blessings
I understand blessings. I’m the Tibby Lama.
Being the Tibby Lama is like being the great and powerful Oz. I’m a knower of stuff and a doer of things.
A thing I do is give my people my blessings. It’s what lamas do and it makes people feel good.
Side note: I’m occasionally asked what the difference is between a ‘lama’ and a ‘llama.’ A lama is a spiritual leader, a llama is a stinky animal.
I can go either way.
To the subject of blessings, there is a fair amount of misunderstanding, as I will point out.
SOMEBODY WANT TO BLESS THIS?
Common words at mealtime, at least in the south. What we’re doing, however, is asking for a blessing.
‘Bless this food we are about to receive… bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies…’ etc. We are asking for the Lord’s blessing on our meal, not blessing it ourselves.
BLESS YOU
You sneeze, somebody blesses you. Dumb.
A sneeze is an involuntary reaction to an irritant. It doesn’t need blessing.
Also, you don’t need to ‘excuse me’ after you sneeze. It’s pretty much something you can’t help and can’t stop.
That said, some bodily functions are probably best followed by an ‘excuse me.’ Or at least a sheepish grin. (See previous llama reference.)
I’M BLESSED
This one is interesting because we consider ourselves blessed under some pretty awful circumstances.
“Yeah, so the plane’s engine just cut out on me. But I was blessed to see a long stretch of road where I could set it down. Too bad I didn’t see that freight train coming down the tracks. Big collision, fireball… destroyed the plane, derailed the train. I lost a leg, knocked out all my teeth and have a steel plate in my head. Spent two years in a coma, three more years in rehab just learning what my name is. Still can’t walk, don’t recognize my mama nor that woman who lives with me, which doesn’t really matter ‘cause I’m blind from the explosion and can’t see ‘em anyway. But I’m just so blessed I’m still here.”
HAVE A BLESSED DAY
I’m not a big fan of this one. It always feels contrived, like the person is looking for something cute or clever to say.
But I hear it a lot, especially at my favorite drive-through chicken place. Honestly, though, anytime I’m driving away with Chick-fil-A in my hand, I am indeed having a blessed day. Ain’t nobody got to say nothing.
O, happy day!
I have an idea. Instead of wishing someone a blessed day, let’s start saying ‘have a naked day.’
First of all, no one would be expecting that, so it would be fun.
Secondly, don’t most people like being naked? So even if they didn’t go straight home and undress, they’d probably spend a fair amount of time thinking about it.
Gee, what if I just went home and got naked?
Besides, even with the blessings of the Great Lama, a blessed day is not a sure thing. It is simply the hope for one.
Nakedidity can be guaranteed. You can always take your clothes off.
I’m blessed we spent this time together. No need for you to thank me; this kind of big thinking is probably what you should expect from the Tibby Lama.
Bless you and have a naked day!
The European Rescue
We just got back from Spain and Portugal.
Off the top of my head, I’ve visited a European country maybe 10 times. So much rich history and really lovely people. There’s a lot to love.
Number one thing I love: their wine prices. Europe makes decent wine very affordable. The first bottle we bought on this most recent trip was $2.50. Subsequent bottles were generally $4 - $7, although one evening at dinner we paid €11. Or $11.78.
Rich people can do that.
But for all the love I have for Europe, there are some things that need fixing, and I’m fixin’ to tell you all about them.
Before I do, let me step into this phone booth, tear off my clothes and become…
Captain Life Enhancer Criticizer!
Yes, I am here to criticize, but I’m also here to introduce cultural changes that could re-shape the entire visitor experience, if the European Union is paying attention.
(Secretly, Europe is rejoicing; you just can’t see it.)
Let’s start with bed linens. WHAT IS UP WITH THE DUVETS?!?
For the uncultured, the duvet is a blanket sandwiched between two sheets sewn together. Europeans often use it as the top sheet, quilt and bed spread all in one. In other words, it’s often all you have to cover up with.
