I'm a Cowboy

That’s right.  I’m a cowboy.  Got me some chip-kickers (sorry, they allow me only so much editorial freedom) to prove it. Tony Lamas, baby.

A friend gave me these nice cowboy boots over twenty-five years ago, and until recently, I had worn them maybe twice. I’m a sneaker dude. What I am is a lazy dresser, but sneakers are the preferred shoe of slobs worldwide.

A wedding I attended back in the fall was loosely Western themed, so putting the boots on seemed the appropriate thing to do. Problem is, those boots are size 11; my foot is now a 12. It was a tight fit, but my wife encouraged me to gut it out for the night.  After all, I’m a cowboy, right? We laugh at pain.

Wearing those boots for 8 hours that day either stretched them out a bit or shrunk my foot. The boots still don’t fit but feel fine enough that I recently wore them when I accompanied my wife to a dinner with a bunch of her redneck friends. 

I fit right in.

Here’s the thing: I’m different when I’m wearing my boots. Maybe I just don’t pay attention, but do I always point my toes out when I walk? In my boots I feel like I’m bow-legged. Like I just got off a horse.

I talk differently, too. Instead of a “nah” to your question, you will get “naw”. “Hey” becomes “howdy” as I greet you. Being raised in the South, I tend to say “ma’am” to women most of the time, regardless of their age, but when I’m wearing boots, it becomes a two-syllable word: ‘may-yum’.

The very act of wearing cowboy boots invokes a certain swagger in your personality that you don’t normally display. It’s how we get popular 5-foot, 2-inch country singers. They may be wearing a t-shirt and a necklace, but put on them boots, a cowboy hat, and give ‘em a git-tar, and they are by-god ranch hands that just drove the herd across Montana right before hopping on stage to sang you this here song.

I get it. ‘Cause I too am a cowboy. So if you see me in the saloon, go ahead, call me out for being an imposter. But be aware, I’ve got a six-shooter. I mean, I’ve had six shooters.

And if you’re wearing flip-flops, I’ll trade you. These boots are killin’ my feet.

Real Man Food!

It’s no great revelation that our tastes change as we, uh… mature.

Think about the first wine you drank. Pink right? Or peach or strawberry or whatever Boone’s Farm blend you could get your hand on. 

White zinfandel, which is pink, is still popular with novices. In fairness to white zin, it’s still popular with girls and gay guys, too. No offense intended; I have girl friends and gay guy friends. I know what they like.

My own wine experience started with sauterne, which is a dessert wine. I recall drinking it over pizza with a girlfriend. It’s really sweet and a terrible choice with pizza, but it’s where your taste buds are. Or were.  

These days, I prefer syrahs, zins (not white), and cabernets: rich, hardy, almost heavy wines with lots of big tannins and a warm alcohol feel.

Coffee is another good example of changing tastes. It’s pretty common to start drinking it with lots of milk and sugar which, except for it being hot, makes it more like a coffee milk shake. I’m a late-in-life coffee drinker, but I only want it one way: black and strong.

Chocolate: I will eat creamy milk chocolate if you offer it, but I would marry a Hershey’s Special Dark bar if the law allowed and it could say “I do”.

Syrup: Aunt Jemima is for sissies. Give me a buttered biscuit and some blackstrap molasses - or sorghum, and get out of my way!

Anchovies: Like most folks, I grew up thinking they were yucky. Now, I routinely use anchovy paste in certain dishes. Sardines? Nothing but big anchovies. Open a can and let’s eat.

Spices and herbs: more, more, more! Pepper, cumin, and cilantro. Garlic could duke it out with dark chocolate for my deepest affections.

But you see the trend, yes?  Bigger, bolder, richer... words already used.  Here’s another word that applies: stinkier.  I want my cheese to stink. Bleu, gorgonzola… give me any cheese with mold in it. That seems odd to even say.

But ‘stinky’ seems like a good place to stop and begin to address the elephant in the room. And that is how all of this affects us. More importantly, how it affects the people around us. Or we could just ignore it. 

Either way, COULD SOMEBODY PLEASE OPEN A WINDOW AND GET SOME FRESH AIR IN HERE!?!?

Doing Disney, Part 2

Welcome to our show, boys and girls! Today’s game is called Disney World: Addiction Or Devotion?

Let’s meet our contestants. (Y’all, these are actual people and real stories. They share information on the promise their real names would not be used.)

Today’s first contestants, the Benjamins! The Benjamins are in their upper 30’s, both work, no kids and consider themselves devotees to The Happiest Place on Earth. They stay at the same place and eat at the same places each time they go. Because they own a travel agency, they do get a few price breaks but will spend approximately $3,000 for an 8-day trip that they take once a year. Or twice, if the mouse moves them.

Let’s take a commercial break so that I can cuss the Benjamins. My 4-day trip cost almost $3500, although I suspect the Benjamins don’t have the same beverage bill that my wife and I are capable of running up.

