeks later, "Doraville" was racing up the charts, followed by "Angel" and "Who You Gonna Run To".

I looked like a genius. I wasn't. I just loved good Southern Rock. And ARS was one of the best.

Ronnie lived in Forsyth and died there Monday.

How fitting. The "homeplace" of Southern Rock sent off one of its favorite children.

Like Johnny Cash once sang, "everyone I know goes away in the end."

One of my favorite ARS songs (probably because I identify with it so well):

"Alien"
The sun just went behind a cloud again
Down crowded streets he walks alone
He's a stranger out of place
A number not a face
And all day long, all day long

He's feelin like an alien
Feelin' like he don't belong
Have mercy, cried the alien
Help him find his way back home

The feelin' that he feels he can't explain
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, they're all the same
He's lost and all alone
A heart without a home
Standin' like a statue in the rain

Now, now and then we all are aliens
Feelin' like we don't belong
Have mercy, cried the alien
Help him find his way back home

One Day At A Time...

2011-02-25T18:46:00.000-05:00

Six years ago this month, the wheels on my life came off.

Rewind to Christmastime 2004. I remember telling my family that they'd all be better off if I was dead. I sure thought I would, because I just wanted...relief.

Merry. Christmas. Y'all.

Then, in February 2005, all hell broke loose. Without going into a lot of detail (because it's none of your business), let's just say that the same misery I'd been putting my loved ones through for what seemed to them--and me--forever, finally came down on me like fire from the mountain.

It's not that I hadn't lived the nightmare before, and shared it all--humiliation, separation, job loss, all of it--with my wife and kids. Hey, when you're miserable, why not spread the wealth?

But this time was...different. They'd had enough, and kicked me out.

My heart hurts even writing about it now, years later. But I need to say what needs to be said.

Jennie...thanks for kicking me to the curb, and in the process saving my life. You did the right thing.

John and Carder...thanks for supporting your Mama. You knew she was doing what needed to be done, whatever the consequences.

Emily...thanks for telling me during the intervention, "Daddy, fight for me." I've never forgotten that, and I never will.

Mama...thanks for taking me in (I slept on the floor of her house for almost six months on a mattress I brought with me).

All of my family...thanks for showing me unconditional love. Although you'd loved me that way all of my life, I could never receive it until everything was gone.

And, finally, a song that says it all:

"One Day At A Time" - Joe Walsh
I was always the first to arrive at the party,
And the last to leave the scene of the crime
Well it started with a couple of beers,
And it went i dont know how many years,
Like a runaway train headed for the end of the line.

Well I finally got around to admit that I might have a problem.
But I thought it was just too damn big of a mountain to climb.
Well I got down on my knees and said 'Hey!'
'I just cant go on livin' this way!'
Guess I have to learn to live my life one day at a time.
Oh yeah! One day at a time!
Oh yeah! One day at a time!

Well I finally got around to admit that I was the problem.
When I used to put the blame on everybody's shoulders but mine.
All the friends I used to run with are gone,
Lord, I hadn't planned on livin' this long.
I have to learn to live my life one day at a time.

It was something it was too blind to see,
I got help from something greater than me...
And I have to learn to live my life one day at a time!

Anothuh Wacka Flocka Flame Story

2011-02-17T16:06:00.000-05:00

Recently I wrote about, among other things, an Atlanta rapper by the name of Waka Flocka Flame and his, um, encounters with local law enforcement agencies.

In the words of that great philosopher Billy Mays, "But wait...there's more."

Seems now that said Flocka Flame's tour bus was shot at while having a stereo installed in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I have a question. If you were going to buy a touring bus, wouldn't you buy one with a stereo already in it?

But, like Congress, I digress.

Apparently, and I quote, "random cars pulled up and began shooting." Now, I'm not real smart, but I'd be more interested in the cars doing the shooting than by the shooting itself.

Flocka Flame and a couple of his entourage were detained after the fracas. No word on whether Gucci Mane (pronounced "Goochie") was anywhere in the state.

Or whether Chief Noc-A-Homa was involved.

I just love writing stuff like this. Can you tell?

The End of Another Era. Again.

2011-01-14T18:45:00.000-05:00

David Nelson, the last remaining Nelson of the "Ozzie and Harriet" Nelsons, died this week.

I never knew what Ozzie did for a living.

I never knew what Harriet did around the house, other than say "Ozzie!".

I did know what "Little Ricky" did. He sang.

"Poor Little Fool", "Travelin' Man", and, of course, "I'm Walkin'".

Yes indeed.

What did David do this entire time? Smile for the camera.

I never knew what David did either, but he did get married. And performed in what would become the longest-running sketch comedy series of all time.

Yes indeed.

And outlived his family.

Ozzie and Harriet represented what every American family wanted to be--stable, secure, good-looking kids, all of it, right down to the white picket fence (oh, wait, that was "Leave It To Beaver").

The good old days. If only they were here again.

Yes indeed.

Snowmaggedon 2011 Update

2011-01-11T10:57:00.000-05:00

The aftermath. What a glorious thing.

The snow started sometime after midnight Sunday, and it lasted throughout the day Monday. Thank God we had plenty of bread and milk.

Our little piece of heaven looked like this:

Between five and seven inches was what they said...all I know is that the snow was halfway up my leg.

The beauty of it all surpassed the inconvenience it caused...not being able to get to work (a tragedy) and having to haul in firewood (a burden).

That being said, it has been a gorgeous couple of days.

Snowmaggedon Is Upon Us. Again.

2011-01-08T16:09:00.001-05:00

We had snow on Christmas Day here in the mountains, the first time in 139 years.

Here's a picture (taken Christmas Day afternoon) of the Price Building (the former US Mint) on the campus of North Georgia College and State University, THE Military College of Georgia:

I point out the sparse amount of snow on the ground at NGC only because the forecast over the next couple of days calls for between five and seven inches of snow in Dahlonega.

Panic has already set in. Milk and bread are selling like the Tribulation has begun, but so are beer and wine.

People are hunkering down for the Great Winter Storm of 2011. Only time will tell how many countless lives will be lost due to a lack of milk and bread. Or beer and wine.

At our house, we're bringing wood in because there's sure to be a power outage due to lines freezing, then snapping, and pulling down utility poles on the top of bread and milk trucks.

Tragedy upon tragedy. All because of some snow.

How do I know this is serious? Because at noon today, Ken Cook of Channel 5 had his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, holding a half-empty glass of milk and a crusty slice of white bread.

I'll report in after the storm subsides. Or when the supplies run out.

A Christmas Lesson

2010-12-18T13:35:00.000-05:00

From Neal Boortz:

Several men are in the locker room of a golf club. A mobile phone on a bench rings and a man engages the hands-free speaker function and begins to talk. Everyone else in the room stops to listen.

MAN: 'Hello'?

WOMAN: 'Honey, it's me...are you at the club?'

MAN: 'Yes'

WOMAN: 'I'm at the mall now and found this beautiful leather coat. It's only $1,000. Is it OK if I buy it?'

MAN: 'Sure, go ahead if you like it that much.'

WOMAN: 'I also stopped by the Mercedes dealership and saw the new 2011 models. I saw one I really liked.'

MAN: 'How much?'

WOMAN: '$98,000'.

MAN: 'OK, but for that price I want it with all the options.'

WOMAN: 'Great! Oh, and one more thing...the house I wanted last year is back on the market. They're asking $950,000'.

MAN: 'Well, then go ahead and give them an offer of $900,000. They'll probably take it. If not, we can go the extra fifty thousand if it's really a pretty good price.'

WOMAN: 'OK. I'll see you later! I love you so much!'

MAN: 'Bye! I love you, too.'

The man hangs up. The other men in the locker room are staring at him in astonishment, mouths agape..

The wonderful husband turns and asks:

"Anybody know whose phone this is?"

I Am A Rambling Man

2010-12-18T11:56:00.000-05:00

Just some random musings on a cold, rainy Saturday:

In Henry County, Georgia, this week, the home of local rappah Waka Flocka Flame was raided by authorities. Flame was not home at the time, but anothah brothah rappah, Gucci Mane (pronounced Goochie Main) was home. Flame tweeted "the folks just kick my door in good thing I left for court LOL". No word on the eventual outcome of eithah rappah. Or whether Daffy Duck will be suing for sound effects infringement.

WXIA, Channel 11 in Atlanta, has successfully launched the latest in weather forecasting, calling it the Wizometer (pronounced wiz-om-e-ter). I choose to pronounce it WIZ-O-ME-TER. So much more entertaining, and raises many more questions. How much did "11 Alive" pay for the WIZ-O-ME-TER? I'da come up with something just as entertaining for a lot less, I'm sure. Come to think of it, I really do miss Guy Sharpe.

John Pruitt, over at WSB-TV, did his last newscast last night during the six o'clock hour. The station had a tribute video for him which began at 6:48pm. It was cut short at 6:55pm so the station could have five minutes of advertising. Forty-six years in the business and shut out by a Viagra commercial. That must have been hard to take.

Just so you don't think I'm now the local arbiter of television taste, let's talk about Christmas. The perfect storm occurred this week in North Georgia--rain/sleet/snow + idiot drivers + a full moon. All that adds up to around 1,000 automobile accidents north of Atlanta in a matter of a few hours. No word on whether Waka Locka Flame or Goochie Main were involved in any of these wrecks. I just had to find a way to mention their names again.

What do car wrecks have to do with Christmas?

--A lot of those drivers totaled their vehicles.

--They now need another car or truck.

--I sell cars and trucks.

--They need to buy from me.

If they do, I'll have a Merry Christmas.

Retroactive Birth Control...A Thanksgiving Wish

2010-11-23T18:38:00.000-05:00

The car business can be ridiculous at times. And entertaining.