The duvet is great in the dead of winter, but in the other three seasons it’s just hot. I encountered the duvet on my first trip to Europe 40 years ago. Forty years later, it’s still a Euro-scourge.
The fix: Dump the duvet. Give us a top sheet and a blanket.
Next up, bourbon.
A European would tell you, “We don’t drink bourbon.”
An American would respond, “Probably because all you have is Jack Daniels and Jim Beam.”
Hey, I will hang out with Jack and Jim, but Europeans need to meet my other friends.
The fix: May be happening already. We ran across quatro rosas (Four Roses) occasionally. Maybe they are indeed trying to up their game.
Our next item is a bigger problem and something I was not familiar with. The washer/dryer combo.
This is a single appliance that serves as both a washer and dryer. It would be more useful as a boat anchor.
Wash cycles seem fairly normal, but when that same machine transforms into a dryer, the dry cycle is almost 3 hours long. Even then, clothes are liable to still be damp.
On several occasions, we encountered the Siemens brand. Siemens makes MRI and CT scan machines. You’d think they could make a functional dryer.
Looks like 2 minutes, 50 seconds. Nope!
I suspect the dryer is not vented over there, and the moist air is not being allowed to escape, but I never pulled a dryer out from the wall to check it. We washed clothes at night, and I was too busy learning new Spanish phrases, like ‘quatro rosas.’
The fix: sledge hammers. Knock some holes in those walls, go to Home Depot and buy a vent hose. I’m guessing.
We move now… ha!… a movement… to a really big problem. WHERE’S THE FRIKKIN’ TOILET SEAT?? (I’m yelling a lot, aren’t I?)
See where the ‘movement’ joke came from?
While this isn’t widespread, it’s not all that uncommon. We even wound up in some classy restaurants without them.
Dear anyone, what are your expectations for folks needing a bathroom break when there is no seat?
Women are used to hovering; men, not so much.
The fix: $20. BUY A DANG TOILET SEAT!
Saving the most egregious problem for last…
Europe, you suck at coffee.
The real issue: Europeans drink espresso.
Also called Nespresso but that’s a specific brand
This is no way to make or consume coffee. The coffee is too strong and there’s not enough of it. People that drink espresso are capable of eating vegemite.
And Brussells sprouts.
All across Europe - and the world - you can order café Americano, which is supposedly coffee American-style. In reality, it’s just espresso (bad coffee) with water added to it. It helps, but it’s still not good.
The fix: Mr. Coffee 12-cup drip coffee maker. Y’all have Amazon in Europe. Order one.
Cultural divides take a little work, sometimes. It’s good Europe has me to help.
Doesn't Like Flowers
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything really stupid, so let’s do this.
It’s spring, and things are turning lovely. Fresh, green growth everywhere and… flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.
I have a complicated relationship with flowers. There are some I just don’t like.
A graduate student living with us once tried to figure it out. “You’re telling me you don’t like a flower?”
I like most flowers. And I’m especially drawn to smaller flowers. That includes dandelions, a flower I should not like because it’s an invasive weed. Yet there on top of that weed is a little drop of yellow sunshine.
And who doesn’t like blowing the seedhead of a mature dandelion, scattering those dadgum weed seeds all over the place to create more weeds that need killin’?!
You could argue that dandelions have a true place in this world because they can be made into wine, because they can be. That doesn’t mean they should be.
I mean, if I could make wine out of dirty socks, should I?
“Mmm, taste like… feet!”
Rather than list all of the flowers that appeal to me, here’s my top three least-liked, starting with…
3. Daylilies. Folks dedicate entire gardens to these stately flowers, and while I admit they come in some beautiful colors, there’s something about them I don’t like. They’re like a flower on a stick. A tall, gangly stick with a colorful thing on the end of it.
Fact is, I don’t like most lilies. The big ones, anyway. The little bitty ones are cute.