And we’re back!

Our next contestants are the JJs, James and Joanne! The JJs hail from Utah and are retired. While raising their three children, the JJs always took their family vacations at either Disney Land in California or Disney World in Florida. “The kids loved it, so it was a really easy choice for us.” Now, the JJs are here once or twice a year on their own. They stay in an off-Disney property to mitigate costs, but they generally do not worry about expenses. They are devotees.

Let’s take another break while we ponder why a retired couple in their 70s hops a plane twice a year in Salt Lake City and flies to Orlando to frolic with Cinderella and Goofy.

Next, let’s meet the Double Ds. These people look normal: good looking, gainfully employed, and like the Benjamins, also in their upper 30’s. They however, have a child. They are looking forward to going to Disney World in just a couple of weeks for spring break. It will be their 21^st trip (not a typo) to Disney World. The DDs also enjoy a financial break at Disney World, theirs being a military discount. Still, for their 4 day stay the DDs will usually spend well over $2,000. With a 6-year old child, they can be forgiven for making Disney a regular vacation spot, but 21 times in 8 years?!? And because they plan to renew their wedding vows at Disney World in a couple of years, we have labeled them the Disney Dorks!

And now meet our final contestants. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the STDs!  Seriously Trained Disney-ites. Looking like average people of a similar age to me and my wife, we struck up a conversation with the STDs while waiting in line at the popular attraction at Epcot known as Soarin’. What we learned was that Disney World was every single vacation they ever took with their children. In the first two years of retirement, the STDs made 12 trips to Disney World, at which point they decided to move to Orlando. They now visit one of the Disney parks – Epcot is the favorite – two or three times a week! And they love it. No golf, no tennis, no Europe, no Mexico… Disney World is their world.

Stop the game.  I think we’ve found our winner.

50 Shades of Gray(ing)

1.      Well, look at that.

2.      Where’d that come from?

3.      Guess you knew you’d see one at some point

4.      Just pluck it out.

5.      Dang, didn’t you just pluck that out last week?

6.      Uh oh.  There’s one here, too.

7.      Double-pluck.

8.      Oh, crap.  They’ve called in reinforcements.

9.      So what? It’s just a few, right?

10.  Probably, no one notices.

11.  If anybody notices, color.

12.  It’s not really color, it’s a rinse. Color is for girls, right?

13.  They notice.

14.  So what?  At this rate, you’ll be dead before you’re all gray.

15.  Maybe not.

16.  Nowhere close to dead.

17.  (Hopefully).

18.  So what?  It’ll make you look distinguished.

19.  Right?

20.  Besides, you’re just gray-ish.

21.  Still mostly dark hair.

22.  At worst, half and half.

23.  Starting to look really distinguished.

24.  Et tu, mustache?

25.  And beard?  And sideburns?

26.  Ha ha!  Look a gray chest hair.

27.  Hang on. You don’t know any young men with gray chest hair.

28.  Or even young-ish.

29.  Most are called “grandpa”.

30.  You are different.

31.  A very young-looking gray.

32.  Dang, he looks young to have that hair, they’ll say.

33.  Nobody is saying that.

34.  Plucked a gray hair today from eyebrow.

35.  So what? It was just one.

36.  Co-workers start calling you “old man”.

37.  Some are only 10 years younger than you.

38.  They think it’s funny.

39.  They’re just jealous of your wisdom.

40.  You still da man!!

41.  Ha ha! You’re young at heart!

42.  Gray arm hair?

43.  Nah, just be bleached from the sun.

44.  Pluck eyebrows daily.

45.  More gray?

46.  NOT THERE! PLEASE, NOT THERE!!

47.  Calm down, you’ve still got it.

48.  Check body in the mirror.

49.  Side view, not so good. Check front view.

50.  Pull the shades and turn out the lights.

Ain’t nobody wanna see that.

Eatin' Bugs: Life with an Entomologist

“There’s a lizard in here.”

That proclamation from my wife carried no weight, warning, nor was it a call for help. It was just a statement. No further action required at this time and none was taken.

Such is life with my wife, an entomologist in her former life.

Entomologists are bug people. A lizard is not a bug, got it, but it eats bugs. So by extension, it gets a hall pass. For now.

Living with someone who understands bugs has its downsides. There have been countless 4-H programs where she would single me out as an unsuspecting man-on-the-street and shove a plate of sautéed crickets or meal worms in my face and proclaim to the kids, “See, this guy will eat them.”

(By the way, they are tasty, but you never quite get past the fact that YOU’RE EATING A BUG!!)

Life with a doctor of bug-ology means every little creature you discover in the house is not a crisis. And squealing like a 5-year old girl every time you see something creepy is apparently not an aphrodisiac. Grow some, boy.

So we’ve had to set boundaries.

