The Cat in the Hat on Xanax

It starts with a visit
A chance to be
With loved ones
Who you rarely see

They show you their house
They show you their town
They take the whole day
Just to show you around.

Then the cat shows up.

Who wants to die tonight? Is it you? Get the camera outta my face.

“Don’t try petting him. That’s a feral cat we took in. Not really a people-cat.”

In a previous tale, I made an attempt to transfer the crazy of cat people to the people who raise yard chickens. Read it here.

I am taking the crown away from the chicken people and not just giving it back, but gluing it to the heads of the cat people.

For the life of me, I do not understand why people try to rescue feral cats. Feral cats are good for one thing: making more feral cats.

I’m sure they eat a few mice, but so do snakes. And most people only want to see snakes dead.

Nowhere, Minnesota

I love these people; they are kinfolk. But they are kinfolk from my wife’s side, so I am absolved of any shared DNA.

The problem isn’t just that they’ve taken in a feral cat, it’s that they have other cats. And one of the other cats and Feral Boy just don’t get along.

So what we have here is what us Southerners would call a good, old-fashioned p*ssing contest. Except in this case, it’s literal.

When one cat ‘marks’ their spot, the other cat must come along and override that marking with a mark of its own. And this is happening all over the house.

WWNPD

What Would Normal People Do?

Why ask? These are not normal people. So let me just tell you how this issue is being handled.

First, it’s a visit to the vet.

Initially, the veterinarian doesn’t mind. He’s got mouths to feed and bills to pay.

“Doctor, my cats don’t get along and are peeing all over the house. What can I do?”

“Nothing. It’s what cats that hate each other do. That’ll be $50.”

But these people keep coming back, over and over.

At some point, the vet decides he’d rather sift through the cat box for food than have to keep dealing with these people, so…

He thought and he thought
And he thought some more
How to keep these people
Away from his door.

Then the good doctor
He hatched a good plan
And it was so good
You could even call it grand!

“You know, there are therapists that deal with these situations. Perhaps you should find one.”

And just like that - *bam!* - he made these people someone else’s problem.

You have questions, I know. Like, where does one find a cat therapist? That one is too easy. The internet, of course.

A tougher question would be, why do two people from the boonies of Minnesota choose a therapist from Los Angeles?

I didn’t ask. I find asking fewer questions shortens the amount of time I have to spend hearing the answers.

What I learned anyway:
-the cats are involved in the video chat with the therapist
-she talks to the cats
-they don’t talk back (I made that up. It’s just a guess.)
-she recommended drugs. For the cats
-the cats are now on drugs
-cat therapy is expensive. Consider making it your profession.

Cats on drugs

Fast forward to that night. We’re having dinner with these people and this is asked:

“Have you seen the YouTube videos of the lady that teaches you how to massage a possum? That is so weird.”

Let’s see… you got one cat on Paxil to treat aggression, another cat on Xanax to help it chill out; your cats actually have their own profile at the local pharmacy because, you know… cats on drugs. You’ve paid someone calling themselves a cat therapist $500 to video chat with your cats. And… you spend your free time watching YouTube videos of a lady massaging possums.

And she’s the crazy one?

There are things
Across this land
Things we cannot
Understand

It’s not the dogs
It’s not the cats
People are
The real dingbats.

And I need a drink.

China, Pt. 2: Kung Food Fighting

My first breakfast in China, and I decided to go bold.

Fried salmon skin. Just the skin. With a few incidental pieces of flesh hanging on.

Tastes a lot like salmon skin

Morning #2, I went for braised oxtail swimming in some yummy-looking spicy sauce because who doesn’t eat oxtail for breakfast?

It was good, good! But brought up a question that my rural roots couldn’t immediately answer. We don’t see a whole lot of oxen, so what is oxtail?

Cow tail, it turns out. Simple tail of the cow. That thing hanging above the butt, brushing against the butt… all day long. Back and forth.

Uh-huh.

Well, I’m not changing my opinion. It was good, and I never ate it again.

Clockwise, chicken foot, lotus root, pig tail, sliced pieces of pig’s ear, then beef something

From the above photo, it is clear that knowing the location of the oxtail didn’t deter me from trying some pig tail. And other parts.

China is the top producer and consumer of pork in the world. For that reason alone, I could live there.

Interestingly, I never saw the piggy parts we would refer to as Rocky Mountain oysters anywhere. Perhaps every culture has its limitations?

As we dined one day on traditional Chinese food, it occurred to me how closely related it was to traditional Southern fare.

From small town and small farm backgrounds our forefathers - theirs too - had to make the most of what they had.

That meant fattening the pig and using it all. Feet, ears, tails, lungs, brains… even intestines. Or chitlins, as we call them, though if we were proper Southerners, we’d call them chitterlings.

I reckon we figure we don’t need no stinkin’ proper talk when it comes to eating hog guts.

I don’t recall that Americans have ever been big on chicken feet, but the Chinese are. And where do they get those chicken feet?

From Georgia, for starters. The Peach State is really the Poultry State.

As the number one producer of poultry in the country, one of the few parts of the chicken we don’t eat is exported to China. Most Americans have just enough exposure to farm life to be repulsed by knowing what those chicken feet spent their whole life walking in!

Still, I tried one. When in China…

I didn’t finish my chicken foot. It was boiled, I was hoping for fried. I probably would have eaten more had it been fried because I think I’d eat dirty socks if they were properly battered and fried.

As the preferred eating utensils in China, chopsticks were available to us at every meal.

I used mine. Some.

As each meal began, I used them with such ease I figured the locals were probably looking at each other as if to ask, who is this white China-man?

But as the meal progressed, I’d get increasingly spastic, eventually reaching the point of using them to stab my food. Then I’d switch to fork and spoon.

I sincerely don’t understand why the Chinese people haven’t made the switch to our utensils. Over and over, I watched folks eat rice with chopsticks, taking in only a small portion each time. Not sure how you ever fill up balancing grains of rice on two little sticks.

Sure, it can help with portion control, but come on, people! There’s a thing called a fork. You can shovel that stuff in! (Like Americans do.)

Squid on a stick. I didn’t have a chance to try it, but as much as I love calamari, I should have.

Since we were on a tour, most all of our meals were buffets. Big buffets. I noted that every breakfast buffet featured pork ‘n beans, and I was impressed.

At home, we do pork ‘n beans occasionally with burgers and barbeque, but here they were being served every dang morning for breakfast. Hello, China!

Turns out, it’s not a Chinese thing; it is a British thing. And yeah, we had a bunch o’ Brits on the tour.

It also turns out that while it looks like pork ‘n beans, it ain’t. Contains no pork. Just dumb ol’ beans in tomato sauce.

Phooey.

Next stop: England. I’m gonna teach those folks how to add bacon to their beans.

We’ll also add some garlic, brown sugar, molasses and barbeque sauce - all those lovely ingredients that leave your tummy with massive amounts of undigested complex carbohydrates.

Then we’re gonna make some noise!

You need these waffles. The piece on the left has kiwi jam, the one on the right has mango jam. BOTH jams are accompanied by sweetened condensed milk. Yep, Eagle brand from a can. Nothing short of freakin’ delicious!

China, Part 1: Enter The Dragon

Notes from China:

I wondered if there might be some backlash for an American tourist because of the tariff battles going on now.

Nope, not at all. The people are lovely. Warm, welcoming.

Actually, I’ve found this to be true just about everywhere I’ve traveled. People like each other, even as our governments bicker.

Everything the Great Wall is in your head, it is in real life. I hope you see it one day.

I hope you also get to see the terracotta warriors.

Well over 2,000 years ago, the first Chinese emperor ordered thousands of life-sized terracotta soldiers to be made and placed in his tomb to guard him in his reincarnation.

If pottery can’t protect you in the afterlife, what can?

It was only in the mid-1970s this discovery was made, so excavation is a work in progress that will continue for many more years. So far, about 6,000 terracotta soldiers and horses have been unearthed.

One of three excavation sites. More to come for many more years.

Amazing. And what a rich history.

China has a bunch of people. Chongqing is China’s largest city by population. I’d never even heard of Chongqing. 33 million people, if you include the metro area around it.

Beijing, China’s capital, only has 25 million people. Only. That’s more people than the population of Florida, all living in one city.

Where do all those people live? Glad you asked.

High-rise apartments.

Thousands of high-rise apartments are under construction in every major city. Construction cranes are indeed the national bird because there are no other birds.