So why do I like poker plants so much? It’s color on a stick. In fact, it’s a lily. A torch lily. Makes no sense.
2. Hydrangeas. Every year, there are people that fill their social feeds with pictures of their enormous, colorful hydrangeas in various shades of blue, pink and purple. I hate ‘em.
If we had hydrangeas, I’d probably get a dog just so he could hike a leg on them. I might even join him.
1. At the top of my least-liked list is… the gladiola. Every single gladiola I see sends out a message. A loud and clear message with a megaphone: SOMEBODY DONE DIED!!!
I don’t know how gladiolas became the official flower of the funeral, but that’s how I see them.
Feel free to have gladiolas at my funeral just to mess with me, but I’ll haunt you from the grave, if you do.
And here’s a little something for my tombstone:
HERE LIES TIBBY
ALWAYS HALF CRAZY
DIDN’T LIKE FLOWERS
NOW PUSHING UP DAISIES
(Parts of) The World Explained
What brings us together today is responsibly-sourced beeswax.
Did you just ask me what that is?
Surely you have seen the lip balm commercial for a certain product that is made from such wax. And surely, like me, you’ve asked, WTF?!?
(WTF stands for ‘water the flowers.’ Unless you’re in a Mexican restaurant. Then it’s code for ‘where’s the fajitas?’)
A quick word on why responsibly-sourced beeswax is even a thing:
We now live in an ESG world. That’s Environmental, Social and Governance.
Most companies have an ESG person or department to make sure the company is either doing the right things or appearing to do the right things. That is, being environmentally responsible, making sure not to hurt anyone’s feelings and pretending they care.
Turns out, when it comes to harvesting wax for ESG lip balm, there’s a manual. A secret manual that I have been given privileged access to.
Responsibly-sourced beeswax:
wax will not be taken from the hive without first asking the bees for permission to harvest it.
wax will be taken only from hives that are compliant with labor laws. If bees are required to work more that 40 hours a week or to work through their lunch break, that wax is rejected.
wax must be produced by caring and sharing bees, not greedy bees that take ALL the pollen from flowers without leaving any behind for their fellow bees. (That’s an ESG violation, so you’ll know.)
wax must not be from the hives of killer bees. (Honeybee mafia=bad.)
I would like to conclude today by noting that this blog is free. But in this single story, I’ve just explained both the meaning of ‘mind your beeswax’ and ‘WTF.’
Surely, you will understand if one day I start charging for this stuff.
liver and liquor
I have clueless friends. They seem happy just being alive.
These days, I see myself in the mirror and see what I now look like alive, and I am not all that happy.
For starters, I’m no longer pretty. I always thought I’d be pretty. And getting older wasn’t supposed to happen.
But getting older did happen. And since it took an assist from many doctors, what say we do a little medical journaling here.
First, though, you may be asking yourself, what qualifies him to write about medicine?
It’s my history. I’m a bit of a train wreck.
Personally, I consider myself quite healthy. I routinely put in a couple of miles walking on the golf course; cut, split and stack several cords of wood each year and can still throw a 50-lb. bag of dog food over my shoulder.
Weak, I am not. I just have trouble avoiding doctors.
50-lbs of cat litter. Dog food sounded more romantic.
There have been two bouts with cancer and a triple bypass, so yeah, I go big, go home and somehow manage to start all over again.
Cardiologist, oncologist, pulmonologist, urologist… if you're an -ologist, there’s a good chance I know you.
My latest is a neurologist. The last round of radiation damaged my thyroid and what were minor essential tremors have been called up to the big leagues. Before determining appropriate treatment, neurology is trying to determine if there’s a problem with my brain.
Hold yer tongue! I got feelings, you know.
Medicine is always moving forward, getting better. Examples: hip replacement is now frequently out-patient. So is gall bladder surgery. Good stuff.