Rule one: roaches are disgusting. No, they don’t attack and don’t bite, but they are nasty. On this, we pretty much agree. What I’ve had to live with, though, is that one roach does not an infestation make; they can come in from outside.

That’s her take. As far as I’m concerned, one roach is reason enough to call professional exterminators to come tent our house and fumigate it with DDT while we move to a motel. Roaches die.

Scorpions also die. We live on a heavily wooded lot and occasionally get scorpions inside. Our version has very little venom and the only downside of getting stung is a little pain. Or so I’m told.

I’ve never been stung by a scorpion but she has. Twice. The result was language that would get your mouth washed out with soap as a kid. (Bonus: tequila helps get over the pain. Or so I’m told. I could only do a sympathy sip.)

Ants in the house are not acceptable. Neither are flies.

Spiders? Spiders are not considered evil ‘round her. Unfortunately, spiders mean spider housing, and…

spider webs are a no-no,
so the spider must go-go.
They don’t always die, though;
sometimes they just get relo’d

(That’s ‘relocated’. To the outdoors. Sorry, I got caught up in the moment.)

I must say, living with an entomologist has taught me a lot about bees. As a result, I do not run, nor even flinch, in the presence of any bee or wasp. Yes, I do kill wasps nesting on the house, and I don’t tolerate carpenter bees burrowing into the wood siding, but if you’re a bee just buzzing around, welcome.

We also have a few crickets. A portion of our basement is living space; the other part is cool, dark storage. I’ve intended for that part to become a wine cellar, but wine around here has as long of a life span as chocolate does at your house, so crickets occupy that space.

As long as I’m not having to harvest them for snacks, I’m all good. Besides, they’re good lizard snacks, and as far as I know, we still have a house guest.

The Wedding: An Affair to Remember

A fine occasion, it was. The barn had been rented and decorated in burlap and ribbons. The bride and groom were long-time roommates, friends, and lovers. The time had come to make it official.

I booked a room at the same hotel as the wedding party, only to find out that the wedding party had moved to another hotel. It seems that upon arriving at the original hotel, one of the wedding party members discovered a condom in their room. A complaint to the hotel manager didn’t bring the appropriate response, so they cancelled all the rooms and moved down the road. 

Some people might think finding a condom in their hotel room was a perk, kind of like chocolates on your pillow. Not this group.

Wedding day: the girls all get their hair and nails ‘did’; the boys grabbed their pistols and went to the firing range. Guests from out of town gathered at the Waffle House for something scattered, covered and smothered. “An acceptable level of ecstasy”, Lyle Lovett would say in a song.

Guests arrived at the barn, parking in a field down the road. The preacher arrived and within 5 minutes fell and broke his hip. I’m not making this up, but feel free to steal it if you need a story line for your comic book. Nothing like an ambulance waling into your wedding to kick-start your dream night.

I offered to perform the marriage, figuring the whole ceremony has a script and being that I can read. By that time, however, the preacher’s son had been designated as the replacement. It all goes off without a hitch under the pecan tree out back.

Afterwards, there’s bocce ball, horseshoes, cornhole and croquet on the lawn. The bar is open and dinner is a huge buffet. A big box of cigars awaits those who head to the fire pit.

This was a lavish affair.

And there was dancing. The DJ spun the bride’s favorite tunes. Anyone ever notice who storms the dance floor when “Fat Bottom Girls” is played? It’s like the national anthem for those that qualify for the title of the song.

Nothing quite like a southern wedding.

The bride is my niece, and I had a moment with her before she and her new husband departed through a sea of sparklers that lead to their limo. She confided that the preacher’s son was not a ‘real’ preacher. He had no legal authority to marry anyone, and as the night ends, her big fat wedding was not a wedding at all. 

She laughed heartily, and I felt better because of it. Like I said, it went off without a hitch.

Retirement? What Retirement?

"Playing a lot of golf?”

I get that a lot since I retired. I am an avid, though quite atrocious, golfer. But the answer is ‘no’.

I am approaching the one-year mark since I officially retired. I use the word ‘official’ because I spent 41 years as a radio announcer. My wife was an administrator at the University of Georgia; that’s some heavy lifting. It can be argued that I never really worked.

We chose to retire on the same date. Some friends and colleagues wondered if that was a good idea. Several have admitted to going back to work in some capacity to get away from their spouse for at least part of the day.

I get that. When you and your partner have been separated for most of the day 5 or 6 days a week, suddenly having all that time together could be… challenging? Suffocating? Time to question whether murder is really a sin?

We’ve struck a nice balance on the togetherness thing. I play golf; she’s not invited. She joined the gym; I’m not invited. She reads; I watch TV. We do our online shopping on separate computers and without consulting one another. (To that last item, our coffee maker recently died. We now have two. Be in touch if you’re interested.)