Seriously. We saw almost no birds of any variety. But then birds don’t like pollution. Those big cities have air quality so poor the sky is perpetually gray and long-range visibility is non-existent.

Lots of people wear surgical masks in public. They look silly, frankly, but it’s hard to blame them.

I was anxious to leave Beijing because nothing there reflects Chinese culture. At least, not as I imagined it. It’s all been torn down and replaced by modern skyscrapers and pavement.

Downtown Beijing looks and feels just like downtown Atlanta. Atlanta with signage in Chinese.

Even the Chinese regret not holding on to some of Beijing’s historical relics.

We encountered a lot of Chinese tourists. That is, natives out seeing their own country. That’s a fairly recent thing.

Ordinary citizens who before had no means to travel now do have the means. Incomes have been going up and Chinese people are starting to travel a lot.

We had been told that as Americans, Chinese people would want pictures taken with us, mostly due to a fascination with our white hair. That was correct.

One member of our group was rushed by some Chinese tourists, first by a single woman, then by what looked like her whole family, all wanting to be in a photo with him once he demonstrated his willingness to pose with them. His hair isn’t white, but his eyes are blue.

You don’t see blue-eyed Asians.

My wife Beverly, who has a head full of curly white hair, was a pretty popular photo op. In one case, a woman came up and just grabbed her by the arm, smiling as her husband snapped photos.

Beverly was happy to accommodate. The Chinese people are really lovely.

A teenager asked Beverly to join her for a selfie. After that was done, I offered to take another picture of the two of them. Seeing me take the camera, two of her friends quickly gathered.

Which one of these is not like the others?

From a few feet away, I happened to notice a man taking his wife’s picture near Beverly while her back was turned. He repeatedly motioned for his wife to get closer to her.

Seemed obvious that he wanted her snow-white hair in the photo with his dark-haired wife.

I walked over, held up a finger to pause him for a moment, then went and turned Bev around to face the camera. The two ladies wrapped their arms around each other and smiled.

All of this happened with only smiles and happy faces, no words. But most Chinese have as much trouble with English as we do with their Mandarin language.

I spent our full two weeks in China knowing only the Mandarin words for hello, thank you and beer. It worked out well.

The English word ‘toilet’ was everywhere you might need it, and the rest was figured out by pointing and gesturing.

Even if they don’t speak English, but they know our words. In two weeks, I saw exactly one t-shirt that had Chinese characters (letters) on it. Everything else, English.

Not only were all those t-shirts in English, most reflected Western culture in some way. Cute sayings, pop stars, TV shows and movies.

They also know the f-bomb, as it showed up occasionally.

I put a digital band-aid on the English. Sorry I don’t know which Chinese character is offensive.

How is that not censored?

The Chinese government censors.

Any time we were watching the BBC or CNN, when a story came on talking about the ongoing troubles in Hong Kong, the TV went black. The picture returned as soon as the Hong Kong piece was done.

The internet is censored. Pornography is not allowed. Neither is Google. I learned to use Bing. But not for porn.

Our guide told us Facebook was usually not allowed, but at times it was available to use. Never could figure that out.

The Chinese government spends a lot of time and money playing Sister Mary Sunshine, telling people how good life is, how prosperous they are, how wonderful China is becoming.

Newspapers tout only happy news. Even articles on the tariff issues are always upbeat, talking about progress being made in negotiations. Details are never a part of the story.

A local swim club parading a dragon down the Yangtze River. They enjoy passing by cruise ships.

Everything is good, and everything for the people.

The Peoples Republic of China is the formal name. There’s Peoples Square. Peoples Park. Everything belongs to and is for the people.

As long as the people belong to the Communist Party, the ruling party of China.

I expected to see a lot of Buddhist influence in China. I saw virtually none. Chinese people are generally not religious. Whether the figure is correct, we heard that 95% of the population doesn’t practice any religion.

It is fair to say, however, that the ruling Communist party doesn’t want competition for people’s devotion. The Chinese people will tell you that with a wink in their voices.

Indeed, it seems things are going well. Wages are going up. People willing to work more can earn more, so Chinese people work hard, often at multiple jobs.

Chinese citizens now have to pay for health insurance and pay income taxes. And the free-market seems to be taking over the business culture.

Most of this strikes me as exactly what communism isn’t, but what do I know. And all of this is of course purely observational on my part.

While China appears to be prospering, prosperity is for the cities. Country living, revered by us Westerners, is a ticket to poverty in the land of the dragon.

If you want a better life, you move to one of the already-overcrowded cities and hope you can afford a high-rise.

China doesn’t seem to hold the farmer in much regard.

My impression was that farmers are regarded as peasants, which is interesting because several of their cities individually have more mouths to feed than exist in the entire state of Texas.

If you’re a farmer and move to the city because you can’t find labor to help on the farm, the government will provide you a low-level job, like pruning shrubs or planting flowers in the parks.

Or sweeping streets.

Brooms are made from bamboo shoots. Very common is cities of any size.

Streets are kept extraordinarily clean. Not only is trash routinely picked up, falling leaves from the trees are routinely swept up and discarded.

In some cities, you cannot buy a car even if you can afford it. Too many cars already and too much pollution.

Those cities have lottery drawings for car tags, which entitles you to own a car.

China is aware it has a big pollution problem. It appears one way they are trying to address it by planting trees. If there is an exposed area of land the size of your living room, it’s gonna have 25 trees planted on it.

The larger cities of China are very modern. Western toilets (like we use) are replacing squatty potties, though squatties are still very common, even in public places, like museums.

Chinese dress very much like Europeans and Americans. Casual, and pretty much anything goes. Jeans, ripped jeans, t-shirts. Americans do not stand out for what we wear.

Chinese beer is weak and uninteresting. Regardless of brand, all of it seems to be of a similar light-beer style. But did I ever turn one down?

That’s a big no-o-o-o.

The most prevalent liquor I encountered is referred to as Chinese vodka, mostly because of the appearance (clear) and mouth feel. It’s sorghum-based. I like sorghum syrup, so I figured I’d like their baijiu.

Yep.

Big cities in China like to show off their technology, particularly using it to light things up!

Vegas has nothing on some of these displays.

Lighted buildings with synchronized displays that are spectacular. You can watch images of birds flying or a camel walking seamlessly over buildings for several city blocks.

For all the country’s modernity, however, tap water is not drinkable. Another head-scratcher. All that technology, yet drinking water has to come from a plastic bottle.

If you get a chance to visit this beautiful country, remember that. Or be prepared to spend a lot of time figuring out the squatty potty.

COMING NEXT: SQUID ON A STICK. EATING MY WAY THROUGH CHINA

With Apologies To Kip Moore

Kip Moore grew up in my back yard. I do not know him.

If you’re unfamiliar with Kip Moore, he’s a country singer. Not the biggest name in country music, but he is known – actually, admired - for having a large, loyal fan base.

In Tifton, GA, the house I grew up in and the house Kip grew up in have adjoining back yards. Walk out my back door, cross the yard and walk into his back door.

You can still do that, but you won’t find him or me in those houses anymore except to visit our parents.

In years past, I made that trek a couple of times because his late father was a teaching golf pro and tried his best to make me a better golfer. Didn’t work, but I knew his dad well and met all the kids, including Kip, I’m sure.

Since Kip is a full generation younger than me, he would have been a wee lad at the time.

WHERE IS THIS GOING?

We were in McMinnville, TN, recently to attend a concert in a cave. McMinnville is home to Cumberland Caverns and a concert hall that is 333 feet below the surface called the Volcano Room.

A favorite singer/songwriter was playing the Volcano Room.

As part of our visit, we did a pre-concert tour of the caverns. Our guide for the tour was a young lady that I’m guessing was in her early 20s. According to her, one of the perks of being a guide was getting to ‘work’ the concerts, meeting and hearing all the cool artists that pass through.

“Who’s your favorite you’ve seen so far?” I asked.

Kip Moore.

“He was so good and so nice!”

Y’all ready for this?

“Fun fact,” I tell her, “Kip grew up in my back yard.”

I then go on to be specific with the facts: I was friends with his dad but because of the age difference, I didn’t know Kip. But yeah, his mom still lives there and my family still lives there, and I figure one day, he’ll be home and I’ll be home, and we’ll probably have a beer together.

She seemed to think that was pretty cool.