Especially when small children are involved.

Just now, a family (husband, wife, four small children) stormed out of our dealership, angry at us.

Now, for the record, I have no problem with people being angry at me. I've had a lifetime of it, and most of the time I brought it upon myself. But not this time.

These folks weren't mad because of a vehicle, or deal, or payment, or anything remotely having to do with buying a car.

They were mad at us because THEIR STUPID CHILDREN WOULDN'T BEHAVE.

Like Daddy used to say, "I think those parents need a whippin'."

Take a girl, about five years old, add two brothers--let's say eight and ten, throw in some complimentary balloons, and prepare for the apocalypse.

"YOU CAN'T BLOW IT UP AS BIG AS JOHNNY CAN, DAD! NO YOU CAN'T! NO YOU CAN'T! DAAAAAADDDDDDD!"

Hey, kid, your Daaaaaddddd may not be able to blow it up as big as Johnny can, but guess what? I can light your ass up like a bottle-rocket on the Fourth of July. In a split-second. And your entire family to boot.

Now, after this child verbally pukes on his dad, with Mom standing close by, he proceeds to lie down on the floor of the showroom, kicking and screaming. (Insert visual of Sales Consultant walking by, silently shaking his head). At which point Mom, drawing on her vast wealth of Mother-Wisdom, loudly proclaims, "Come on, let's go. These people are all smartasses. We're never buying a car here."

Lady, you got that right.

And let me get this straight. You can't control your children, and it's somebody else's fault.

A little perspective: I don't really have a problem with children who sometimes misbehave. I have a problem with parents who allow said behavior to go unchecked and uncorrected.

A little more perspective: in a few years, these same children will be driving on the same roads I use. And I'll know who they are.

I'll be able to tell by the giant Johnny-Blown balloons filling up the minivan.

An Invasion of Privacy--At A Reunion

2010-11-23T17:24:00.000-05:00

So...my sweetheart and I attended the First Annual Baptist Student Union Re-Union at Mercer University in Macon this last weekend, where she was both the youngest- and best-looking alumnus on campus.

We gathered at a restaurant the night before (which shall go unnamed, but the initials are Cheddar's), where my love squealed with delight at seeing friends we hadn't seen in over thirty years (except for our respective roommates, who married each other, and with whom we had kept up over the years).

She breezed into Mercer's Newton Hall, site of the infamous Berry-Coppage nuptials thirty-two years ago, without a hitch the next day. She squealed with delight as she saw friends she hadn't seen in over twelve hours. It was last night all over again.

As I strolled in behind her, a burly woman (I found out later her name was Butch) looked me over and said, "Not so fast, bud. Please walk through the body-scanner before entering."

Now, I realize I may be a little rough around the edges, but a FULL BODY SCAN at a REUNION? Please. No, really, please.

As I passed through the body scanner, and Butch perused all my most private, prized possessions, I wondered silently, What the...?

"Please, sir, no profanity. This is a former Baptist Institution of Higher Learning."

Butch could read my mind? This would not end well.

"Sir, please exit the scanner and step to the side." As countless other former BSUers waltzed right on in (well, not exactly, since we all know God didn't put no praying knee and dancing foot on the same leg), I was being pushed around by a woman on a college campus. Deja vu. All over again.

"Sir, I'll have to do a pat-down to make sure you're not carrying any concealed weapons or the King James Version of the Bible."

No. And again I say, No. No pat-down, no strip-search, no body-scans, no nothing. In the words of that great theologian Oz: "Not no way, not no-how."

I ran--RAN--toward the barbecue sandwiches and tater chips, daring anyone to stop me.

My future daughter-in-law will be flying in to Atlanta tomorrow from Orlando for Thanksgiving, "National Opt-Out Day" at airports nationwide. I'm sure the TSA will demand to scan/search her since she is so obviously a threat to national security, being a ~~hairdresser~~ cosmetologist and all.

The philosophy behind all this nonsense reminds me of what a preacher once said about the beer commercials which showed a guy screaming down a snow-packed mountain on skis, sliding to a perfect halt just outside the lodge, where a beautiful woman waited for him with a cold six-pack. The preacher said he'd like to see that guy drink that six-pack at the top of the mountain, then see if he could slalom down that slope.

I think I'd like to see the TSA personnel spend some time in full body-scan/search mode before they're allowed to inflict the same on babies, grannies, and my son's sweetheart.

Especially Butch.

I Had A Colonoscopy and Went To Heaven

2010-11-17T12:49:00.000-05:00

As that great theologian, Elvis Presley, once said, "It's been a long time, baby."

While you've been away, I've had a couple of things happen.

A couple of Fridays ago, I had a colonoscopy. Let me explain.

Thursday afternoon, before the procedure ( a term loosely defined as a gross invasion of privacy on one of my most private parts) on Friday morning, I was instructed to use the product "Evac-U-Crap" to "cleanse" my intestinal tract. At 4:00pm, I began.

First, I mixed 32 ounces of a semi-clear, fizzing concoction in a container provided by the manufacturer (all for the low, low price of $64.00, handling included). Then, every fifteen minutes, I drank eight ounces of the stuff. A play-by-play:

4:15pm--nothing.

4:30pm--nothing.

4:45pm--still nothing, although by this point I've decided I hate warm Gatorade.

5:00pm--a slight rumbling in the nether regions. A preview of things to come.

So...about 5:18pm, more or less, I exploded in the first of several eruptions, the details of which are better left unstated. The good news was that the whole process would begin again at 7:00pm that same day, when I would consume another 32 ounces of Evac-U-Crap, after which it would consume me. Again.

7:15pm--pure fire turning me inside out.

7:30pm--I decide to have "Exit Only" tattooed on my lower back in hopes that will prevent the doctor from performing the procedure.

7:45pm--"Exit Only" doesn't even begin to describe it.

8:00pm--I want to die. Or at least get a padded toilet seat.

The instructions clearly stated that I was to have a "clear liquid" diet the night before my colonoscopy. No problem, that's what it looked like I'd been having for the past month.

Friday morning I went to the hospital, accompanied by my sweetheart, for the "procedure". The doctor had told me that I'd be drowsy during the colonoscopy. I demanded to be put to sleep. Not under anesthetic--put me down, like a dying dog. Please.

He did. I slept through the entire twelve minutes it took him to figure out that my colon was, and is now, fine.

While I was "under", I saw Daddy and Uncle Johnny. They were standing in front of me, somewhere which looked like the mountains where I live. Daddy said, "We've been waiting for you", then turned and said something to Uncle Johnny, and they both laughed.

Then I woke up.

My wife said as I was coming out of the anesthesia, I asked her where Daddy was. When she told me he wasn't there, she said I started crying. I'm sure I did.

Not from the procedure. From that little glimpse of heaven.

As If I Didn't Have Enough To Contend With...

2010-10-08T17:19:00.000-04:00

...my sweetheart and I spent last Friday evening in the romantic confines of our local hospital, where I was sent after a week's worth of, well, intestinal issues.

My doctor sent me there--to a place where he doesn't have "privileges", even though he could throw a rock and hit the building.

I wish he'da thrown the rock.

After describing my situation to the ~~desk jockey~~ Emergency Room Intake Specialist ($), I sat in the waiting area for (and this is no lie) one hour and twenty-two minutes.

Good thing it wasn't serious.

Once my name was called by ~~Nurse Ratchett~~ the Triage Nurse ($$), my entry into the bowels of the ER ($$$) truly began.

She had me rehearse my symptoms, which I had previously told the nurse at my doctor's office, my doctor, and the Intake Specialist at the hospital. I assume this was to ensure my story stayed consistent. After this interview, I was informed that there were no ER rooms available and that I'd have to lie in the hallway. If that was okay with me.

At that point I really didn't care. Either give me a shot or shoot me. As that great theologian Jerry Clower once said, "Shoot up in here amongst us; one of us has got to have some relief."

I donated a blood sample, a urine sample, and drank some type of radioactive Gatorade so the radiologist ($$$$) could do a CT scan. In two hours.

It occurred to me that, while you're lying in plain sight of God and everyone strolling about the ER, no one will look at you, much less look you in the eye. I guess they're afraid you'll ask them for something. Like some help.

At the 2:18 mark (post-nuclear syrup time), I walked to Radiology ($$$$) for the CT scan. I was given some type of other dye (I'm out of dollar signs) which the Radiologist informed me could possibly (A) Make me feel like I was tasting blood in the back of my throat, (2) feel like I was peeing on myself, and (D) cause me to throw up.

I chose all three.

After the CT scan I spent another hour lying in the ER hallway, awaiting the results.

The ER doc told me I had gastroenteritis, which is a long, expensive word which means "we don't know what's wrong with you, but this sounds severe enough to placate you for spending half a day with us".

Oh, and I have an abdominal hernia. The doc said it was probably a side-effect of my cancer surgery. A year and a half ago.

So now I have an appointment with a General Surgeon next Friday for the hernia, the Urologist in Alabama the following Thursday for the cancer test, a rotten stomach, and part of my intestine trying to break free of my midsection.

After which, in the words of that great philosopher Travis Tritt, they'll be "billing me for killing me".

Lord have mercy on the working man.

The Best Elvis Song of All Time. Probably.

2010-09-30T12:54:00.000-04:00

A remix from "Viva Elvis"....

I Cut My Finger and Just About Died

2010-09-20T16:25:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, in a moment of lapsed judgment, I cut my index finger badly. With my own knife. While trying to remove a staple from a piece of paper.

A couple of days after that, I went to the doctor, since the finger hadn't stopped bleeding. Or hurting.

While there, he suggested that I go ahead and do my PSA test, which I've been doing every three months since having prostate cancer last year.