Advice from friends already retired on how much free time I would have was a mixed bag. Some had found other jobs, if only volunteer or part time, to fill the void left by not having to show up at the office. Mostly, though, the warnings were opposite, that I wouldn’t know where the hours of the day went.

Boy, were they right. In fact, whoever told me, “You won’t know how you ever had time for work!” nailed it.

In the year before I retired, I played 122 rounds of golf. As I reach the one year anniversary of no job, I will have played well less than half that many times.

Isn’t that supposed to be the other way around? What happened?

Travel gets some of the blame. Or credit, perhaps. By the time we reach the one year mark, we will have been to Alaska, Europe, Mexico, Disney World, Boston and New York City, not to mention trips to see family and friends closer by.

Moreover, though, I think work brought structure to my day. Working, I was up at 4 a.m., finished with work and on the golf course by noon, then whatever needed tending to would happen after that.

Take the car into the shop, buy groceries, make a Home Depot stop… on any given day, I could squeeze the necessary chores into whatever hours were left in the afternoon. What didn’t get done simply rolled over into the next day’s effort.

Nowadays, there is very little structure. Heck, we’re lucky if we to make the motion detector blink by 10 a.m. Breakfast often gets skipped because we’re too close to lunch by the time we get motivated to do anything.

That sort of inactivity can really shorten up a day!

Then once you do get moving, there’s always some sort of agenda: plant the garden, work in the yard, fix the leaky toilet, grocery store, drug store, doctors and dentists… oh my word, we could fill this page with doctor’s appointments.

I’ve often heard that the reason you retire is so you will have time to go to the doctor. I shouldn’t have dismissed that notion so nonchalantly. And we are healthy people!

So another day begins and golf is again not in the plan. I’ve been splitting firewood and have chosen a gorgeous spring day to try and get that finished up rather than frustrate myself trying to accurately move a little white ball 60 yards in less than five shots.

If I have time, I need to pick up the computer from the repair shop and run to Lowes. I could also use a haircut. Oh, and the ‘check engine’ light is on in the truck. I doubt anything is wrong with it, but the shop is clear across town. That takes time.

By day’s end, another day of retirement will have been filled up without going to a job and without playing golf. Then I’ll have to fire up the grill and drink a beer while cooking dinner.

*sighs heavily*

Do my chores never end?

Marketing 4 Dummies

Having spent my entire career in radio, I learned a few things about marketing. For example, did you know that “new” is considered a very powerful word? That’s why you hear something – for instance, a radio station that’s been on the air for years – still refer to itself as “the new” station.

“Free” is another power word. Having a sale or promotion? Throw in something for “free” and ears hear.

There is one area where I think marketing runs into the ditch: Razors.

Actually, I think once razor blades got so expensive that grocery stores had to put them under lock and key, society sort of ran into the ditch, but let’s stay focused.

When razors left behind the old single-blade, marketers got hyper-creative. 

Two blades became ‘twin blades’. No, wait. Too old-fashioned. Let’s call it the slim twin. Wait! The ST2. ST is for slim twin, and the 2 is for… two blades. And put a moisturizing strip on there and it can be the ST2 Hydro. Yeah, that’s it. (Read that again, but this time be breathless with excitement!)

Schick makes the ST2. They also make a three-blade for both men and women. Can’t call it three-blade, though. (Did you fail marketing class??) It’s the Xtreme3. And the four-blade is the Quattro. Because ‘cuatro’ is the Spanish word for ‘four’.

Get it? You can’t call it Cuatro because then only Spanish-speaking people would buy it, right? But Quattro sounds like cuatro, so they’ll think, hmm... 4 blades… but not just for Spanish-speaking people. Give everyone in marketing a raise!

Schick also makes a ladies’ razor called “Intuition.” I haven’t investigated, but I assume it knows when it’s time for you to shave your legs and hops in the shower with you on its own.

The grand prize in razor marketing goes to Gillette. 

Who decided to call a shaver the Mach3? Shouldn’t the Mach3 come with speakers that play NASCAR sounds as you shave? Am I to believe it will shave my face at warp speed? If not, then what?

But Gillette didn’t stop with the Mach3. Oh, no. They added “turbo”. If I’m using the Mach3 Turbo, I want flames shooting out of the end of that thing. I want it to soar across my face. I want to feel exhilarated. Like I just won the Le Mans across France!

Gillette also has a Fusion Proglide Silvertouch Manual Razor with Flexball Technology. Please note that most of the words in that name are registered or trademarked so don’t plan on stealing them for your own shaver. Since a whole lot of marketing genius was put into that thing – and I know my marketing - I’ll break it down for you as I see it.

-Fusion implies it becomes one with your face, so it touches your face.

-Proglide means you glide it over your face, but not like an amateur. Pro. Glide.

-Silvertouch means it’s silver. (It is.)

-And the Flexball part means it rotates on a ball of some sort.