I’m not sure what happened in the next two hours that included the concert we were there to see, but after the show, one of the cavern workers literally chased me down.

“I hear you know Kip Moore!”

Somehow, the game of Rumors had gone full circle. Telling someone Kip grew up near me had fermented into the fine wine of us being pals.

At this point, I simply capitulated on explanations. She was star-struck, and I neither wanted to bust her bubble nor take the time to go into details – again.

“Yeah, he grew up in my back yard.”

She gushed. About how good he was, how he played an extra hour more than scheduled, how he treated the fans as if they were his best friends.

She spoke as though her words would reach Kip through me.

I grinned and nodded a lot, playing the hand I was dealt: friend of Kip Moore.

So, Kip, my apologies. I totally used you to play the fame card. I owe you a beer.

Since it seems unlikely you’ll be home at the same time I am, I’ll leave beer money with your mom next time through the home place.

Enjoy.

My Secret For Winning $ at the Track

I accidentally pulled off a masterpiece of a scam.

With another friend joining us, my wife Beverly and I headed to horse country in Kentucky.

Somewhere just across the Kentucky state line I realized I had left my billfold at home. Some people would be upset about that. Not me.

No billfold meant no driving and no paying for anything. Four days of someone else taking care of everything. It’s was a thing of beauty!

Sorta.

Part of our journey was to catch the last day of the spring horse racing season at Keeneland race track just outside of Lexington. Bev and I had visited that beautiful facility before and had vowed to return one day to bet on the horses.

So there we were. But with no money of my own, I was what’s referred to in tax lingo as ‘a dependent.’ And somebody wasn’t going to give me a lot of money to lose on the ponies.

Didn’t really matter. We’re not much for gambling and being only the second time at a race track, neither of us know much about how to bet on the horses.

That doesn’t mean I’ve never made money at the track, though.

Gather ‘round, children for a sadly true story that will leave you shaking your head and probably liking me a little less.

Dateline: Ruidoso Downs/Ruidoso, New Mexico

I had never been to a betting track for horses but was intrigued and somehow convinced our group to spend an afternoon there.

It was a blistering hot day, to the point of being miserable. Probably because of that, the crowd was light and payouts were pretty small.

Compounding the misery, roughly halfway through the day’s races none of us were winning any of the $2 bets we were making.

But I remember this well:

Race #6 had just concluded, and I had concluded it was time to lose a beer, so I went to the boy’s room.

Standing at the urinal, I noticed all the disappointment laying on the floor. Apparently, people holding losing tickets as they hit the restroom simply dropped them on the floor when it was time to hold something else.

The ticket right at my feet caught my eye. It was for the #6 race just run, and it appeared someone had picked a winning trifecta.

In case it needs explaining, a trifecta is a bet on three horses to finish in the top three. A straight trifecta means you pick specific horses to finish 1st, 2nd, & 3rd. That can be a pretty handsome payoff..

This ticket was a trifecta box, meaning the bettor had picked the top three finishers but in no particular order. It’s a popular bet because it allows leeway for the order in which your top three picks finish.

The downside of the box is that it doesn’t pay out as well as a straight. But it’s still a win.

Finishing my own business, I bent down to take a closer look at the ticket.

Horses #2, 3 and 8. That’s what I remembered as the top three in the just-completed race. I’m guessing it had fallen out of somebody’s pocket.

Now, you can only imagine what the men’s room floor is like underneath a row of urinals. It ain’t pretty and it ain’t dry.

I didn’t touch it, instead stepping outside to double-check the numbers on the board and confirm the winning horses.

Yup, that was them.

I thought about it a few moments, taking into consideration that it was a ‘box’ so the payoff was not going to be all that rich, especially on a day when there’s weren’t many patrons attending the races.

What I really hoped was that the original owner would come back to the bathroom to see if he could find his lost ticket. I would show him where it was and see how he handled it. But as a couple of minutes passed, the ticket just laid there.

Taunting me.

Free money… Money just laying there… Waiting on some fool to rescue it from its sea of nastiness.

Yeah, I did.

I grabbed a couple of paper towels, picked it up and took it to the sink, rinsing it off before patting it as dry as possible with more paper towels.

Then I washed my hands. I washed my hands 40 times, then I washed them again. There simply was not enough soap to wash off the shame of my deed.

But whatcha gonna do? Leave a winning ticket laying there?

I finally determined my hands and the ticket were clean as they were going to get, and I headed to the window to collect my payoff.

To the window clerk I explained the wet ticket as the result of my excitement of having won, spilling my drink during the celebration.

She smiled politely and handed me my winnings. $36.

I didn’t tell anyone in our group about it until we were in the car and on the way back to our house. Everyone was pretty grossed out. Especially, my poor wife.

But poor because she didn’t win no money! Loser!!

Although, it can be argued that I was the loser. To this day, she still doesn’t like holding hands with me.

Man With A Plan?

In an early scene of the 1990 Julia Roberts/Richard Gere movie Pretty Woman, there’s a dude walking the streets asking people, “What’s your dream?”

Or as he says, “wha’s yo’ dream? Everybody gotta have a dream!”

I admire people who have a dream, a plan. It’s likely going to change but to have a goal is a good thing.

Graduating from high school, my goal was ___.

That’s a blank space.

College? I’ll go because isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

Whatcha gonna study, boy?

No clue. #manwithoutaplan

That, by the way, makes for a poorly-motivated student.

By the time I started college I was working full-time at a radio station, but it didn’t seem like career stuff. It felt like something I could do until my real job sent me an invitation with a bottle of champagne and a signing bonus.

Since one shall not find what one does not seek, a real job never materialized, forcing me to continue my pretend job.

I did enjoy radio and worked hard at it, but it took a long time for me to believe this was going to be my career work. I remember thinking, man, if I can just do this thing until I’m about 35, I’ll have it all figured out by then.

No, I wouldn’t have. By the time I hit my mid-30s I started figuring some things out, but by then I had decided to ride that radio pony until it threw me off.

Further, I had dropped out of college because radio was way more fun. So if radio had fallen through, I would have ___.

That’s another blank space.

These kids today…

#1) An 18-year old I randomly met, headed off to college soon.

“Whatcha gonna study?”

She wants to be an actress. If that doesn’t pan out, she thinks being a doctor in a trauma ward has appeal.

Why a trauma ward?

“You know, when a chandelier falls and pierces your body, I’d be there to help you.”

Yeah, right. Unless you’re performing the exact same surgery on Grey’s Anatomy, which I suspect is the only place such a surgery would ever be necessary.

#2) My 11-year old niece wants to know if she can live with us when she attends the University of Georgia.

“Whatcha gonna study?”

She wants to be either a veterinarian or study culinary arts.

Being the guy I am, I suggested she do both. Her failures as a vet could yield some tasty offerings at suppertime.

She wasn’t amused, but I dismissed that as her not understanding the high level of sophistication in my humor.

Moonshine Tales

There was a day last week designated as National Moonshine Day. You’d think after all these years I’d know there was such a thing.

That same day was also National Gingerbread Day, National Running Day, and National Veggie Burger Day.

Nobody seems to know how National Moonshine day was assigned, but I’m guessing someone came across the day honoring running, gingerbread and veggie burgers and decided it was a date that needed something good going for it.

Evil spirits that I might be familiar with

I’ve only experienced true made-in-the woods kinda ‘shine a couple of times in my life.

Probably the best-tasting stuff was provided by my neighbor, Frank. Frank had been a mayor and a state representative and was a good ol’ boy with lots of good ol’ boy friends.

One of his friends was a judge in a tiny North Georgia town who had a still.

A judge. The same guy who sentenced bootleggers was one.

Frank claimed the judge wasn’t a bootlegger because he didn’t sell it, only gave it out to trusted friends.

That’s a finer point of the law I don’t know, so I didn’t judge. As the Good Book says, judge not lest ye be judged by a judge with the keys to a jail cell and the authority to put your ass in it.

My favorite moonshine memory is Ernest.

Ernest was a care-taker on a friend’s family farm in rural South Georgia. He was an affable, older black gentleman who was friends with everyone.

Ernest’s job was tending the farm. He mowed, did light repairs and fed dogs.

And there were dogs.

The remote location of the farm made it an easy spot to drop off an unwanted dog, so strays were always showing up. Ernest and the family he worked for were quite happy to welcome those orphan hounds.