A week later, he called with the results. They were not good.

Now, this is the guy who saved my life by finding the cancer in the first place. But it looks like every time I go to him for something else, he finds cancer. I'm thinking about changing doctors.

Anyway...according to him, I shouldn't have any PSA readings at all since I no longer have the organ which produces the readings in the first place. But I do, even though I don't.

Both indicators indicate that the cancer is back.

And to think I thought the catheter would be the worst part of all this. What an idiot.

So I called the Specialist in Alabama, who set me up with an appointment on October 21 for another PSA test and consultation. He said, "If you're not overly concerned, I'd like to wait four weeks, do another test, then decide what we need to do next."

Concerned? Me?

I'm looking forward to the October Surprise like a trip to the...oh wait, there's no comparison.

He suspects the first surgery either missed something or left something behind. YOU THINK?

I already didn't feel the best; now I feel worse. I'm not a pessimist, though.

You know the definition of a pessimist? Someone who feels bad when they feel good for fear they'll feel worse when they feel better.

Not me. I'm an optimistic realist.

If I have cancer--again--I'm sure there's something they can do for it. I'm sure it involves some sort of "procedure" (another word for YEEEOOOWWWW), "recovery" (an extension of the "procedure"), and, yes, a catheter.

I don't care at this point. I just want to know what's going on, why it's going on, and what the doctor's going to do about it.

(Ever notice how medical professionals use the plural "we" when talking about what only "they" are going to do? I've often wondered what my contribution to the "we" is, since I'm out cold during the entire process.)

So, that's it. It may be back, it may not be. Looks like it is.

I can't wait.

Talking About God--Or Not

2010-09-14T13:30:00.000-04:00

My son and I were discussing spiritual things this morning when he told me about a blog he'd visited where the discussion about God went to...let's say, a different plane.

According to him, reading it sounded something like this:

BIGWORD BIGWORD, I sense that BIGWORD BIGWORD BIGWORD, and that the Scriptures BIGWORD BIGWORD, therefore BIGWORD BIGWORD BIGWORD. BIGWORD GOD BIGWORD BIBLE BIGWORD SUNDAY and JESUS.

He thought his head would explode. So did I.

He's tempted to post a question on this blog like this:

Did God mean what he said when he said it? Was Jesus telling it straight when he said what he said? Is ABCD really ABCD--or is it actually BCDE? Is Elvis really alive? (the last one was my contribution)

My son had a coach who told them over and over again: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

Of all the discussions we could have about God, wouldn't the same philosophy make sense?

Or do only those with BIG WORDS have the right--and obvious intelligence--to have this discussion?

I grew up in a country church, where Preacher Bill Coleman, a textile worker turned preacher, "preached the Word" every Sunday (even if he did buy some of his sermons). He was a country preacher, using country words, to preach to country folks.

I miss that.

I won't miss the BIG WORDS once they're gone. And gone they will be.

For I'm certain Heaven ain't got room enough for BIG WORDS. Only a BIG GOD.

Elvis Saturday

2010-09-04T10:22:00.000-04:00

I love this song...

I read that this was recorded around 3:30am the morning after the "Aloha" special. The King ain't wearing his cape--or belt--because he threw them into the audience.

Some Stuff You Just Can't Make Up. Nor Would You Want To.

2010-09-02T17:13:00.000-04:00

I don't always know what people are thinking, but I can sure tell when they're not.

I receive frequent emails from WSB Radio, and at the bottom of today's email was an ad for charity event called--and I am not making this up--"24 Hours Of Booty".

What would you think those twenty-four hours would entail (heh-heh)? And what charity would benefit?

Lest you think I'm lying, here's the link: http://www.24hoursofbooty.org/site/PageServer

It is a bike ride. For cancer research.

Okie Dokie.

For those of you with gutterbrains, if you scroll down to the bottom of the webpage, you'll also notice among the beneficiary organizations one called "Keep Pounding".

All right.

Somebody needs to get to the bottom of this, and soon. Before people get the wrong impression.

Like I did.

My Two Cents...With A Penny Left Over

2010-08-24T18:27:00.002-04:00

Seeing as how ~~hundreds~~ ~~dozens~~ two or three people might be influenced by what I think, I'm prepared to postulate about the Georgia Governor's race.

Roy Barnes is a Democrat. Nathan Deal is a Republican.

Now, let's be honest. Most of the time there ain't a nickel's worth of difference between the two parties.

And why do they call them "parties"? They always seem to be fighting someone about something--mostly each other--and rarely smile. Except when they're backslapping each other, planting the knife a little deeper with each pat. Doesn't look like much of a party to me.

Anyway, I was fortunate enough to be living in the ~~Hurricane~~ Sunshine State the last time Barnes was the top Dawg in Georgia. But I read about him periodically in the Atlanta Journal periodical.

The biggest thing I remember is how Roy changed the State Flag.

For the uninformed, the Official State Flag of the Great State of Georgia used to be this:

Then Ol' Roy got elected, and the State Flag was changed to this:

I've seen Ol' Roy's flag before. It's been at Six Flags Over Georgia since it opened in the 1960s.

Now the state flag looks like this:

The first flag is the one I grew up with. Notice anything unique about it? That's right, the Great Seal of Georgia is on the left. Naw...that ain't it.

It's got a racially insensitive, redneck-inspiring, Rebel-yelling symbol of the Confederacy just screaming for attention. And getting it.

I won't get into all the ramifications of the Stars and Bars, the Battle Flag of the Lost Cause, the remnant of what true Southerners like to call The War of Northern Aggression.

My Lumpkin County Berry ancestors were a part of the famed Blue Ridge Rifles of the Confederacy, the Marines of North Georgia, whose name and reputation live on at North Georgia College in the ROTC program, another pain in the ass for liberals.

But I digress.

While flags have little or nothing to do with how government is operated, I think they do serve as a symbol of whatever they're supposed to represent. The first flag is Dixie. The last flag is Safe. The Ol' Roy flag is just Dumb. It looks like whoever designed it was trying to please everyone while inspiring no one.

Oh, wait, that reminds me of the current election.

I've decided, based on my vast knowledge of the Roy Barnes era, to call him Ol' Roy for the duration of the race. Here's why.

Ol' Roy was the name of Sam Walton's (he of Wal-Mart fame) dog. And the name of the Wal-Mart brand of dog food.

Ol' Roy dog food is manufactured by some mysterious company, name unknown, and labeled for sale in all the Wal-Marts of the world. I assume it's like every other generic product sold anywhere under any name--it's the lowest bidder's product. It serves a purpose, but you never really know what you're buying until your dog pukes his guts out because he's eaten lead-laced bovine by-products produced in China.

I wouldn't feed my Sir Jack Ol' Roy if it was the only dog food left on the planet. And I won't vote for Ol' Roy for Governor. I'd like to think the voters of Georgia had enough sense to impose term limits on him the first time he served.

Of course, I thought Americans had enough sense in the last presidential election to choose wisely.

So I could be wrong this time too.

Sir Jack

2010-08-21T10:02:00.000-04:00

So...I went to Dahlonega last Friday night and decided to take Jackson the human dog along for the ride.

Every dog I've ever had loved to ride in a vehicle. Stonewall, Jack's distant predecessor, loved to ride in the Mustang with the top down. Acted like he owned the car. And the world.

Jack gives every indication he's going to be just like Stoney. He sits/lies in the passenger seat, alternately laid out and upright, sniffing all the new scents of the road and taking in all the sights.

He must know Dahlonega is a tourist town. He sure stares at it like one.

I took him past the old Courthouse, around the Square, up towards Grandma's, and started back home. At which point he, standing upright and regal, peed all over the passenger seat.

It belongs to him now.

Others may sit there.

But it's Sir Jack's throne.

The King Is Dead...Long Live The King

2010-08-19T17:04:00.001-04:00

It's Elvis Week in Memphis. Funny, I just figured every week was Elvis Week in Memphis.

There were the ETA (Elvis Tribute Artist) competitions, the annual Candlelight Vigil at midnight on August 16, a TCB Band (the remnants of Elvis' stage band) concert, and more.

I can still remember August 16, 1977, like it was yesterday. I was in Marietta, Georgia, in the last of twenty--count 'em--twenty churches the Mission Team I was a member of had been in that summer. Going home that night, Mama and Daddy had brought me my fire-engine red Chevy Impala. I couldn't wait.

My partner that summer, Fred O. Pitts (Fred-O), knew I loved Elvis. When I got back to the home where we had been staying, he was waiting.

"Roscoe," he started, "I have some bad news. The King is dead."

Just like that.

I didn't have to ask who he was talking about and he didn't have to tell me. He knew I loved Elvis. I talked, sang, and acted like him constantly. Fred-O wanted to be the one to tell me.

In disbelief I drove down to the 7-11 to get an Atlanta Journal, which was then published in the afternoon (the Atlanta Constitution was the morning paper). I knew it was true when I saw the "Blue Streak" edition of the Journal, only published under special circumstances. The headline confirmed what Fred-O had told me: "THE KING IS DEAD". I still have the paper. The Memphis Commercial-Appeal was more poignant: "A Lonely Life Ends on Elvis Presley Boulevard".

I had seen Elvis in concert at the Macon Coliseum less that two months earlier. He was wearing the same powder-blue suit they would bury him in. I was shocked at his appearance and told my date, "He won't last six months."

He didn't.

While others were in West Memphis this past Sunday night, walking quietly past graves in the moonlight, I was watching "Elvis: Aloha From Hawaii". Again.

When Elvis sang "I'll Remember You", the lyrics were haunting. Again.

I'll remember you, long after this, when the summer is gone...Love me always, promise always...you'll remember too.

I thought to myself: yes, I will.