Oh, forgot the ‘manual’ part. That means for all the money they spent on marketing and you spent on buying the thing, you still have to hold it and shave yourself.

Glad I could help.

Doggin' It (Dog People)

A neighbor was hosting happy hour recently when one of the guests showed up with her dog. It was a little yappy, high-energy thing. She called him Andre. Had a real dog been around, he could have been called Entrée.

The dog was not on a leash, immediately ran into the house, ran around all available legs, human and otherwise, hopped unto laps on the sofa, and generally, made itself at home.

“How cute”, thinks the dog’s owner.

“What the ****”, thinks anyone with any manners.

Was the dog invited? It wasn’t. Did you ask if you could bring your dog? You didn’t. In fact, had you asked, the host didn’t want the dog in the house, period. At what point in your development did you assume that because you love your dog, everyone else will, too?

I blame the world wide web.

Here’s what you’ve posted on social media in the last couple of days:

- your dog lying on the floor
- your dog lying on the couch
- your dog in the yard
- your dog in your lap
- your dog “smiling” (No, it’s not. Sorry.)

I have a friend that posts a picture of her dog every time she goes to the lake. She uses the hashtag #lakedog. And it’s always exciting stuff. “He’s tired!” (sleeping). Then here he is on a boat, a float, sleeping again, awake with tongue hanging out, standing, chewing a toy. 

Another friend and I were meeting for dinner recently. She set the time at eight o’clock because her Layla was graduating from obedience school. I was trying to argue that we should meet earlier.

“Honey, do you think she knows it’s graduation night”, I asked in my best condescending voice.

“Come on. She’s worked so hard. She deserves to graduate.”, says (former) friend.

As I am putting this article together, an acquaintance from Texas has posted a picture of his dog asleep on the bed. Did he take that photo because it’s cute? He would say, “yes”.

I will tell you the truth: the dog is lying on its back and everything it has is exposed for all the world to see. That’s really why the picture was taken. I can’t really tell, but I’m guessing his dog is a pointer.

I can’t take it! Look at that picture of your dog you just posted. Who do you think is interested, people?

Oh, it might make your mom grin, seeing what her ‘granddog’ is up to, but the rest of us are just seeing a dog lying on the floor. Get a real life! Including not referring to that dog as your granddog, grandma! 

I’ve concluded, though, that I don’t hate dogs. I hate their owners!!

I’m running out of exclamation points. And friends, I suspect. I’m OK with that. My pretend friends don’t have dogs.

Drinkin' and Flyin' (and Sanity in Seattle)

I feel sorry for people that get on an airplane and fall asleep. When the engines quit running or there’s a mid-air collision, they’ll miss all the excitement.

OK, I don’t fly well. It’s the ‘height’ issue. Since I fly frequently anyway, I’ve tried various methods to overcome my phobia. I tried hypnotism a couple of times. Didn’t help. Reading on the plane? Who can concentrate when a wing is about to break off?

My wife holds my hand when we take off. I thought it was to comfort me. Turns out, she thinks it’s amusing that my hands get all sweaty.

Drinking helps.

On my first flight to Europe many years ago, a pharmacist friend gave me two Xanax tablets. He said, “Take one of these four hours before your flight. When you get to the airport, take the other with a drink of something.” For my ‘something’, I chose Jack and diet (Jack Daniels and Diet Coke). And let’s make that a double.

I woke up somewhere over Iceland.

Since then, I’ve come to understand that just a drink, maybe two, works just fine for calming my nerves. Best done before takeoff, but an in-flight toddy works, too.

Side note: people are under the impression you can’t take booze on a plane. I do it all the time. It simply has to be in plastic bottles of less than 3.4 ounces and placed the same quart-sized baggie with all your other liquids. I use ‘airline bottles’ I’ve saved. The same ones you sneak into the University of Georgia’s Sanford Stadium. (He did not just say that!) Yes, you do have to pull that baggie out of your carry-on while going through security, but I’ve never had a single objection from security. Now, where were we?

We were in the Atlanta airport recently and I ordered a Jack and diet. Make it a double.

Now, in most bars in America – including airport bars – doubling up is about $3 more. Not so at Hartsfield-Jackson. And my server had apparently seen enough rage to give me a heads-up.

“Just so you know, a drink is $9; a double is going to be $18. Didn’t want you to have sticker shock.”

Wha-what??? I was under the impression that prices at Atlanta’s airport had to be somewhat in line with street prices. What bar charges $18 for drink, even if it is a double? I canceled the drink and washed down my burrito with water.

Then I put my mad, wicked, ninja math skills to work.

A standard 750 ml bottle of Jack Daniels is roughly $25 in your local package store. 750 ml is approximately 25 ounces, or in bar-speak, 16 shots. At the price that restaurant was charging, this restaurant values that bottle of Jack at $153!