Ernest was easy to like. Whether or not he ever knew my name, he knew I was on the radio. Whenever I accompanied my friend to the farm, he’d flash that big jovial grin and say, “There comes the radio man!”

I don’t recall ever going to the farm when Ernest didn’t have his big cast-iron kettle of corn mash is some stage of preparation out in the yard behind his trailer.

One cool fall night, three of us high school buddies decided we’d grab a couple of six packs (drinking age was 18), head to the farm and build a fire.

Since the old farmhouse and Ernest’s trailer shared a yard, Ernest came to join us. He didn’t want our company as much as he wanted our beer.

His offer: a gallon of his corn mash in exchange for a 6-pack of what was very likely Schlitz Malt Liquor back then.

Judge not. We were young with undeveloped taste buds.

We accepted the offer and a gallon jug of Ernest’s fire water soon began circling the fire pit.

If you want to know how this saga ended, you’ll need to ask one of my other buddies.

I’m pretty sure that night I determined one of those stray dogs was a camel and rode him to Egypt.

Socrates

Jim eats a bowl of sarcasm for breakfast every day, then burps it up as needed for the rest of the day. His recent post…

I couldn’t let my friend get away with it, so I did what you do. Googled it.

Oh, I knew Socrates never said that, but I wanted to know if he’d said something similar that could be transposed into such a post.

Nope, nothing close. So I challenged.

“Prove to me Socrates said this.”

Jim responded, “Socrates spoke really good English.”

Well, you can’t be a genuine smarta** without knowing everything there is to know, which I do, so I decided it was time for a little adult education.

Socrates may have spoken good English, but we all know he was Greek. We know that because we have this depiction of him eating a Greek salad, which he put on a sandwich because he was dining that day with the Earl of Sandwich.

It’s not a t-shirt he’s wearing, it’s a short-sleeve toga. Sketch used with permission of the Museum of Socrates Drawings
-Monica Giles, curator

Since cellphone cameras hadn’t been invented yet, it was drawn by the cartoonist of the local paper, The Stone Tablet. He was sitting across the room and either admired Socrates or had a crush on him. That part of the story is not carved in stone.

The Earl of Sandwich also spoke English, though it wasn’t the good English we speak in America, it was that stuffy English they speak in England.

History tells us the Earl liked martinis (named after Dean Martin, by the way), but they don’t grow olives in England, so he texted Socrates and asked if he’d be willing to swap out some olives for a couple of slices of white bread.

Historical footnote: whole wheat bread was considered nasty back then. Unrefined. And the Earl of Sandwich, being from the house of Montagu in the Peerage of England, was certainly refined if nothing else. He demanded white bread. It was originally believed he liked butter on his bread, but that idea is now toast.

Realizing that many of you hated history in school, the lesson will end here. But I’m giving you a homework assignment.

You are to go onto the World Wide Web and find the song ‘Socrates’ by one of my favorite songwriters, Mac McAnally. You will find out that not only was Socrates a philosopher, he was an auto mechanic.

Do you know what you are capable of knowing
Do your hands, son, ever touch the soil?
Do you love all that you are capable of loving
And do you want me to check that oil?*

That’s stuff they don’t teach in school.

*Socrates, written by Mac McAnally. Lyrics used without permission, though they are welcome to every penny I make on this story.

The Hun'erd Dollar Bill

This needs a quick preface so it won’t come off as snooty.

We have no children. Therefore, no grandchildren. And no pets. Like everybody else, we occasionally spend a little money on things we probably shouldn’t but unlike y’all with kids and pets, we spend on things that don’t pout or poop.

For me, there’s something magical about the $100 price tag. Once an item crosses the $100 threshold, it’s officially expensive and that must be pointed out.

I was serving apple pie to neighbors recently and drizzled an aged balsamic vinegar on it, vinegar that had been brought back from Italy and cost…?

Yep, about $100. And I told them so.

Extra Vecchio = Extra Old

In defense of my spending so much for a tiny bottle of balsamic, it happened at a wine tasting that might have lasted just a wee bit too long. That same tasting also lead to the purchase of a $100 bottle of olive oil before my wife asked to ‘borrow’ my credit card then hid it.

But why did I need to point out the cost to my guests? Why not try to impress them with the fact that it was 30-year old balsamic - from Italy! - and leave it at that?

‘Cause it cost a hun’erd dollars, that’s why. If I’m serving you a hun’erd dollar balsamic, you’re going to hear about it.

I’d probably do the same thing if I was serving you a $100 bottle of wine, but don’t hold your breath on that one. In our house, it’s likely the wine I’m serving you is only $2.99. For the whole bottle.

It would be a fair question to ask why I’m willing to spend $100 on olive oil but cheap-out on wine.

I think it has to do with longevity. I’ll have that oil and balsamic for some time to come, enjoying it along the way. Wine won’t make it past bedtime.

Once wine is opened, it evaporates or something. Maybe it grows legs and walks off, but it gets gone. If it’s expensive wine, at the end of the evening you’ve just plowed through a hun’erd dollar bill with nothing to show for it but a dopey grin on your face.

That’s not to say I would never pay up for good spirits. I have spent a few coins for good bourbon, though I have stopped chasing the ones that have gotten stupid expensive. There are some tasty whiskies and bourbons that are quite affordable once you get your nose out of the air and into a glass.

A cousin posted this for me to see.

What stupid expensive looks like.

That is good stuff, but in my town if a store has any of this available at all, the store paid $30 for it. Thirty. That’s a ‘3’ with one ‘0’ attached. If they can get $200 for it, fine, but it ain’t coming from me.

With that proclamation though, I must confess to a recent bout of liquor lunacy.

A friend who knows I often find decent prices online for these things asked if I could find a particular tequila that was $100 in the store.

I did find a better price, though by the time you added in shipping it was $96/bottle.

Hey, $4 saved.

I was somewhat familiar with this tequila, having brought a bottle of it back from Mexico many years ago. I didn’t remember a thing about how it tasted, but at $100 it had to be good, right? So I figured I should also get a bottle for myself.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I have a friend who might want a bottle, too. Before you order, let me check.”

I knew exactly what was happening. He was asking his friend (wife) if he could just go ahead and buy a second bottle while we were ordering.

Sure enough, he tells me his friend wanted a bottle, so I decided if he could get one for his friend, I could order one for my friend. So, the order was doubled to four bottles.

Turns out, he actually had a friend who wanted a bottle. I didn’t. But I now have two big bottles of expensive tequila, and one small problem.

I don’t care for it. Neither does my imaginary friend.

I cracked open a bottle for me and a buddy - after bragging that it cost $100, of course. We took a couple of sips and just sorta stared at each other with that look. The look that says, “um…. paid how much?“

And yay! There’s a whole ‘nother bottle!

Anybody need tequila? It’s a real purdy bottle. It even comes with instructions on how to turn it into a vase once it’s empty. (Spoiler alert: take the cap off and put flowers in it.)

I’m willing to let it go for a hun’erd dollar bill. I’ll even throw in $4 in change.

Clase Azul Tequila

Going To The Dogs

In these musings of mine, I have previously been critical of people and their pets - specifically, dogs. Because people adore their doggies, they seem to assume everyone will adore their doggies and thus take liberties that make other people hate them.

Hate the owner, not the dog. The dog doesn’t know better, the owner should.

We have now reached a new phase in pet ownership that transcends simple adoration. For more on that story, let’s call on my favorite side of my personality. Take it away, Grumpy Old Man.

Thanks, Pretends To Be Compassionate side of my personality. What you are alluding to is what is now being called the ‘humanization’ of our pets.

How real is it?

It’s really, really real.

So real in fact that a recent analysis comparing the stocks of two major food companies gave Company A’s stock the edge over Company B because Company A has recognized that we are increasingly treating our animals more like people than pets, and they have invested heavily in that trend.

In other words, we are willing to buy more expensive pet food, and that’s what Company A sells.

I call it a trend. Truth is, it’s the truth. The true truth.

I grew up old school as far as pets are concerned. We had beagles. They were used for hunting, they lived in a pen behind the garage, and we fed ‘em whatever was cheapest in a 50-pound bag.

They were cared for, mind you, but they didn’t come inside when the weather got cold, didn’t go to the store with us, and we didn’t take them on trips.

Anyone can see how differently we treat our dogs (pets) these days. Fact is, nowadays businesses hope to win your patronage by pandering to your pets.