Absolute Truths

2010-08-03T18:24:00.000-04:00

From boortz.com:

I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.

Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.

I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.

There is great need for a sarcasm font.

How are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?

Was learning cursive really necessary?

Map Quest really needs to start their directions on # 5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.

Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.

Bad decisions make good stories.

You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.

"Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this - ever.

I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello?), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voice mail. What did you do after I didn't answer? Drop the phone and run away?

I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.

Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what was going on when I first saw it.

I would rather try to carry 10 over-loaded plastic bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.

I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!

Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.

Is it just me or do high school kids get dumber & dumber every year?

There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.

As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate bicyclists.

Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.

Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time!

Elvis Friday

2010-07-30T15:50:00.000-04:00

Another one of those songs that comes up--in my mind--all the time.

Oh. Yeah. Baby.

Welcome, Jackson

2010-07-28T14:12:00.000-04:00

My sweetheart and I have a new grand-dog. His name is Jackson, and he joins our other grand-dog Chief Atticus Berry.

We've had him a little over a week now, in which time he has learned to fetch, talk, drive a tractor, and catch a football. Okay, okay...he can't really catch a football because he doesn't have thumbs.

He's also marked his ground outside by pooping and peeing everywhere and anywhere he wants to. Just like a newborn, which he basically is.

In our short time together, he's tried to eat a shoe, learned to love ice cubes, and had worms.

The first thing he's learned he can't, the second I'm okay with, and the third he went to the Dog ER for, where he got a shot after everyone in the place fell in love with him.

He's a handful--all dog with oversized paws and ears and bound to get into more trouble. And I we love him.

See what I mean:

That Was Me You Didn't See On TV

2010-07-03T17:53:00.001-04:00

My sweetheart, baby girl, and I went to Atlanta yesterday. Before heading to Atlantic Station and IKEA we stopped off at the Greasy V (The Varsity) for lunch, since Emily had never been there. She was amazed.

"Whaddaya have, whaddaya have! Have yo' order in yo' mouth and yo' money in yo' hand!"

Ah, the memories.

We sat down to eat and I was accosted by a gentleman with a video camera, who asked me if I would like to make a few comments about the Damon Evans situation.

For the uninformed and uncaring, Evans, Athletic Director at UGA, was arrested in Atlanta a couple of days ago for DUI.

But wait. There's more.

He also had a 28-year-old woman (not his wife) in the car with him. And red panties (also not his wife's) in his lap.

But I digress.

I try to go incognito when in public to avoid situations just like this one. Once people realize who I am, I can't eat, walk around, or anything else in peace. It's awful.

So "Mike" (you'll see him shortly) asked me a few soft-ball (no pun intended) questions about the scandal, to which I pontificated for posterity (and the 4pm and 6pm newscasts) with wisdom and aplomb about the Bulldog's blunder (see, I even write well).

Then we went on our way, Mike thoroughly impressed and I trying to figure out how to set the DVR to record the broadcasts, using my Blackberry. Didn't work.

No problem. I called Mama, who would certainly make sure she saw her boy on the TV. She was in Kroger and didn't think she'd make it home in time (I found out today after talking to her that when I wasn't the lead story she changed the channel).

I diligently searched for the by-now viral sensation of the IntraWeb, and found it. Here's the link: randy is not in this video.

Apparently some other, Breaking! Development! in the case came up and I, alas, was pushed aside for that report.

There was Mike, there was the AD, there was not me.

Probably just as well. It's hard enough to go out in public like it is.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE...

2010-06-30T13:35:00.000-04:00

A REPOST FROM 2009.

We have a saying up here in the mountains: every story ends in death.

It comes from the fact that if you're talking to an old-timer, inevitably, no matter what you're talking about, the conversation will end with talking about somebody dying.

I was up here on vacation from Florida one time when a man who lived nearby strolled over to where my sons and I were fishing in the Chestatee River. When he found out my family was from here, and realized we were related, he visited for a while. Then he became silent, pointed up at the mountain across the river, and said, "Ye know, that's whar Beulah Gaddis got kilt." Every story ends in death.

Ed McMahon. Farrah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. All dead, all last week.

But wait, there's more.

BILLY MAYS, HE OF THE "HI, BILLY MAYS HERE FOR...." FAME, DIED YESTERDAY MORNING AT HIS TAMPA HOME.

I LOVED BILLY MAYS.

When I told my sweetheart about a new show coming on called "Pitchmen", starring BILLY MAYS and Anthony Sullivan, she said, "Now don't think I'm stupid, but didn't BILLY MAYS play baseball?" When I told my mama last night about his death she asked the same question.

I don't think they're stupid. They're not expected to know about a guy who started pitching items at county fairs and on the boardwalk at Atlantic City. But to a guy who sells for a living, BILLY MAYS was an icon.

He didn't play second fiddle to a talk-show host, or have a poster ogled by teenagers, or ogle teenagers. He just sold stuff.

Orange Glo, OxyClean, Mighty Putty, Kaboom, even ESPN. He knew how to sell, and he loved what he did.

He once said he could never sell a product he couldn't believe in. I can identify with that.

His wife said when she went to wake him early Sunday morning he was unresponsive.

Of course he was. He was already at the Gate, saying in that booming voice, "HI, I'M BILLY MAYS."

WORDS IN THIS POST IN ALL CAPS ARE IN HONOR OF THE ONE-YEAR ANNIVERSARY OF BILLY MAYS' PASSING.

just like all those in lower case remember mj a year later. too.

Worthless, Interesting Information You Can't Live Without

2010-06-29T13:51:00.000-04:00

A friend sent me an email containing the following information:

Pearls melt in vinegar. Who found that out?

The three most valuable brand names on earth: Marlboro, Coca-Cola, and Budweiser, in that order. The three most worthless brand names on earth: General Motors, Chrysler, and Toyota, personal opinion.

It's possible to lead a cow upstairs but not downstairs. What's a cow doing in your house anyway?

Humans are the only primates that don't have pigment in the palms of their hands. But in the South, humans always have a little pig in the palms of their hands. Along with barbecue sauce. And some chicken wings.

Ten percent of the Russian government's income is from the sale of vodka. The other ninety percent is from tax on the sale of vodka, comrade.

No word in the English language rhymes with month, orange, silver, or purple. Not true. The names L'month, J'orange, L'silver, and J'purple do.

A duck's quack doesn't echo, and no one knows why. I bet Elmer Fudd knows.

The longest recorded flight of a chicken was thirteen seconds. Waiting at second fourteen was Colonel Sanders.

Nutmeg is extremely poisonous if injected intravenously. And it doesn't taste good on deviled eggs, either. Trust me. Use paprika.

James Doohan, "Scotty" on Star Trek, was missing the middle finger of his right hand. I bet Captain Kirk had something to do with that.

The list goes on: never follow a possum across the road, any conversation beginning with the word "Look" is going to end badly--very badly, when you answer the phone and the caller asks for you by your complete legal name--hang up, etc.

All things we need to know. And use.

Father's Day

2010-06-19T16:02:00.000-04:00

The most confusing day in Lumpkin County is upon us: Father's Day.

But seriously, I love any day that Hallmark decides needs another card. Primarily because I really enjoy Hoops and Yo-Yo cards.

I am blessed to have had a wonderful father and to have had three wonderful children.

I just wish Daddy would have been around to see his grandkids. They wonder what he would have been like around them; I know.

He would have loved them unconditionally, like he loved me. Daddy was a great judge of character; soon after he died I looked in his Bible and found a note from the last time he was in Sunday School. Apparently the teacher had asked what kind of person you liked. Daddy wrote on a small slip of paper "I like somebody who's the same every time I see them." Me too, Daddy.

He would have told them stories, mostly true, sometimes embellished, often funny, but always with a point.

Daddy and Uncle Johnny (his brother, whom my children also missed the blessing of knowing) were going from Dahlonega to Gainesville in a '32 Ford Coupe when they were teenagers. Daddy fell asleep, and at some point Uncle Johnny lost control of the car, flipped it several times into an open field where it landed upright on all four tires. Uncle Johnny said that after they came to a stop, Daddy looked up and asked "Why did we stop here?"

He would have made sure they knew to put their hand over their heart when the American flag went by in a parade. I was standing next to him at a parade in Barnesville one time, and when the flag went past I noticed he had his hand over his heart, but I didn't. I never made that mistake again. It cost him and his generation too much for me not to show respect.

It was in that same parade that Daddy noticed the man leading the parade, our Fire Chief. Now I didn't hear Daddy say much bad about anyone, but he had the gift (and curse) of timely sarcasm. As the Chief rode by on his black stallion, he and the horse each decked out in black attire with silver studs and such, Daddy said "Look, son, you don't see that very often."

"What's that, Daddy?"

"Two assholes on one horse."

He would have withered a lot of people I've met since that day.

Daddy would have held my babies, spoiled them and left their Mama and me to clean up the mess, taken them fishing and to parades and movies and who knows what else. And I would have let him.

Not because I loved him so, but because he loved them so.

I miss them not knowing him. I miss him not knowing them.

But mostly I just miss him.

I love you, Daddy. Still.

Too True To Be Good. But It Is.

2010-06-17T19:49:00.000-04:00

"Sunday's Coming" Movie Trailer from North Point Media on Vimeo.

Reflections On Faith

2010-06-03T15:30:00.000-04:00

In these trying times, it's good to be clear about faith:

--Muslims do not recognize Jews as God's Chosen People.

--Jews do not recognize Jesus as Messiah.

--Protestants do not recognize the Pope as Leader of the Christian Church.

--Baptists do not recognize each other at Hooters. Or at the liquor store.

You Can't Fix Stupid. Ever.

2010-05-18T09:34:00.001-04:00

I read a lot.