The Hartsfield-Jackson word of the day, kids, is “gouging”. Let’s say it together.

The first leg of our flight was harrowing. Nothing happened, but I did it completely sober. Sweaty palms, sweaty pits. Lots of deep breathing and prayer. A non-stop session of Angry Birds helped.

The layover was in Seattle, and I found a bar.

“How much for a Jack and diet?”

“7.50,” she said “Outstanding. I’ll take one.”

“Would you like to make it a double for $3 more?”

I can only conclude that I am willing to pay for some peace of mind, but apparently, I have my limitations.

Golf, The Real Redneck Sport

Folks that don’t play golf tend to perceive it as a game for uppity people. After all, playing golf takes money. You either pay a membership fee, often hefty, or you pay every time you want to play a round.

Golf courses have clubhouses. Clubhouses can be very nice buildings with private locker rooms, fine dining and lots of rather expensive equipment. There are entire communities of rather fine homes built on golf courses, world-wide. The occupants of such opulent abodes surely have money.

Indeed, in many cases, they do have money. Lots of money. Which makes them… rich rednecks.

Reality check: the reason you don’t find many pool halls anymore? All those people are now on the golf course.

Golfers are crude, foul-mouthed, and loud. They show up at the golf course driving their pick-ups with coolers full of beer. They drink, they chew, and they spit. They spit even if they don’t chew. Recall that Tiger Woods was once fined for spitting on a green in the Dubai Open. He openly apologized. 

And that’s my point.

It’s not just the local, good ol’ boys we’re talking about here. John Daley has been seen playing shirtless. Ricky Fowler, who prowls the golf tour courses in colorful Puma garb recently admitted to playing shirtless if the course allows it.

Bubba Watson and some of his fellow pro golfer buddies have done a series of videos, calling themselves the “Golf Boys”. They are available for viewing on youtube. Watson appears shirtless, wearing overalls in them.

These are highly successful professionals. Likely, all are millionaires if not multi-millionaires. Sure, they’re allowed to have some fun. But in each case, we see them for what they are. Having money simply means that when we see them smile, they have a full mouth of teeth.

Why then, do we present events like The Masters in such hushed tones with announces in suits and ties and golfers dressed like GQ models? The event itself is played at a high-brow venue you have to be a jillionaire to even join. But a game for aristocrats, it is not. 

So I propose that we lose the façade. The next time Bubba rolls one in from 40 feet to clinch a major, let us not applaud politely and present him with a crystal vase. Let us instead shake up a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, open ‘er up and spew it everywhere. Let’s rip off our shirts and chest bump and let Jim Nance scream, “Hot damn! Did y’all see that?!”

I, for one, am tired of playing the part of a gentleman.

Chicken is the New Cat (Chicken People)

Jerri had 14 cats. She even referred to herself as ‘crazy cat lady’. Crazy cat ladies are often referred to by another word: single.

“You’ll never find a man”, I told her repeatedly. She proved me wrong. She married him the day he was released from prison.

These days, I seem to be surrounded more and more by crazy chicken people. People I thought were normal are obsessed with chickens. They name them, they pet them, they talk to them like the chickens are their children. I do understand some of the appeal; farm-fresh eggs really do taste better.

But then all kinds of crazy breaks out. 

There is a website called Backyard Chickens for those people to chat with each other. My friend, Linda, met a dude named Bobby on the site. Bobby apparently knew a lot, and anytime Linda had questions, she sought Bobby’s advice. They chatted frequently.

Eventually their conversations lead her to purchase some baby chicks from Bobby. It was all neatly arranged. She would meet Bobby in the Wal-Mart parking lot (because where else do chicken people meet?). There, they would consummate the deal.

Linda was anxious and arrived early. Finally, she would meet the man who knew so much. Her go-to guy. Her fowl partner.

When the appointed hour finally struck, she was giddy to see the car Bobby described pull up. And out of it popped…

Bobby’s mom.

Turns out, Bobby is 15.

But the deal was real, so biddies were bought, and no cops were involved.

I helped my brother tile his laundry room floor last summer. A Polish hen named Lucy supervised. She occasionally left a comment on the job we were doing but it cleaned up pretty easily.

That same brother and his wife spend their happy hours watching “Chicken TV”. That is, they grab a beer, unfold chairs in the backyard and watch the chickens. How exciting!

Another chicken friend was raising chicks in a spare bedroom. All fine and good until the grandkids show up. It was only after the kids left that Grandma Chicken – that’s what they call her, y’all – discovered the chicks had been freed from their box and had spent several hours with the run of the room.

Feathers everywhere were the least of the problems. The birds had pooped all over the treadmill. This, however, did not ruffle Grandma Chicken’s feathers. As she put it, “somebody ought to use that thing”.