Hotels advertise as pet friendly. Dogs always seem to be present in home improvement stores. Your bank may have pet treats at the drive-through window (mine does). Breweries not only invite you to bring your dog, there are often special events to encourage you to do so.

What makes me grumpy about the humanization of pets is that it’s a pet. It’s not a person, it’s a dog.

And you’ve gone too far.

I had the good fortune of catching up with an old friend a couple of years ago. She lives a fine life in a fine house with a fine husband and six fine dogs. They probably had fine furniture, but how would you know? Everything was covered in sheets so that the dogs could sleep wherever they wanted.

I don’t get it. I hope they buy furniture from Goodwill. It would help a good cause, and what difference does it make if you can’t see it?

Walking through Home Depot, I encountered a woman pushing a shopping buggy with nothing in it by four little schnauzer-like dogs. Not only were FiFi, LiLi, GiGi, and BeBe identical, they were all identically dressed. That’s right, she had gotten up that morning, dressed up four dogs and taken them to Home Depot.

I don’t get it. If you ask me, the only thing she was shopping for was attention. If I’m right, I doubt Home Depot was her only stop.

I just attended a wedding where a dog was dressed in a tuxedo and considered a groomsman.

Why am I here?

I don’t get it. He’s a sweet dog but an old dog. He required someone’s attention from start to finish.

My favorite: I’m waiting in line in a restaurant to be seated. The hostess is trying to explain to the woman in front of me that her dog is welcome but only at outside seating.

“It’s too cold outside,” she complained.

Secretly, I was hoping the hostess would hit her. ‘Do it. Come on, do it. Clock her!’ The woman left in a huff.

I don’t get it. Honey, it’s a restaurant. We’re serving food here. Ain’t nobody want to smell your dang dog. Ain’t nobody want dog hair in their food. Oh, I’m sure. You have the only dog in America that doesn’t shed. My bad. Would your dog like a table or a booth?

That’s where we are now folks and it isn’t a trend. It’s the evolution of our society and how we interact with our pets.

From shopping with our pets, to planning vacations around where our pets will be accepted, to (the worst) leaning on our pets for emotional support, we have become a nation of truly… silly… people.

I am Grumpy Ol’ Man. I am out here making fun of you. And I am done.

(We would now resume our regular program here, but the Pretends To Be Compassionate side of my personality is in the bathtub. With the dog. What if he slipped and fell?)

TIBBY NOTE: If you would like to read the first equally-grumpy tale about you and your dog, find it here.
If you lean on your pet for emotional support, DO NOT read this.

Meeting Tiny Dancer

I don’t like the symphony. I don’t like ballet, either. At least, that’s what I think.

Last time I went to a symphony, I was ten years old, perhaps. My mom made me go - sorry, took me - to see the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. The concert lasted 19 hours, and I didn’t care for it.

So much for culture. Mama tried.

As for ballet, I’ve never seen it but just know I wouldn’t like it. I did see Miss Piggy do ‘Swine Lake’ on an episode of the Muppets. That pretty much confirmed my feelings on ballet.

I’m not a cultured guy. I’m just not. Getting older hasn’t helped. Instead of branching out, I’m digging my heels in, like I’m better off not experiencing new things.

Why?

Stubborn, lazy, ornery… pick one.

Word came I’d be meeting a cousin I’ve never met before. It’s odd to say that, but we live far apart. And don’t I have enough family already?

Anyway, he was gonna be where I was gonna be, so I’d finally get to meet him. And his wife.

Since he and I have social media in common, I knew he was married to a dancer from China. Not just any dancer, she dances leading roles for the Martha Graham Dance Company.

While I was looking forward to meeting her, there was a part of me that wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t meeting her mean I’d eventually have to go watch her perform? And isn’t modern dance like ballet and therefore on the list of stuff I don’t want to see?

As she entered our house, I played gracious host and asked if she’d like something to drink. I had tea. I was confident Chinese drink tea and felt well equipped.

“Got any bourbon,” she asked.

Say what?

Oh, I had bourbon. In fact, I’ll be upfront about this: I’m a bourbon snob. While I absolutely do not buy bourbon based on price, I like good bourbon. It’s expensive sometimes.

I pour a little over ice as she requests. She sips like a pro and approves. She’s little-bitty; I’m betting she can’t hold her liquor.

I was a bit concerned about the menu. I wasn’t serving rice and wasn’t sure she’d eat steak. Aren’t cows sacred in China?

No? Wrong country? People in China eat something other than rice?

I’m kidding. Chinese probably think Americans only eat McDonalds. I’m not offended by that, actually.

“I love steak,” she informs me.

Turns out, she loves about everything edible, especially everything Southern. Bacon, biscuits, gravy… even fried okra, which I was also serving that night.

I learned something else that evening: dancers have a very active metabolism. Planning the meal, we had cooked large, figuring to have leftovers on another night later in the week. There were none.

Tiny Dancer can eat.

I also learned she has expensive tastes in bourbon. Later in the night, we did a blind tasting. Her favorite was Elmer T. Lee. There’s a store near me that sells Elmer for $199 a bottle when they have it to sell at all. Of course that would be her favorite!

But she was sweet and we liked her. So what happens next…?

“We’d love to see you perform,” says my wife. “Got any shows coming up in the South?”

No. Nope. Nuh-uh, I’m thinking to myself. She doesn’t.

She does. And in just a couple of weeks.

Dang it, boy!

I’ll do a time-jump here and tell you seeing her perform was a fine experience. Would I do it again? She’s family, so, um, yeah.

I kid, I kid.

After the show, we invited her to dinner. Two really fortunate things make this possible. First, there was another couple with us, so we could split the check. Secondly, there was a title pawn shop nearby where we could obtain financing for the meal.

It was a really good time, but I’m glad we live on opposite ends of the country. Girl knows I have good bourbon, and I still haven’t gotten the title to my car back yet.

The Collard Conumdrum

Courtesy of the Atlanta Journal Constitution

If you haven’t been paying attention to the news, there’s a collard crisis underway. Not making this up. The cultivar Southerners crave this time of year is in serious short supply.

Blame the elements. In the Southeast, too much rain has flooded fields. California collards are the victims of wildfires, either too much scarring from blowing ash or too much smoke to harvest ‘em.

For me, none of this is particularly bad news. I hate collards.

Every year I seem to find myself in the company of friends and/or family who want that traditional New Year’s Day meal of collards, cornbread, black-eyed peas and ham.

Each of those foods supposedly represents something, though I have no idea what it is. Except for collards. Because they’re green, I think they represent money. Eat collards on the first day and you’ll enjoy prosperity throughout the entire new year.

I’d rather be poor. Collards taste nasty and give me gas.

I hate black-eyed peas, too, though I can tolerate them if I’ve got enough chow chow slopped on ‘em. (Chow chow is pickled something. In the South, usually cabbage or squash. Whatever it is, it’s mission is to mask the taste of the peas. Ketchup also works in a pinch.)

This is my own problem, I know. I’m a Southern boy with a Southern pedigree a mile long.

Having grown up with considerable exposure to three sets of great-grandparents, I learned things kids today aren’t allowed to learn or are simply not exposed to.

One grandfather was a sawmiller who taught me how to make a corncob pipe and smoke rabbit tobacco in it. His wife - grandmama - was a sturdy woman who dipped snuff and tried to teach me how to milk a cow. (I never learned. I was afraid I’d hurt the cow if I squeezed that thing too hard.)

Another grandpa raised chickens and cows and plowed his garden behind a mule while grandma was making stew from the snapping turtle her brother had killed and brought into the house, swingin’ it by the tail.

On my mom’s side, one great-grandfather was a preacher. A Baptist preacher. That’s an important Southern distinction. Wouldn’t be as meaningful if I had to identify him as Episcopalian. People might think we were drinkers. You know, whiskeypalians. And my elders did not drink. Had to learn to do that on my own.

I’ve skinned and consumed a hundred rabbits and squirrels and gnawed clean their bones. I can pick out a ripe melon by thumping it. And I can fry you up a mess of okra that will absolutely make you weep.

I shouldn’t have to prove my credentials as a Southerner, yet I’ve had a constant culinary clash with many of the foods beloved in the South.

It’s not just collards I don’t like, it’s turnip greens, mustard greens, rutabaga and virtually all peas and beans. (Except pork’n. I love me some pork’n beans. Probably because you gussy them up with brown sugar and bacon.)