Which keeps me informed of all the news I need to know, and some news I don't.

For instance, do you realize how stupid some folks are? I do. Almost daily.

As that great philosopher Forrest Gump once said, Stupid is as Stupid does.

Being both an observer, occasional practitioner, and example of Stupid I can speak with authority on this subject.

For instance, in Daytona Beach, Florida an irate Wendy's customer left the drive-thru, entered the store, and chased an employee around the restaurant with a stun gun, which was pink. While being encouraged by a friend, who was not pink.

I can only imagine the scene (actual names have been used because you can't make this stuff up).

"Shoot her, Melanese Asia!"

"She won't stop moving, Katrina Mari-Alice!"

While an elderly lady is screaming "Where's the beef?"

It should be apparent that any time you have someone named after a Hurricane and another named after a Continent that sooner or later there will--be--trouble. Especially if you allow them to ride around together.

Stun guns will never be a problem in the Great State of Georgia, where laws are being passed to ensure that its citizens can carry real guns anywhere they like: churches (understandable, especially when Baptists are having Deacons' or Business Meetings), airports (What?), and yes, restaurants. Even Wendy's, which is only marginally a restaurant.

In Georgia, that same scenario would have unfolded like this:

"Shoot her, World's Largest Continent!"

KAPOWIE!

Done. Now, about that Frosty...

The System Is...The System

2010-05-15T14:16:00.000-04:00

The system is ~~broken~~ the system.

I was watching the news this morning and apparently all infierno is breaking out at Kennesaw State University, in Atlanta, and throughout the Intraweb over a student there. A young lady. A...how shall I say this? ~~Illegal~~ Undocumented Alien.

Now, I don't pretend to have all the answers to the immigration problem; that's why we have ~~morons~~ folks in Washington. But I do have some questions.

From what I can gather, here's how this whole fracaso unfolded.

--the student in question was brought here by her parents when she was ten years old. The parents were...extranjeros. Which made her one, too.

--she graduated from a Georgia high school, then enrolled at KSU. In Georgia, when you enroll at a State university, you're either supposed to be a U. S. citizen, a non-resident alien here legally, or a permanent resident here legally. We in this Great State use the time-proven "honor system" and assume the applicant is telling the truth about their resident status, because no proof of citizenship is required. Ever.

--so...she's been here eleven years, graduated from one school and enrolled at another, and by all appearances a bright and honorable young person. Except for that one nagging issue, which, if I was her, would cause me to constantly look over my shoulder for the INS.

--a few days ago, this student gets pulled over for a traffic violation, whereupon Cobb County deputies check to see if she's here legally, which under United States law they are allowed to do (see the State of Arizona for clarification). She's not.

That, my friends, is when the problemas began.

Let's recap: a person (and her family) here ~~illegally~~ without documentation attends a taxpayer-funded elementary school, a taxpayer-funded high school, and a taxpayer-funded university, without any teacher/administrator at any time, at any level, ever asking for any type of citizenship/immigration papers. Then she commits a traffic violation, without a driver's license of any kind, and subsequently is found to be here illegally.

What? How? Why? What? My head hurts.

And then, after breaking the immigration laws, taking advantage of the taxpayers of Georgia, driving without a license, she becomes...a hero.

I saw a bumper sticker not long ago which said, "If government is the answer, then you must have asked a really stupid question."

The Atlanta newspaper loves her. One of the editors said we need more people like her (to which I say, look around). Television stations adore her. On one station this morning, she said, and I quote liberally and not verbatim, "I hope my situation brings about needed changes in the law."

So do I, senorita. So do I.

I Have Absolutely NO Social Culture

2010-05-12T08:30:00.000-04:00

Allow me to preface this by stating I am an EOE--Equally Offensive to Everyone. That being said, I have to write about last weekend.

My sweetheart ~~dragged~~ asked me to accompany her to a ballet recital last weekend. It was there I reaffirmed that I have absolutely no social culture. At all.

One of her elementary school students was dancing in this thing and she went to provide moral support. And teach me a lesson, which was that when I say "yes ma'am" I better not complain about whatever it is I said "yes ma'am" to.

Her little student was third on the list of--count 'em--seventeen different dancing troupes.

She finished dancing and came up to sit beside us. Jennie gave her flowers. I prayed for a way out.

For the uninitiated, a school-age recital is like having a root canal without the benefit of anesthesia. At least to me.

Now it's different if it's your child performing. At least that way you know somebody there. As it was, I knew nobody except my wife and this one child.

We had great seats--right under the air conditioning vent, which was blowing on Full Arctic Freeze-O-Breath.

Did I mention it was a balmy 42 degrees here last Saturday night? Oh. Yeah.

I kept waiting for someone to come over the PA system and say, "Randy Berry, you can leave now. And take your stinky attitude with you." But no.

In the middle of eternity, a lady stepped out and proclaimed Intermission. Now at any other venue when Intermission is announced you can at least get up and thaw out (or leave gracefully). Not here. "I have some announcements while they're changing the tape to record the DVD." I am not making this up. That's literally what she said.

And--AND--I was overdressed for the occasion. I'm normally a shorts-no socks-deck shoes kind of guy. For this, I got dressed up. For this, I got dressed up?

I asked a parent how long the program would last. He said about an hour and a half. Seemed like a lifetime.

The best part was being with my love. But I could've done that without the ballet recital, which I could not and did not appreciate artistically. Looked like a bunch of grade-school girls running from one side of the stage to the other, jumping periodically. I'm sure their parents were proud.

Apparently, taking me to anything beyond a George Jones concert is like putting perfume on a hog.

You can do it, but why?

Mamas

2010-05-08T17:15:00.000-04:00

All my life, I've been surrounded by the absolute best Mamas in the known universe.

Now, before you decide to argue that point with me, let me remind you of what that great philosopher Michael Scott once said: Don't be an idiot.

My Mama, Ruth, is an absolute firecracker but sweet as honey. I wrote about her on her birthday this year. She is something else. She's mobile, agile, and at times hostile. She speaks her mind and doesn't mind who knows what she thinks about anything. I love her with all my heart and wouldn't change her if I could.

She's always been there for me (and lots of others who called her "Mama"). She's sharp as a tack and loves fiercely. She's a true mountain woman in that respect, like a mama bear who doesn't like her cubs to be messed with.

My sweetheart's Mama, Velma, is one of the sweetest women I've ever known. The week after Jennie's dad passed away, Velma's kids had to put her in an Alzheimer's facility. Jennie was the saddest I've seen her in a long time. And there's no comfort to be given when there are no other choices to be made.

Velma was industrious and hard-working, and that's how I'll choose to remember her. As one counselor at the facility told Jennie, "When your mom speaks now, that's not her talking. That's the disease." God bless her.

Ah, but my sweetheart. Her Mama capacity is unmatched by any of her friends or relatives. She loves her children with truth and compassion. She's always been unwavering in her faith in them and her ability to bring out the best in each one. John and Carder are "Mama's Boys" and Emily is her "Baby Girl".

Her children have never had any reason to doubt her love for them. She's supportive and straightforward, compassionate and righteous. She's a mystery wrapped in an enigma covered by a question.

May that never change.

All three have impacted my life in different ways. Mama prepared me for Jennie by showing me what a Mama should be. Velma got Jennie ready for me by being an example of the same. Emily's preparing for her soulmate with a mantra I keep repeating to her: watch how a boy treats his Mama; that's how he'll eventually treat you.

So, on this Mother's Day, I'm thankful for the women--the Mamas--in my life.

God knows where I'd be without them.

Roscoe Athens Berry, May 9, 1920-May 5, 1979

2010-05-05T15:26:00.000-04:00

I wrote this last year. Since Daddy would have turned 90 this May 9th, I wanted to honor him again. Anything italicized has been added this time around.

Last week marked the thirtieth anniversary of my dad's death. He had a heart attack at work one Friday morning, and he died a week later on Saturday. He was 58. I was 22 and married for about six months.

Growing up I wanted to be just like my dad. He and my Uncle Johnny were the two best men I had ever known. Quick-witted, compassionate, hard-working, Christian men. I wanted to be like them.

My daddy worked on cars since before I was born. He came back from World War II with that training, and the memories of faraway places like Hawaii, the Philippines, Guadalcanal, and New Zealand. He never talked about the war unless I asked him, and when I did and heard some of his stories I never wanted to ask again.
I recently found out that Daddy mustered out of the service in early 1946 as a Master Sergeant in the 82nd Airborne.

He and Mama moved to Barnesville after they were married and he initially worked for the Chrysler dealer in our town until he had enough of the owner talking bad about everyone's trade-in. He told me later, "Don't ever run down a man's car. It's his and it's all he's got."

My earliest memory of Daddy and cars was at the J.R. Smith Motor Company. Mr. Smith sold Fords and this was the late fifties and early sixties. It's easy to understand how I fell in love when you consider the Galaxie 500, the Fairlane, and the Mustang of that era. He worked at "the Ford place" for almost 30 years, first as a mechanic, then service manager, then parts manager. His last salary was one hundred dollars a week. In 1972. Apparently he didn't just work for the money.

I'd go "help" Daddy on Saturdays, the highlight of my week. We'd walk from our house to work so we could leave Mama the car. I remember the cool mornings as we'd walk together, me trying to keep step with him. I was no more than five years old.

My job was to put the parts order where it went, whether in a bin for small parts or upstairs for mufflers and tailpipes. I thought I was something big. I still remember KDAZ-13-FL13. It was an oil filter.

I learned respect from watching Daddy in operation. He respected old and young, black and white, boss and employee. He taught me that it was okay to speak to black people and call them "sir" if they were older than me. That was in the Deep South in 1962. Think about it. He was way ahead of his time.