This final piece of evidence I offer to prove that chicken people are slightly off-center will require you envisioning a middle-aged woman, naked, and losing it. This is the email she sent to me:

“We had a hawk attack yesterday. I got out of the shower and looked out the window to see my beautiful chicken, Chardonnay, being attacked.”

Pause for a moment and ponder how that chicken got its name.

Continuing…

“I ran through the house and yelled, screamed and waved my arms when I got outside. Scared the hawk away, feathers were everywhere. Poor Chardonnay looked petrified. I picked her up, wrapped her in a towel, took her in the house and rocked her and sang to her. After 10 minutes she started talking to me and then she wanted out of my arms. She is fine.”

The chicken may be fine, but you, my dear, are nuts.

Call Me Sometime! (Why Telemarketers Must Die)

I’m not yet a fossil, but by admitting I still have a landline phone, I am a dinosaur. When I recently complained on a social media post about the proliferation of robo- and telemarketing calls, a common response was to ask why I still owned this relic.

Some legitimate reasons to hold on to your landline: home security is connected to it, though you can do that wirelessly now. Better still, and true, a wired phone is more likely to work in a power outage.

The reason I’ve held on is I do not like to talk on the phone, and the less my cell phone rings, the happier I am. With a ‘home’ phone, I have a number to give the dentist, doctor, drug store, etc., who may have a genuine need to reach me without having to give out my cell phone number.

However, my home phone is blowing up with unwanted calls. And I’m not alone. Yes, I’m on the ‘do not call’ list. Yes, I regularly renew my membership on said list. Why yes, I’ve even filed a few complaints, just for funsies. But the hits just keep on coming and in increasing numbers.

The Federal Trade Commission is charged with regulating these matters, but it’s either gotten to be too big of a problem for them, or they simply don’t care. It’s so bad now that I get up in the morning and take the phone off the hook. Sure, I can look at caller ID and ignore those calls, but they start around 8 in the morning. If my phone is ringing at 8 a.m., somebody better be dead.

Agreed, there are legit telemarketing firms making legal phone calls. That’s not what we’re getting, folks. I’m frankly mystified that anyone would want that job, a job where 99% of the people you talk to hate you.

My new theory – and I sincerely believe this – is that the mere act of answering the phone makes it worse. By answering, you’ve just told them there is a person at this number who will pick up the phone, and I believe that information gets shared amongst the predators. Hence, the increasing volume of calls.

I recently answered a call identified on caller ID as ‘I’. Just the letter ‘I’. Thought I would ask them to please remove me from their call list. Indeed, by law they are supposed to do that, but I don’t think we’re dealing with legitimate telemarketers anymore. What I heard sounded like a very well done computer-generated voice.

“Is this Allen?”

“It is”, I replied.

*click* (call ends) 

What happened? Did it end because I didn’t say “yes” or “no”? By the way, never say the word “yes” to a telemarketer. NEVER. A tactic they use is to be recording you. Even if they ask if you love your dog, if you say “yes”, they have you saying the word “yes”. It can be used maliciously against you.

So what to do? There is the old whistle trick: have a loud whistle you can blow into the phone when the vultures come calling. But that hurts my ears, too. My favorite solution so far is from my nephew and his wife. Their two-year old son, Oliver, loves to talk on the phone. When it’s a telemarketer, they just hand the phone to him and walk away. Mom’s happy, Dad’s happy, the kid’s happy.

While that’s a brilliant strategy (for now), it would force me to find someone with a two-year old for sale. Then I would have to decide whether I would rather have a two-year old in the house or a telemarketer on the line. And the jury is unprepared to render a verdict in that case, your honor!

(Drawing provided by 7-year old Carson Terrell, dinosaur expert from Oconee County,Georgia. It is an Ichthyosaur, but you should know that.)

The Genius Wore Underwear

Asked what I do in retirement, usually my immediate answer is that I spend a lot of time in my underwear. It’s true. I’m a bit of a slob anyway, and now that I don’t have to dress for work, I spend days at a time just sitting around in my drawers.

My wife recently walked through the room where I was sitting – in my undies – and watching TV. Her catty little comment was, “you need a new uniform”. I immediately got up, went to the bedroom and changed from my tighty-whities to my tighty-blues. Hey, I got ‘em in any color you could want, lady. Red, gray, black. This is no one-trick pony you’re married to!

We probably need to pause here to discuss the fact that I wear briefs. Where did we as a society go off the rails with jockey briefs? Generally, women consider them pretty uncool. Unless they are worn by soccer star David Beckham. Then they’re hot, hot!!!

Why is he hot and I’m not? Are we not both men in our underwear?

Mostly, I wear briefs because I have seen the future. I’ve been around enough elderly men to know that women are not the only victims of gravity. My knees do not need playmates. But this is where my superior brain power kicks in. You know that pouch in the front of men’s underwear? That worthless overlap of material? Even as a little boy you discover that nothing goes through there, so what’s that for? I’ve figured it out.