I don’t like boiled peanuts, either.

Something’s wrong with my wiring. I much prefer Italian food to Southern fare. Given the choice of pizza or fried chicken…

Wait. Bad example. I’d definitely choose the fried chicken. And anything that taste like fried chicken. Frog legs, for example. Yum!

But I love Italian food the most. I’ve wondered if the doctor who delivered me was Italian. Or maybe he had just polished off a pizza and the first breathe I drew on this earth was a whiff of his breathe.

Adding insult to injury, the friend who prepares our collards every New Years Day is Italian. She claims what she cooks are Italian-style collards.

I don’t fight it, but I don’t buy it. If I cook up a possum with pepperoni, does that make it Italian-style possum?

Debate that while you eat your collards. If you can find any.

Personally, I’m hoping to catch a break this year.

The Case For Nice Underwear

“Always wear clean underwear. You never know when you might be in an accident, and you don’t want people in the emergency room seeing you in dirty underwear.” - Your mom or someone like her.

‘Twas the day before Thanksgiving, and I was in the emergency room.

I had been golfing that day and couldn’t shake the uneasiness in my chest, so I quit halfway through the round and headed for the hospital.

Quick background: This had happened before. Seven years ago, I left the golf course, went to the emergency room and was invited to stay for a triple bypass. So I’ve got history. And trust me, that kind of history heaps a whole lot o’ paranoia on you when things start feeling squirrely in your chest.

I will say this: seven years ago, I was given an additional indicator something was amiss. That hot day in July, after finishing my round, I cracked open a cold beer and never took a sip.

There’s your sign.

Now, here I was again.

In the emergency room, the first thing that happens is a check of your pulse and blood pressure. My pulse was fine, but my blood pressure sent a message to Houston: We have a problem.

I’m not a guy that ever fights BP problems, but it was through-the-roof high. And that little piece of news was going to buy me an extended stay to ‘check on things.’

“Let’s get you into a hospital gown,” said the nurse. Oh, yeah… cute nurse. About age 30. Because when you’re a guy in your 60’s and you wind up in the hospital, you’re never gonna get the dude nurse who looks like he might have stayed up all night binge-watching Game Of Thrones and eating nachos. You’re getting the cute, young nurse.

And she’s just asked you to take off your clothes.

This is where UPS sets in. And it ain’t about nobody getting a delivery. (Though you could argue it involves a package.)

UPS = Underwear Panic Syndrome.

It’s real.

Underwear Panic Syndrome is that sinking feeling an older guy gets when the cute, young nurse is going to see his underwear, and he has no idea which pair he has on.

Let’s face it, y’all, we all have underwear that should have found the trash can a long time back. It’s got holes, it’s got a shot elastic band, it’s got (whispering…) stains! You know what I’m talking about here.

To further expound on UPS, here’s some info you didn’t ask for, but I’m a briefs guy. Always have been.

I get that briefs are not particularly cool, but neither am I. With briefs, I get the one thing I demand from my underwear: support for the troops.

Let’s keep everybody together. Nobody needs to be wandering off.

(For the record, briefs used to be cool. Google images of ‘Jim Palmer underwear.’)

In college, I experimented with a few things. One of those was boxers, because a lot of my friends wore boxers. I spent those few days doing a whole lot of… um, adjusting.

As I have lived my life and observed a few things, I’ve never regretted staying with briefs. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Women aren’t the only ones affected by gravity.

At one point in my morning radio show career, I had a mid-20s, male co-host who wore boxers. Because we’re boys, I suppose, underwear was a frequent topic of discussion. Our female partner was proud to proclaim her preference for going commando, so she mostly just refereed our briefs vs boxers arguments.

“You’ll regret boxers,” I would warn him. “Your knees will have playmates when you’re older.”

One day, he texted me from the local YMCA. He had just finished a workout and while in the locker room had encountered a much older man, shaving in front of the lavatory mirror. Nude.

My cohort had just seen his future. And I have never received a text containing so many exclamation points!!!

He now wears boxer briefs.

And maybe that should be my direction. Boxer briefs tend to keep all the eggs in the basket, as some of us prefer, and are probably considered cooler than briefs. Again though, I’ve experimented and still prefer briefs.

The UPS I suffered the day before Thanksgiving wasn’t as much about just wearing briefs as it was about the color of briefs I might have on.

Underwear multi-packs usually contain various colors: black, gray, blue, red, even white can be included. (Never brown, though. Wonder why? Especially for men of a certain age.)

I rarely wear the white ones, usually opting for another color. But what if I was wearing the blue ones? They’re not a manly dark blue. They’re a baby blue. Carolina blue. Might as well be tighty-whities, really.

As I unbuckled my belt to drop my drawers, I secretly prayed: please no blue, please no blue.

Ta da! Black! Yes!

But they were still briefs, and I still felt some pangs of shame.

To wrap up the hospital story, my blood pressure had gotten whacked out (I had wa-a-a-y overdone salty foods the day before), and I was released 24 hours later after extensive testing determined my heart is actually in excellent condition.

But comfortably back home, I’m thinking I need an undies upgrade. Maybe buy some boxer briefs to keep in the truck. Next time I take myself to the hospital, I can do a quick-change before walking into the emergency room to announce that I may be having a heart attack.

When the cute nurse tells me to undress, she will still see an older man with a ponchy belly, large love handles, a developing turkey neck and gray, thinning hair, but she’ll see I still got style.

She won’t say it out loud, but she’ll be thinking, “Hey, cool undies.”

Winner, winner, chicken dinner, old man!

You take your little victories whenever they come.

The Makeover

They are the words no man wants to hear. Ever.

“I think it’s time to freshen this place up a little.”

Nooooooo…..!! (echoing endlessly down the canyon).

“Don’t worry, we’ll hire it done. We won’t have to do a thing.”

Yeah, right.

Every piece of furniture is going to be moved to the center of the room and covered with a drop cloth. Every shirt comes out of the closet. Every can comes out of the pantry. Every picture comes down, every outlet cover comes off the wall, and every curtain comes down. And we won’t have to do a thing.

Is this a great country or what?

But a makeover was strangely necessary. For starters, a whole lot of thoughtful planning when this house was built had become a whole lot of obsoletefulness. (New word alert!)

The woman who built our house in the ‘80s planned it well. Not only were there phone jacks and cable TV connections in every room, some rooms had two of each - on opposing walls.

Moving into the house, we marveled at how thoughtfully planned it was, allowing for lots of flexibility in arranging the rooms.

Further, several rooms had speaker wire built into the walls. There was speaker wire built in on either side of the fireplace. Neat-o!

This place was wired to the max. That included a built-in alarm system with keypads at every entrance, a total of four. As part of the alarm system, there were smoke detectors in the ceilings, and glass-breaker alarms were placed anywhere entry might be gained by breaking out a glass window or door.

Yessir, this place was a well-planned, well-wired fortress.

Now, fast-forward about 30 years.

Welcome to a wireless world.

There are a whole lot of unloved jacks in this place. We still have wired speakers to the entertainment center, but we use wireless Bluetooth speakers more.

And about this intricate alarm system, it’s become nothing more than yellowing plastic parts scattered about the ceilings and walls in every room of the house. Heck, neither of us can even remember when it all quit working.

But… (dramatic pause) should we ditch it or replace it?

We’ve put smoke detectors in every bedroom and wireless cameras and alarms now notify us on our cell phones if something is amiss. But what about down the road? What if we wanted to sell this house? What is the buyer expecting?

I called a real estate friend.

“Take it down,” she said.

I balked at first. While it’s true the system hadn’t worked in years, the wiring was intact and probably just fine. Attach a new system and you’re good as new. And you’re telling me what?

“Take everything off the walls. It dates your house.”

Hey, tearing stuff down is a piece of cake.

Fixing gaping holes in the walls and ceilings is a whole ‘nother matter.

At this point, I would like to thank Al Gore for inventing the internet. YouTube has videos to help you fix almost anything.

Giving your place a fresh coat of paint ought to be easier. It’s hell.

Worse still, as we’re trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, my wife has this insatiable urge to ‘try something new.’

Let’s move the TV to that wall. Let’s try the sofa on that side. Let’s move this chest to another room.

Here’s an idea: let’s go to the Bahamas. And by saying, let’s - short for ‘let us’ - I mean, me. Because next time you want to freshen this place up, that’s where you’ll find me.