I went to Carter's Drug Store one morning to get Mr. Smith some cigars. I didn't need money. Everyone knew J. R. Smith. All I had to tell Mr. Carter was what I needed and he gave it to me, writing down the amount on a running bill for Mr. Smith. While there I was approached by some cadets from Gordon Military College and one of the asked me who my old man was. I told him I didn't have an old man, but my daddy was Roscoe Berry.

When we finished work (they closed at one o'clock on Saturday--those were the days) we'd start home. I wanted to march like Daddy did in the Army, so off we'd go, marching home. I realize now what a sight we must have been, a grown man and a five-year-old marching in time through town.

That should have been embarrassing, but Daddy didn't act like it was. I only gave Daddy and Mama boyhood things to be ashamed of me about when I was young. I wish I could say the same thing since I "grew up".

Daddy got a service station when I was fourteen, and I worked for him until I went off to Mercer in 1976. From that time he ran it by himself. I'd talk to him and Mama once a week and try to come home every chance I got. They were fun to be around, and all my friends loved being around them. They'd come over and hang out even when I wasn't there. Those were the days.

I got married in September 1978. Daddy was my best man, and boy did he look good in a tux. He cried during the ceremony, and so did I. We moved to coastal Georgia not long after that and I began pastoring a church there.

I was at a church in Hinesville when the call came one Friday morning in May. Daddy had some chest pains at work and had been taken to the hospital. Jennie and I prayed all the way there that he would live until we got there.

I wish I'd prayed harder.

He was in ICU and in those days there were no pacemakers, open heart surgery, or any thing to help the situation. We visited him for ten minutes every hour. At night I'd just walk in and watch while he slept. Every time we talked that week Daddy kept saying how good God had been to him.

He got out of ICU on Friday, and that evening we watched "Dukes of Hazzard". He laughed, we laughed. He'd be out of the hospital Monday.

Saturday Jennie, a friend and I were working at the station. That afternoon I got a call from the hospital. Daddy had taken a turn for the worse.

We flew the thirteen miles to the hospital, rushed to the elevators, the doors opened on the second floor, and there was Uncle Robert, Mama's brother. He was waiting for us.

"He's gone."

I fell back against the wall in disbelief. I had just spoken to him that morning and he sounded fine. Apparently my Aunt Gwen had told Daddy a joke and he laughed, put his hand over his heart, turned to the window, and died. Dr. Holloway said if he'd been standing right there he couldn't have done a thing.

I remember Grandma Berry standing at the end of his casket saying a mama shouldn't have to bury her children. Within the year I'd be at her funeral as well.

Preacher Bill used Psalm 37.23 as the text for Daddy's funeral: "A good man's steps are ordered by the Lord." I thought about marching through town with Daddy.

Everybody seemed to love him. People I didn't know told me of things he'd done for them without anyone knowing. It made me love him more.

I had a dream during my recovery from cancer surgery. I saw Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Johnny, and Daddy standing on a riverbank across from me. I reached out to go to them and they backed up and walked away. I guess it wasn't time.

I think about you every day, Daddy. You'd be so proud of your grandchildren. They all have some of your traits. It's scary. I wish I could talk to you sometime, not only for advice, but just to hear your voice. I miss you. Knowing I'll see you someday is comforting, but it doesn't help those times when I wonder what you'd say or do.

The last thing my Daddy said to me in that Saturday morning phone call was "I love you, son." I still remember the sound of that.

He died laughing that afternoon.

I'm still crying.

Those Baptists Sure Know How To Throw A Funeral

2010-05-01T16:46:00.005-04:00

My father-in-law, Raymond Coppage, passed away a week ago last Monday in Vero Beach, Florida. Since I've already said what there was to say about him, I'll move on to something that would really matter to him.

We got to Vero late Monday evening to find grieving family and friends. And a kitchen full of food. With more promised.

Baptists are known for putting out a spread when one of their own passes away, and this wake (not a Baptist term, but it fits) would last four days and several meals.

Someone had brought casseroles, a Baptist staple at dinner-on-the-ground and funerals. We blew through that food in about twenty minutes. It didn't help that there were four children, their spouses, thirteen grandchildren and some of their spouses, assorted brothers and sisters, and some strangers who happened to smell the Baptist cooking and just stopped by to eat.

My brother-in-law is a regional manager for Publix Supermarkets, and Tuesday was Publix day at the house. We all got excited about the prospects of Publix fried chicken. If you can't have Mama's fried chicken, then Publix is the next best thing.

Alas, Publix fried chicken was not to be.

You'da thunk that among the numerous Baptists in and out of the Coppage household that week somebody, somewhere, sometime, would have brought at least a leg or thigh. But no.

I've been away from Baptists for so long I've lost touch with what they're thinking. Apparently they've gone healthy on me in my absence. No fried chicken at a funeral? Unheard of, and definitely un-Baptist.

Wednesday, Publix brought spiral-sliced ham. Three of them, to be exact.

Now I'm a cooked-hog fan from way back, but three hams is a lot--even for me.

Still no fried chicken.

Thursday, the day of the funeral, someone brought spaghetti and salad for lunch. Baptist spaghetti? Unheard of.

After the funeral the family--all 153 of us--returned to the church for supper.

Ah, finally. Fried chicken, as far as the eye could see. Platters of bird covered an entire table.

Raymond would have been ecstatic. He could clean a chicken leg bare in one bite.

I felt safe as I stood back in the line, secure in the fact that there would be plenty of fried chicken for me to choose from when I finally reached the Promised Land.

At 6:13pm I reached the Fowl Table. Nothing left.

Oh, the preachers had some chicken. As did the singers and piano players. Even the grandchildren, who would have eaten fruit out of a blender, had chicken on their plate. Everybody had chicken. Except me.

Now I know that the eating was not what we were there for. In my quest for crispy thighs, I was simply trying to honor Raymond Coppage in the best way I knew how. He'd be looking down on me from that Great Covered Dish Supper in the Sky, plate piled high with all that Heaven had to offer. I'd look up with a mouth full of chicken and say "Mh lothd uoo, mh phstf".

Instead, I ended up with some kind of roast beef and some green beans.

I guess I'll eat healthy from now on. But I'll sure miss fried chicken.

And Raymond.

Homecoming

2010-04-14T08:49:00.000-04:00

I was thinking just today about Homecoming at Midway Baptist Church when I was a child.

The men of the church would start cooking Saturday afternoon, roasting chickens and pigs and whatever else crossed their minds or their path. They'd cook through the night preparing for "dinner on the ground" (although we ate on makeshift tables) Sunday after the morning service.

The service itself was memorable. We'd skip Sunday School and the evening service (Homecoming and Easter were the only two Sundays of the year we'd cancel--such a strong word that it evoked much emotion at the monthly Conference where the church had to vote whether to do it or not--evening services.

The discussion about CANCELING the evening service centered around whether some lost soul would come to Midway that particular Sunday night, find the church CLOSED, then die on the front steps. Which would put their eternal fate on the consciences of those who voted to CANCEL the evening service.

The church voted to call off the evening service. I don't think anyone was ever found dead on the front steps, but those who voted against canceling the service were secretly hoping they'd be justified.

So Homecoming Sunday came, complete with a guest preacher and a Southern Gospel group whose name ended in "-aires". The Gospelaires, Southernaires, Freedomaires, Frigidaires...you name 'em, they sang at Midway's Homecoming at one time or another.

The most memorable Homecoming Preacher was Brother Franklin Farbreath, who brought with him his Great White Throne Choir, famous for their original compositions "I'll Be Behind You When You Fall (At The Great White Throne Judgment" and "There's No Ice In Hell (Only Hot Water)".

Needless to say, Homecoming was always interesting.

Brother Franklin preached, cried, exhorted, exclaimed, cajoled, implored, shamed, disgraced, and entreated for an hour. Then he said that phrase all good Baptists wait to hear at any service: "In closing." Which meant we were in for at least another thirty minutes.

Did this man not know there was food waiting just outside? In addition to the scorched barbecue pork and brunswick stew, there would be fried chicken, ham, macaroni and cheese, fresh vegetables, pies and cakes galore.

If only he would shut up.

I leaned over to Mama and asked, "Ain't he about done?" Daddy answered, "Son, I think he's just getting warmed up."

Thankfully he was close to the end of his sermon. I knew this the moment he uttered, "Now, while every head is bowed and every eye closed..." Every effective Baptist Preacher used this line at one time or another. But I had a preacher-friend who did just the opposite; he'd say "With every head up and every eye opened..." I guess he figured Jesus was right when he said if you were ashamed of Him here He'd be ashamed of you There, so why take a chance?

Anyway...Brother Franklin asked for those who wanted to be saved to raise their hand, "No one's looking around" (thankfully he didn't know I was), then those who wanted to rededicate their lives to the Lord to raise their hand, then those who wanted prayer to raise their hand...I just wanted somebody to do whatever it took to get us to the food the fastest.

Then I heard The Great White Throne Choir begin to hum the strains of the first of two hundred and forty-seven verses of "Just As I Am" and knew it would be at least two o'clock before we ate. Mama knew this too, and handed me another stick of Juicy Fruit.

I chewed away with my eyes closed, dreaming of cooked pig, fried chicken, and sweet tea.

What I wouldn't give to be back there, one more time.

Sitting between Mama and Daddy. Hearing them sing and pray and say "Amen". Feeling secure as they had their arms around me.

I'd just about give up fried chicken from now on for that. Just about.

Padres 17, Braves 2...

2010-04-13T12:00:00.000-04:00

...144 days until College Football starts.

I can't wait. But I'll have to.

Memories of Dahlonega

2010-04-08T18:52:00.000-04:00

I thank God every day that I live in Dahlonega and not somewhere else. Like Clayton County.