It’s a cell phone pouch.

Yep. If you carry a small phone, it fits perfectly in your underwear, leaving your hands available to, say, make a sandwich. Or do a crossword puzzle. Or just stroll around the house in your underwear showing off your new cell phone pouch. Hands free, baby!

Set your phone on vibrate for those really special calls and the fun never ends.

There is a caveat. Once you share this information with your friends, you can expect them to never, never, never - not ever - borrow your phone to make a call. I have friends that won’t even shake my hand.

I think my genius intimidates them.

My Favorite Interviews

Note: Joseph Mascolo has died. He's on this list, one of my very first writings.

After retiring from 41 years of being on the radio, someone recently said, “I bet you met some interesting characters!” It got me thinking. Here are some of the most memorable, in no particular order.

Jennifer Taylor

Pop culture at its finest. When we interviewed her, she was in the middle of a very long run on “Two and a Half Men”, the #1 sitcom on TV, as Charlie (Sheen) Harper’s voluptuous girlfriend-turned-fiancée, Chelsea. Toward the end of our interview, she was asked about her future on the show. Certainly, she couldn’t know the real-life events that would shape Sheen’s ultimate exit from the show, but as Charlie Harper’s fiancée, she was hopeful for a lot more time on the set. I wished her the best, then told her she had to go. She was a bit startled, but the conversation remained playful as I explained that most men lived somewhat vicariously through Charlie’s character, and marriage would ruin it for all of us. I doubt any interviewer had ever told her they hoped she got fired. She thought it was pretty funny.

Tom T. Hall:

The country music legend known as “The Storyteller” was in Athens promoting his book called “What A Book!” in 1996. Having previously worked in country music, I knew his music well enough to be comfortable sitting down with him. As set up, the interview would be taped after I finished my morning show and would last about 5 minutes. That interview ran well over an hour! He seemed to be enjoying telling the tales, and I was sure enjoying hearing them. I had not yet been moved to Magic 102.1, and the format at WRFC (960 AM) allowed me to air most of that interview spread out over the course of several days. By the way, “What A Book!” was written largely during his time in Jamaica. I make no judgements, but I rather suspect a fair amount of ganja was involved. It’s a wild – and fun – read.

Marianne (Gordon) Rogers

Among my first ‘celebrity’ interviews after I arrived in Athens in 1990, she was still married to superstar Kenny Rogers when she showed up at the radio station for reasons I don’t recall. I was quite nervous asking her to sit with me for an interview, but as we talked, she regaled me with stories of meeting Kenny on the set of “Hee Haw” in the ‘70s and how the relationship blossomed. A lovely and gracious lady.

Vince Dooley

I did play-by-play for high school football all through the ‘80s. There was always excitement when the UGA football coach showed up at a game; you knew he was prospecting for players. Twice, I asked him to sit with us on the air during halftime. Neither time did he seem terribly interested, but when the microphones came on, he was kind and engaged. AND I WAS INTERVIEWING VINCE-freakin’-DOOLEY!! Many years later, he would ask me to explain the rules of soccer to him as we sat at a UGA women’s soccer match. Fun stuff.

Zell Miller

He was campaigning for governor when he landed in my hometown of Tifton. During the morning newscast, a sound bite featured the previous night’s speech of him having fun with names of a couple of nearby towns: “Elect me and I’ll never say bye-bye to Ty Ty”, is one I recall. You needn’t think I was going to let that go. I started naming all these little communities in rhyme and with my best Zell Miller country-boy accent. “I’ll never say see ya to Omega. I’ll never kill an armadilla in Ocilla (yeah, it’s mispelled, but it rhymes). I’ll never do the hula in Chula…” I must’ve rattled off 10 of ‘em. The phone rang. The voice of a local businessman I knew says, “stand by for the next governor of the state of Georgia” and he put Zell Miller on the phone. Mr. Miller thought it was great and asked if he could steal some of my rhymes as he continued stumping. Guess who I voted for.

Stefano DiMera

Yeah, that’s the character that Joseph Mascolo plays on “Days of Our Lives”, but for our time on the air together while I was in Tifton, GA, he was pretty much in character. For whatever reason, Mascolo had selected the small neighboring town of Ocilla to host a charity softball tournament. The first year, as he joined me on the air, he jokingly scolded me for not having any food or drink. The next year, I was ready. He plopped down in the control room, I popped a bottle of champagne, and we spent a couple of fun hours on the air. By the last time he came on the show, I had a cute blonde co-worker get all dolled up and serve us pastries and champagne. Lots of champagne. We got pretty drunk before it was all over. Fortunately, he had a driver, and I had a recliner in my office where I could kick back in and sleep it off.

Taylor Swift

Didn’t happen. She never returned my calls. Or emails. Or texts. Or waved as I sat outside her house… in my car…. for weeks. But I did get her autograph. 

Bought it.