I ain’t ever doing this again. Ever.

(P.S. Fax machine for sale. Holla at me, if interested.)

My Epiphany

This is not a story about traveling to Italy. It mentions Italy because that’s where I finally found clarity for my life.

 Since clarity is a rarity, it is charity for me to share for thee.

 I’m not gonna lie. Since retiring, I’ve struggled.

While comfortably tucked into my career as a morning radio show announcer, I knew how my day would go. I’d finish up work around 10 or 11 am every morning, then go join the old fart golf group that teed off every day around lunchtime. Many years, I would play 150 days or more.

The point is, I knew what I was doing with my days. In retirement, I’m playing maybe 50 rounds a year. That leaves a lot of days in limbo.

To some extent, golf has been replaced by travel. Oh, it’s not all exotic. For example, we’re taking in more live concerts now, so sometimes our trips are just a quick overnighter to hear an artist we enjoy.

We’ve fallen in love with Nashville, Tennessee’s music scene, so we wind up in Music City way more than I would have ever imagined.

Still, we are trying to see some other parts of the world and recently returned to Italy for the second time in two years. And for a second time, we hooked up with a travel guide named Max.

On our first tour of Old Italia, it took Max about one day to figure out what we liked: wine. With lunch.

On our just-completed trip, he didn’t even ask what we wanted to see. Every day, he had arranged a wine tasting at a nice winery, usually with lunch thrown in.

Lunch often lasted for a couple of hours. Afterwards, Max would just drive us around until we fell asleep. When we woke up, he’d tell us of the nice places he had taken us and say something like, “too bad you slept through it.”

In the Tuscany region, we hit a couple of places that are actually referred to as wine castles. Translated to English, that’s a castle with wine.

A castle, y’all. With wine. Take a moment, if you need to.

Besides wine, another thing to love about Italy is gelato. Gelato is actually Italiano for ice cream, but gelato is better. It uses more milk…. something, something, something… so it’s not just like American ice cream.

Gelato is sold in a gelateria. If you think about it, that makes sense. Pizza is sold in a pizzeria; gelato, in a gelateria.

I’m a big fan of gelato. Specifically, coconut, though I’m multi-gelatinous and can swing many directions.

So, the epiphany: I want to open a gelateria in a wine castle.

When I told my wife, she suggested I build the castle from the corks we have in the basement.

30-gallon tub o’ corks. Just part of my stash.

It was meant as a snide remark, a dig at me for saving corks, even though I have no plan to do anything with them.  

But her idea is brilliant. A cork castle!

Enemy bullets would bounce right off the cork walls. And if someone bombed my castle, what’s the damage? Broken cork? No problem.

“Hey, we need more cork!” And out comes a corkscrew.

My cork castle would also be flood-proof. The same rains that floated Noah’s arc would float my castle. When the rain subsided, who knows what country my castle would have landed in? But it wouldn’t matter. The local chamber of commerce would welcome me. Because I’ve got a castle full of wine.

And gelato.

Who wouldn’t want to be my friend?

Beautiful minds like mine – and Steve Jobs – don’t come along that often. I can only imagine that you’re thinking, ‘Dang, I wish I had thought of that first!’

 But you didn’t.

Bring money. I will be charging admission.

Ciao.

If You Love It, Better Not Put a Ring On It

Maybe you’ve seen the post – or email – making the rounds about how ‘old’ people should present themselves?

It defines old as 60 or over. So much for 60 being the new 40, eh?

If you haven’t seen it, here’s a sample of some pairings it suggests you avoid: A nose ring and bifocals Miniskirts and support hose Unbuttoned disco shirts and a heart monitor Bikinis and liver spots Thongs and Depends.

Cute.

But on a more serious note, I’m here today to address the first item, the nose ring.

*GRUMPY OLD MAN ALERT*

I’m not good with some current trends.

If I’ve not mentioned it before, I hate tattoos. I hate them more on women than men. To me, they look trashy.

I’m trying to adapt. Mainly, because everybody but me seems to have one.

Also, I know some really quality, non-trashy ladies with tattoos. By ‘quality’ I mean I’ve Googled them and can’t find any pictures of them without clothes.

I’ve never liked belly button jewelry. (Unless you’re a belly dancer. In that case, you might as well put something shiny in that cavern.)

Nose and lip studs? Nope.

But I’m trying really hard to be a better person and stop judging the book by its cover. That’s probably my biggest flaw, honestly.

But the one decoration I do not get is the nose ring.

First thought: are you a dang cow?? If we go out on a date, can I hitch up a rope to that thing and lead you into the theater?

I don’t care how otherwise beautiful you are, inside or out, something hanging out your nose does not look good. And there’s nothing – NOTHING – you can do to change that.

Make it silver, gold, bejeweled, bigger, petite, or blessed by the Pope, it’s still something coming out of your nose and needs wiping.

I know, shut up ol’ man!

Potty Training

It’s been a few years since I’ve been to a Jimmy Buffet concert, but I learned a lot of stuff from those I attended.

Lesson #1: I will in fact open my mouth and let you squirt tequila in there from your super-soaker squirt gun.“What if that’s not tequila?” asks a suspicious wife.

If you can’t trust a Parrothead, who can you trust?

My inaugural Buffet concert was where I first saw women standing in line at the men’s rooms because of the much longer line for the women’s rooms.

Even before the show started, one of the ladies in our group opted to hit the bushes rather than wait in line.

Which brings me to Valuable Buffet Concert Lesson #2: People who squat behind the bushes to do their business are way more likely to have embarrassing chigger problems than people patient enough to save the squatting for the restroom.

Just so you’ll know.

Of potential interest, Chigger Girl had just started her new gig as a member of our radio morning show. She was positioned on the other side of the desk from me, and I’ll just say that it was helpful I knew what was going on. Otherwise, there was a lot of under the desk action I would not have understood.

Having women in the men’s room didn’t bother me. In fact, it made sense. That line into the women’s bathroom never let up.

A recent Facebook post from a friend visiting Portland, Oregon, expressed surprise so many bathrooms there are non-gendered. She clearly wasn’t used to seeing restrooms available to either sex, anyone who might be undecided or someone who might be a little of both.

Makes perfectly good sense to me, though.

For as long as I have been aware that lines into men’s and women’s restrooms are not equal, I’ve wondered why stadiums and concert venues didn’t have twice as many facilities for the ladies.

A woman going into a football stadium restroom at half-time is lucky to be out in time to catch the last half of the 4th quarter.

If nothing else, non-gender bathrooms level the waiting-time playing field. Even if we have different approaches to taking care of business, for the most part, we all are in a restroom for the same reason.

My observation is, Americans run behind Europe on this matter, and perhaps other parts of the world, as well. We’ve been in areas of Europe where you simply didn’t see bathrooms designated for a specific gender. It was just a bathroom; have at it.

I think I found the only restrooms in all of Italy that were specifically marked. Problem was, by then I was convinced they didn’t exist, and I wasn’t paying attention. I walked out to what appeared to be about an 8-year old girl child giving me quite the stink-eye.

I looked back to notice I had indeed just come from the women’s bathroom. I tried to make light of it. She wasn’t amused.

But we’re losing something with non-gender bathrooms.

Future generations will never know the cleverness of visiting a seafood restaurant and having to decide if they are ‘bouys’ or ‘gulls.’

Or being in a chicken restaurant with one sign saying ‘chicks’ and the other, ‘chick magnets.’

Or visiting a country diner with one sign reading ‘sausage’ and the other ‘eggs,’ then having to figure it out.

Will they know the difference between ‘tomcats’ and ‘kitty cats,’ or will everyone just be a cat?

Yes, the cottage industry of coming up with clever ways to say boys, girls, men and women will fade into obscurity.

Another tradition down the toilet.

A Foreigner In My Own Country

Just returned from a trip that included a few days in New York City. It wasn’t my first time. We were there just two years ago, so I knew I was getting in to.

The NYC skyline on a hazy day in Central Park

I love/hate that place.

The over-the-top weirdness of Time Square. Visiting the M&M store and paying $14 a pound for peanut M’s that would cost about $3 at my local grocery store. A truly unintelligible subway system. The fabulous – use your ‘jazz hands…’ fab-u-louus - Broadway shows.

It’s like no other place. It’s also like no other place should aspire to be, really. Especially the subway trains. The subway system there was designed by chimpanzees who then hired kindergarteners to draw the maps and legends explaining it.