I have great memories of the town and Lumpkin County. Of course, it helps when your family's been around these parts since the early 1800s.

I come from a long line of gold miners and moonshiners. My Granddaddy, Bob Free, used to pan for gold anytime his family needed money for necessities. My cousin spent time in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary for making moonshine. Other cousins never got caught.

I have more than a lifetime of stories, which I tell with only the slightest embellishment since truth is stranger--and in my case, better--than fiction. Which means I don't have to make anything up. So, here go some memories:

--Uncle Johnny's Dairy Queen caught on fire early one Sunday morning. I don't remember much, other than the smoke coming out the back of the building and Uncle Johnny sliding down the "bank" behind his house (he and Aunt Rutha lived next to the DQ) in an undershirt and trousers, buckling his belt as he slid. Someone had left the fry cooker on the night before and it caught on fire. The fire was extinguished, Uncle Johnny was...mad, and the Dairy Queen is still there today.

--over at the "milk house" (Uncle Johnny owned the Better Maid milk distributorship) I had all the chocolate milk and King Sun orange juice I wanted. I helped unload tractor trailers full of loaded milk crates more than once, and caught my hand between two crates on several occasions. On Saturday mornings, Luke Carder (another cousin) and Gene would crank up Uncle Johnny's race car, a 1956 Ford Fairlane with straight pipes from the exhaust headers. You could hear it all over town, since the milk house was two blocks from the Square. Uncle Johnny later sold that car to a fellow from North Carolina who wanted to get his son Dale his first modified stock car.

--going to the Holly Theater with Sheriff Ralph Ridley's daughter Jana. We were ten or eleven years old and in love. Her daddy didn't think so. After he talked to me, neither did I.

--racing my cousin up Wahsega Road towards Grandma Berry's house. We called it "straightening the road" since Wahsega Road was a series of "S" curves all the way to the Ranger Camp. We weren't trying to break the law; we just couldn't wait to see Grandma and Grandpa.

--Grandma Berry made the absolute best fried apple pies I've ever had. You could put one on top of your head and your tongue would fly up and slap your brains out.

--Grannie Free made the best apple pie in a pan I've ever had. And the best biscuits, a trait she handed down to her daughter, my Mama. If you've never had milk gravy and homemade biscuits, you haven't lived. Cracker Barrel wishes desperately they had Grannie's/Mama's biscuits. They don't.

--the Courthouse was in the center of the Square in Dahlonega. There was a covered wagon sitting off the road as you went south out of town, up the two-lane road to Crown Mountain, the wagon Lumpkin Countians used when they delivered gold to Atlanta to cover the Capitol dome. Now there's a McDonald's there. Something is wrong with this picture.

--Lumpkin County was the second-poorest county in Georgia at one time. The poorest? Dawson county. I'm not so sure we're not poor again. We've been taken over by "come-heres" who know much better than natives what Dahlonega needs. What used to be a gold-minin', moonshinin' town has gotten respectable. And lost its soul in the process.

But out where I live, in the heart of Auraria--gold-mining country--I see the mist some mornings as I drive to work. Cherokees walking, I've been told, on the Trail of Tears. My ancestors walked by the creek that flows in my backyard, some to Oklahoma, some to their death. I feel them in the mist.

It's quiet in the country, the kind of quiet I knew a generation ago in Dahlonega. Before the imported collectable shops on the Square, there was Kenimer's Grocery, Dahlonega Ford, Fred Jones Chevrolet, the Holly Theater, the Pure Oil gas station. And one traffic signal, with the red light on the bottom and the green light on top. You were a dead man if you were color blind.

I listen to the birds in the morning, the deer at dusk, and the bears during the night. It's heaven on earth.

Just like Dahlonega used to be. And still is, in my memories.

Berry Raymond Coppage

2010-03-29T13:27:00.002-04:00

He was born in March of 1930 in rural Lowndes County, Georgia, to parents who were people of the land when that meant something.

Hahira, Georgia, would be made famous decades later by Ray Stevens in "Shriners' Convention". But not then.

His momma and daddy farmed some, had a general store, and personified self-sufficiency, living and dying by that year's crops...or lack thereof.

He was my father-in-law, Berry Raymond Coppage. At this writing, he's living day-to-day, waiting to go home.

He was the first--and only--child in his family to graduate from college.

He attended Norman Park Baptist College, Mercer University, and Union University. And a little Baptist school in Louisville, Kentucky, THE Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.

I first met him when I took my future wife home from Mercer at the end of one school year. Raymond, Velma, Ray, and Ruth lived in a church-owned house on Atlantic Boulevard in Vero Beach, Florida. Debbie, the oldest, was married and lived just south of town. I met them all while I was there, and became Velma's hero when Jennie cut her hand while washing a glass and I doctored the wound, saving her life. Or you'da thought so.

Raymond was pastor of King's Baptist Church at the time I first met him. He pastored Southern Baptist churches for over fifty years in diverse locations all over Alabama, Georgia, and finally in Vero Beach.

A man is usually defined by what he does rather than who he is, and that's a mistake. While Raymond was a pastor by occupation, he was much more than that.

He loved his wife, Velma, so much so that he always made sure he remembered her with gifts on her birthday, anniversary, and other Hallmark holidays. The gift was always perfect...because one of his daughters usually did the shopping. You hear about spouses that complete the other. Velma overcompensated Raymond.

He loved his children. While it was late in life before he verbally confirmed this (that rural thing again) they had to know. He was a good provider and his family never did without, although they weren't rich by the world's standards.

His garden was a consistent source of pride. When he built his house on 39th Street his family might have wanted a pool, but what they got was a half-acre garden full of tomatoes, green beans, Vidalia onions, squash...you name it, he grew it. He knew you can't eat a swimming pool. His citrus was legendary; comparing his Ruby Reds or Valencias to something you'd find in a grocery store was like holding a watermelon up to a peanut.

He fished every chance he got, twice trying to kill me in the process. He liked to catch any kind of fish that bit and loved most a big bream on his line. Once on Blue Cypress Lake my sweetheart hooked a big bass and was fighting it to the boat. Raymond grabbed the new net we bought him for Christmas and stood ready to scoop said fish up when Jennie got it close enough. She reeled the fish up to the side of the boat, and, wanting to help the process, pulled it just far enough out of the water to make it easy for Raymond to net it. Whereupon the bass stood up, smiled, and spit the hook at all of us as we watched. We just leaned over the side of the boat, dumbfounded, looking at the dark water as if the bass would think twice, come back, and jump in the boat. He didn't.

Raymond's favorite food was all-you-can-eat. Jennie had her Senior Recital in the spring of 1978, and before the event our two families went to the Country Kitchen, a catfish place just outside of Barnesville. Jennie and I left early enough for her to prepare for the biggest event of her college life. Daddy and Mama and Raymond and Velma were finishing up when we left.

Or so we thought.

Did I mention it was "Shrimp Night" at the Country Kitchen?

Jennie had me checking again and again for our parents to arrive, since she wouldn't begin until they did. At the appointed time--exactly--I stepped outside the Recital Hall on the Mercer campus to see Daddy and Raymond running (as much as you can run with all the shrimp you can eat in your stomach) holding flowers for Jennie, and Mama and Velma trotting behind. The reason they were late? The women couldn't get the men to stop eating.

Once Raymond and I were at an all-you-can-eat restaurant. At some point they gave us twenty dollars and asked us to go somewhere else and eat.

Raymond loved God with simplicity and sincerity and consistency. He preached the Word. He loved gospel music and hymns alike. He was willing to do things differently if it meant reaching people with the love of God.

He had open-heart surgery in 1991 and I spent one night at the hospital with him. It was dark in the room and I thought he was asleep. He wasn't, and quietly asked me to read the Bible to him. I didn't really search out any specific verses. But God knew what Raymond needed, and when I "flipped" open my Bible here's what I found:

How blessed is he who considers the helpless;
         The LORD will deliver him in a day of trouble.
The LORD will protect him and keep him alive,
         And he shall be called blessed upon the earth;
         And do not give him over to the desire of his enemies.
The LORD will sustain him upon his sickbed;
         In his illness, You restore him to health.

That was 1991.

Raymond believed the Bible. He knew God loved him, delivered him, restored him to health.

I have a story account full of Raymond-isms, funny stories he's told, illustrations he's used. I'm drawing on that to write this, and after he's in heaven, I'll make more withdrawals. It's untapped wealth.

When I've spoken to him, he sounds weak--very weak. But he's alert and always asks how I am. I guess that's the pastor (or father) in him. Slowly winding down himself, he wants to know everyone else is okay.

I wish I could guarantee that everybody he cares about would always be okay. But that's out of my hands.

He's not afraid of death or dying. I've never known him to be afraid of anything, really. Men of faith are like that.

It's the rest of us who have a problem with it.

Ramblin' Man.

2010-03-26T08:50:00.001-04:00

If the house is in Florida, aren't they ALL "Florida Rooms"?

Why do people insist on putting fried chicken in the refrigerator as soon as possible when at a family reunion/lake/beach it can sit out all day and it's still okay to eat?

And...if I'm not dead by now from eating said chicken, can any food really harm me?

Why is it that you can walk into an ER but when you're discharged you have to be rolled out in a wheelchair? Do they know something I don't?

Any conversation starting with the word "LOOK" will end poorly.

Why don't "country" stations play COUNTRY--"The Old Possum" George Jones, Conway Twitty and the Twittybirds, Johnny "The Man In Black" Cash, "Whisperin'" Bill Anderson, Dolly "They're Real But My Hair Ain't" Parton, Tammy "Stand By My Man" Wynette, et.al.?

I'm going to start paying for everything with Monopoly money. It should work as well as the real thing, and I like the colors better.

