The Best Elvis Song of All Time. Probably.

A remix from "Viva Elvis"....

I Cut My Finger and Just About Died

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

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

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.

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

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

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.