Locals eventually figure it out by osmosis; visitors have no chance.  

The way we handle the trains is to wander around in the subway station looking lost until someone takes pity on us and helps.

Mostly, we just walk. We certainly don’t attempt to drive in that carnival.

If you do drive in NYC, you need to be fluent in ‘horn.’ It’s the official language of drivers there.

But here’s what I’ve figured out: Honkers are almost always several cars back in the pack.

The first car in line has stopped because it’s illegal to run over pedestrians. The second car can see what’s going on so sits quietly. Get back to about the fourth or fifth car and all they know is that the light is green and they ain’t moving.

*beeeeeep*

Honking changes nothing, but I reckon it gives the drivers a way to vent their frustration of being in a city where a billion people live and having to deal with another billion visitors who know it’s illegal for you to run over them with your car and will therefore cross the street whenever they dang well want, traffic lights be damned.

The other language of New York City is every other language in the world. Except English.

Look, I’m a bumkin in The City, but I’m telling you, it was rare to hear English conversationally spoken. On the streets, in the subways, in the bars (so I’m told), on the elevators, the conversations were almost always in a foreign language.

That’s more observation than complaint.

To start with, we all know that as a country we’ve become heavily reliant on immigrants for service work. The servers, dishwashers, attendants, hotel staff… the list is endless of jobs immigrants are willing to do for the opportunity to live in the States.

Now, couple that with all the foreign visitors who are simply making NYC one of their must-do destinations, and there’s a whole lot of no speak-y English going on.

What if, I thought… what if we passed a law that required everyone in an American city to speak only English. That would probably cut down on the crowds since so many people would have to learn the language instead of relying on a single interpreter to be the English voice for their entire bus.

Then there’s a possible downside. What if that law not only required English, but required the proper use of the language?

That would shut most Americans out of places like New York City.

So, let me just say this, y’all. I ain’t never gonna go back to that place. Not never, not no how. I don’t know what them farners are sayin’, an’ until them people done learned how to tawk like me, I’d just a-soon stay home.

Somebody fetch me a beer.

Tequila Songs

Just heard a song from Dan + Shay called ‘Tequila.’ Wow, a song about tequila. How novel!

While that oozes sarcasm, it’s a decent song, and so adds to an every-growing list of odes to a cactus.

Off the top of my head, I can probably name 9 or 10 songs about tequila. There are more, I know. Many more.

Almost all songs about tequila involve drinking too much. From there, we work on secondary themes, like being lonesome, drinking away a memory or doing something stupid.

Tequila songs can also involve a fair amount of promiscuity.

“Who is this cowboy
Who's sleepin' beside me?
He's awful cute, but how'd I
Get his shirt on?
I had to much Tequila last night.”
    - ‘Jose Cuervo,’ sung by Shelly West

Anyway…

Hello, everybody, and welcome to TEQUILA TALK. As your host, you should know I fancy myself a tequila aficionado (I drink it), a tequila snob (I like the good stuff), and I may be the only person you’ve ever met that has never gotten sick from drinking it. Like, ever.

Full disclosure: Oh yeah, I’ve overdone it. I’ve just never overdone it on tequila. And I’ll let my sainthood stop right there.

Tequila gets a bad rap, and it’s not to blame. Its smooth, sometimes smoky goodness is a delicious sip, either neat or over a little ice.

There are two main problems we have with tequila.

First, we’ve made it a barroom game to see how much of it we can drink before we puke. Secondly, and a contributor to the first point, barroom tequila shots are usually done with a low-grade product.

While anything calling itself tequila must, by law, contain at least 51% distilled blue agave, that leaves the other 49% to be distilled from something else. That’s very often corn syrup. And in these cheaper tequilas that nice golden color comes not from barrel aging, it comes from caramel coloring.

I’m not hating on Cuervo Gold, y’all. Despite it being made from a whole lot of sugar and only minimally-required blue agave, it doesn’t taste bad. But even folks who think it does taste bad are willing to toss a few down so we can part-a-a-a-y!!!

I’ll be worshiping at the porcelain alter later, but right now I have never been funnier, prettier, wittier or danced better!

The girl who cuts my hair told me she can’t drink tequila. And why?

“Well, one night…”

…and we all know the rest of that story.

Her drink of choice is vodka.

Have you ever, I asked, sat down with some friends and slammed shots of cheap vodka down your throat until you went blind?

Still, it’s hard to deny tequila has rendered some fun tunes. An all-time favorite became Pee Wee Herman’s dance groove: ‘Tequila’ by The Champs. In fact, that one may be the top tequila song of all time because of Pee Wee’s signature dance – let’s face it, tequila can lead to some pretty stupid dance moves – and because it’s easy to sing. The lyrical content of the song is a total of three words, and they are all ‘tequila!’

Speaking of lyrical content, Joe Nichols had a #1 hit with ‘Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.’ Given its title, I’m not sure why it needed any lyrics. Seems fairly self-explanatory.

Emotional Support Animals

Did you see the recent news story from New Jersey about the woman turned away from a flight because of her emotional support animal?

In case you didn’t, the woman had been told in advance by United Airlines that she could not bring her emotional support animal onboard because they couldn’t accommodate the peacock.

A peacock, y’all! Her emotional support animal was a feakin’ peacock!

She showed up for the flight anyway. With the peacock.

Access denied.

Most of us watching or reading that story probably rolled our eyes and gave whoever else was around that look. You know the look.

‘Really?!’

Also known as the ‘is she on crack?’ look.

This story originally was going to be about her and others like her, people with emotional support animals (ESA). Specifically, people with unconventional emotional support animals.

People wanting to fly with pets has gotten so whacky that Delta has just updated it’s ESA policy, saying, “Customers have attempted to fly with comfort turkeys, gliding possums known as sugar gliders, snakes, spiders and more...”

I had planned to write about the peacock lady:

Ma’am, number one, that peacock don’t care about your emotions. And number two, I’m betting you’re single.

Then, a couple of things happened.

First, another ESA story emerged involving an emotional-support dog that attacked a passenger on a plane. In this case, though, the dog was a veteran’s ESA.

That a veteran is part of the story gave me pause enough. (Gave me pause… get it? Pause… paws… OK, not that funny). Even putting that aside, though, if you’ve ever owned a good dog, you know that dog does indeed care about your emotions.

So, what do I do? Leave out people with dogs?

The other incident derailing my original story involves a donkey. On my walk past a nearby farm just this week, I stopped and asked the young woman shoveling out the barn what happened to the white horse that had been there for years.

“The white horse died, but we may get another one. That white horse and the donkey were close. The donkey is really lonesome.”

What??

“When we buried the horse, the donkey stood nearby and watched the whole thing. It was like she was at a graveside service.”

The woman spoke of it all very matter-of-factly, like a seasoned farm hand would.

On the farm, when a large animal dies, you take your backhoe or whatever implement you have to dig a hole, you dig that hole, then push the animal in and cover it up. The facts of life.

She spoke just as stoically about the donkey’s loneliness. No emotion, just ‘yeah… the donkey’s lost her buddy. We may have to do something about that.’

But if a donkey can have an ESA, I knew my story-idea-in-the-making, poking fun of people with emotional support animals, was going south quickly.

So, I’ve decided to change gears. Let’s look instead at what other animals might make a good ESA.

Like, a turkey. If you ever breakdown emotionally and need a meal, voila! And after eating the turkey, you could be thankful. (Thankful… turkey… thanksgiving…? Is funny still not happening here?)

How about a fish? Imagine, a friend comes over. She needs to unload her troubles, so you dutifully sit and listen as she drones on, endlessly. And you finally say, “Why don’t you kiss my bass.”

But you mean it. What a friend!

How ‘bout a bumblebee? Maybe all you need to pick you up is a little buzz.

Speaking of buzz, what about a buzzard? If you’re a particularly deep person, a buzzard could pick your brain. (And any other parts. Once you’re gone, of course.)

Feel free to offer your own thoughts. There’s gotta be plenty of other animals that would make ESAs.

I’m sure you’ve heard about the (true story) incident recently involving a lady with an emotional-support hamster? After being told she couldn’t have it onboard a Spirit Airlines flight, she flushed it down the toilet.

You can Google up the details, if you want. It’s a weird story.

But I have to wonder what kind of person relies on a hamster for emotional support. I doubt that hamster cared about her emotions.

I bet she’s single.