Back when Ronald Reagan was President we still had Bob Hope and Johnny Cash. Now we have Obama and NO hope and NO cash.

I really don't like coconut.

I used to think I knew it all. Then I found out I didn't. I'm just surrounded by idiots.

I'm pretty fly for a white guy. Back up..don't hate the player, hate the game. It's how I roll. I'm glad that's out of my system.

A mind is a terrible thing.

!@#$%^&*!

2010-03-24T08:50:00.000-04:00

I was watching the news this morning and I saw a clip of VP Joe Biden giving President Obama a man-hug and whispering loudly something in his ear.

Apparently it wasn't "congratulations, sir."

More than one report showed Joe Biden saying as he embraced the President, "This is a big f**king deal."

I'm not sure what he was referring to, but I think it was the health care bill. At least I hope it was.

Now, I'm no prude. I've done my share of cussing, sometimes justifiably, sometimes carelessly. But I wasn't raised that way.

Mama and Daddy didn't cuss, except on those rare occasions when they used the most expressive word in the English language. You figure it out; if you can't, ask me.

Given Joe Biden's history of plagiarism, I think I know where he got it from: either Batman, the Road Runner, or both.

I watched Batman when I was young, and anytime he would hit--yes, physically strike--a criminal, a cartoon balloon would pop up with "!@#$%^&*!" in it. I knew the criminal was stating the obvious; he was getting the snot beat out of him and expressing his emotions.

I watched Wile E. Coyote try to catch the Road Runner using the latest weapon from Acme, and fail. Another balloon would pop up with--you guessed it--"!@#$%^&*!" in it.

It didn't take rocket surgery to figure out what they were saying. And I'm pretty sure Wiki Joe got his word from one of these cartoons.

So there they were, the President and Vice-President of the greatest nation in the world, standing on the precipice of "change" on a scale unseen since the 1960s, and all he can think of to say is "This is a big f**king deal." Classy. And Vice-Presidential. No wonder they put "vice" before "president".

I'll tell you the big f**king deal: a "health-care" plan with no funding, no plan, no parameters other than those hammered out in some back-room deal that taxpayers will pay for. From now on.

Remember, government never gives you anything that they don't take away from somebody else.

Oh, I remember now. Daddy did cuss when he felt he was wronged by the government.

He'd comment "They screwed me without even kissing me first."

At least the President got a hug. I think I know what we're getting.

Please, oh please, just kiss me first.

Spring Sprung March 20. Snowing March 22.

2010-03-22T08:40:00.000-04:00

It has snowed seven--seven-times since January 1.

Today it's snowing. Again.

It won't stick.

It won't last.

It don't matter.

It's getting old.

Wednesday's forecast: Sunny and 72.

Stinkin' global warming.

I Have A Question

2010-03-18T14:38:00.001-04:00

Let me get this straight...we're trying to pass a health care bill written by a committee whose chairman says he doesn't understand it, passed by a Congress which hasn't read it but exempts themselves from it, to be signed by a President who also is exempt from it and hasn't read it and who smokes, with funding by a Treasury chief who didn't pay his taxes, all to be overseen by a Surgeon General who is obese, and financed by a country that's broke.

What the hell could possibly go wrong?

"Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself."
--Mark Twain

I'll Remember You

2010-03-12T09:20:00.002-05:00

I sing this song--or hum some part of it--almost every day.

Simon Says. And So Do I.

2010-03-10T09:56:00.001-05:00

In the midst of all the commentary on things like the economy, earthquakes, Toyota, etc. I'd like to comment on something that really matters.

American Idol.

Our household watches American Idol. Not always live, which would be unbearable; we have a DVR (how did we live without them?) and record it so we can skip the commercials...and some of the drama.

Last night we watched the playback of that evening's episode. Since it was already finished, and I hadn't seen it ahead of time or knew the outcome or knew what Simon Cowell would say about the female contestants and I'm not psychic (or psychotic, for that matter) I felt pretty good about myself as I made the judgment call on the girls. Along with Simon.

Randy Jackson can "yo dog" all he wants. Ellen Degeneres can make everyone laugh. Kara can be kind and cutting at the same time. But Simon...well, Simon is special, isn't he? Just cuts to the chase and lets the chips fall where they may (Dr. Ellzey, forgive me for mixing my metaphors).

(It's always easier to judge others when you're not in their shoes. So I qualify my comments by remembering that as I criticize the Idol eager eight, there's a reason they're on the show and I'm not. I'm slightly outside the age limit for contestants.)

Anyway...I was uncannily accurate in my assessment of last night's singers. I was right there with sweet Simon. To wit:

Katie Stevens--sang a Kelly Clarkson song I didn't know because I listen to country music and Elvis almost exclusively. I did know she was boring. Simon says (that's the only time I'll use that phrase, but I just had to) that she sucked the energy out of the song. I says she just sucked.

Siobhan Magnus--mu spell checker's going crazy. Were her parents high when they named her? Her dad was in the front row last night, looking for all the world like Phil Collins. You make the call. She sang "House of The Rising Sun". My first band in sixth grade sang that song. Simon said it was weird. I said weird started before she opened her mouth. Probably at birth.

~~Doctor~~ Midwife/Birthing Tub Assistant: It's a girl.
Mother: What shall we name her?
Father: I've been thinking (putting away his roach clip). I really do like your mother's name, Cruella, but...oh, wow, man...look at those chiffon drapes...let's name her Chiffon but spell it Siobhan and bug the hell out of all her teachers.

Weird.

Lacey Brown--looks like a cute little bird with that dark red dyed hair spiked in all directions. Simon said the song she sang was in danger of being forgotten. I don't remember what she sang. We were right again.

Katelyn Epperly--sang Carole King's "I Feel The Earth Move". Dressed like Carole King: hair, clothes, Wurlitzer keyboard. Simon said it was like request night at a restaurant. I requested she stop singing.

Didi Benami--WHERE ARE THESE NAMES COMING FROM? Yawn. Simon too.

Paige Miles--"Smile" by Nat King Cole. Sounds like something you'd hear at a funeral. Simon said it was like what you'd hear at a Holiday Inn in 1974. I take offense, since I was playing in Holiday Inn bars around 1974. We never played that song...I don't think. I don't remember.

Crystal Bowersox--looks rough as a cob, sings like Aretha. Simon said the competition was hers to lose. I hope she wins it all because she doesn't fit the mold. Ever the underdog supporter, me. I realize how nasty that last sentence sounds. I like it.

Lily Scott--Patsy Cline's "I Fall To Pieces". Simon wondered why she chose that song. I wondered how she made it this far. Sounds like somebody choking a cat. Simon said she was brave. I agree. You'd better be brave if you're going to be stupid.

So, Simon and I are on the same page right now. I'm beginning to really like that guy.

Snowmageddon III

2010-03-03T12:11:00.000-05:00

I hope--hope--this is the last time this year I'll have to say something about this.

We got around nine inches of snow yesterday between 5am and 1pm. This translates to A) an inordinate number of idiot drivers 3) an unbearable number of "Special Weather Statements!" and D) more stupid questions than you can imagine. Well, maybe not.

Anytime I hear someone say something stupid, I'm reminded of Keith Olbermann, when he co-anchored SportsCenter on ESPN, before he ran out to left field and stayed there. He once said, "Remember, there are no stupid questions--only stupid people who ask questions."

They all live in North Georgia.

Sometimes it's not questions, but observations, that make my head hurt. One guy here at work, in the midst of the blizzard, observed that "if it keeps on like this them cars will be covered up before long."

You think?

Another Florida transplant observed that "the wind makes it really cold out here."

Well...

Here are the facts:

It's early March, time for the last cold spell before Spring is sprung and things turn green again.

When it snows long enough and hard enough, cars, trucks, and everything else will eventually be covered up.

Wind makes cold weather colder. Always.

Ken Cook did NOT take his coat off, roll his sleeves up, or loosen his tie at any point during the snowstorm, therefore there was never really anything to worry about.

I still miss Guy Sharpe, now more than ever.

Too Good To Pass Up

2010-02-27T17:29:00.003-05:00

Captain Obvious and Sergeant Stupid

2010-02-20T13:58:00.000-05:00

I watch the local news every morning, more for laughs than anything else. This morning I was not disappointed.

Tom Haynes was interviewing a victim of a stabbing in a lab on the Georgia Tech campus last week. Well, it wasn't really a stabbing; the victim was attacked by a former GT student using a samurai sword.

You can't make this stuff up.

Haynes, otherwise known as Captain Obvious, asked the victim: "When you were being attacked, did you feel that your life was in danger?"

The victim said yes. I know how I would have answered: "Nope, I was just hoping to live long enough to get to the Varsity for one more Frosty Orange and a chili dog."

The interview ended with the victim telling Haynes how the campus police and the Atlanta Police Department showed up. Captain Obvious asked "When the police showed up, did you think your life had been saved?"

Again, yes. Me? "Nope, I've seen the APD in action. They shoot first, and then, if anyone lives, they ask questions."

After this riveting exchange, I tuned to ESPN in time to hear Mike Tirico and Tom Rinaldi talking about Tiger Woods' press conference yesterday. Rinaldi, Sergeant Stupid, observed that the press conference was "one of those things where people will remember where they were when they heard it", placing Tiger's TV time up there alongside the Kennedy assassination, the supposed death of Elvis, and 9/11. Brilliant.

Which reminds me of this story:

An old country Baptist preacher was attending an associational meeting where a seminary professor gave a glowing report of the advances in theological education. The old preacher was called upon to say the closing prayer, whereupon he said, "O God, I thank Thee that I am ignorant. Please make me ignoranter."

Preacher, along with Fox 5 and ESPN, your prayer has been answered.