But I’m starting to learn just how good medicines is. We’re apparently circling back on some things we had previously determined were unhealthy.
My PA is a woman in her mid-30’s. She’s attractive and calls me ‘baby.’ Have I told you that before? If so, then I probably have told you I like that.
I do.
Noticing my triglycerides were high, she asked if I drank beer. Since I don’t lie to my doctors about anything, I affirmed for her that I love a good beer as much as I love my wife and indeed a brew or two are usually a part of my daily routine.
She told me my tri’s love the carbs in beer, and I should ditch the beer and opt for bourbon.
Read that again, if you need to: Stop beer… drink bourbon. Scotch is also fine.
More recently, I saw my general doc for my semi-annual visit.
“Looks good,” he says. “Your iron could use a little boost. You could take a small daily supplement. Or do you like liver?”
Indeed I do. “Does fried liver and onions count?”
Indeed it do.
“A little once a week would probably bring those numbers right up.”
Hot o’mighty!
Let me recap, y’all. I am now under doctor’s orders to drink bourbon and eat liver and onions.
Tears swell as I break down weeping gently. With joy.
I’ll bet on my next visit they’re going to recommend I take up smoking. Or start eating more gravy, perhaps drinking it directly from a cup.
Let’s call it a biscuit bypass. Or gravy, straight.
I do wonder sometimes if my doc and PA get together as I’m leaving and say to each other, “You know that $#@%’s gonna kill him, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” says the other. “But he’ll go down happy.”
That seems like a good trade-off.
Discovering The Holy Grail of Mac 'n Cheese
Since the dawn of our self-awareness, mankind has sought answers for two main questions:
-the meaning of life, and…
-the recipe for perfect mac ‘n cheese.
Perhaps then, that is just one question. For if we spend our whole lives trying to perfect mac ‘n cheese, maybe that is indeed the very reason for our existence.
I’ve found it. The recipe. It’s my own.
Print this out.
Step 1: Make some gravy.
If you prefer a more sophisticated method, use the classic French recipe for a mother sauce:
Begin with a roux. A roux is fat and flour mixed together over heat. Now make it béchamel sauce by adding cream or milk.
And what do we have? A bunch of French oo-la-la for gravy. Make the dang gravy!
For a standard box of macaroni noodles, try:
2 Tbsp fat (butter, lard or yummy bacon fat. Mmmmm…)
2 Tbsp flour
Slowly stir in cream or milk until you reach a good gravy consistency.
Here’s where my culinary genius kicks in. Once that gravy looks like something you’d spoon over a biscuit, add another cup of cream. And I insist this addition be cream, not milk.
Don’t worry if now looks too thin. We’re about to put a dump truck load of cheese in there. Cheese plus additional cooking will make it just right.
Mac ‘n cheese is really all about the cheese, and so many varieties will work. Therefore, this becomes a matter of personal preference.
You must have cheddar, that’s the base. But you want additional flavors.
Gruyere, gouda, smoked gouda, fontina, Muenster, Havarti, parm, Monterey Jack… (Why do we capitalize the names of some cheese but not others?)
Anyway, pick four cheeses you like, but remember, cheddar must be one of them.
Fontina and Muenster are wussy cheeses. Not enough flavor. For anything, really. They should be banished from Cheesedom.
I prefer Gruyere, Parmesan and smoked gouda.
Minimum:
1 lb. sharp cheddar.
1/2 lb. of each of the others you’ve chosen.
Caveat: If you’re using smoked gouda, taste if first. All smoked goudas are not alike. If it’s a particularly sharp, smokey flavor, you may want to back off a little.
Add smoked paprika. Add cracked black pepper, at least 40 turns of your pepper grinder. I used to use regular ground black pepper, but I’ve upped my standards. Up yours.
Cheese gravy! Oil is from the cheese separating during cooking. Who cares?
Pour your molten lava over your mac noodles, stir it in, top with more cheddar, cover with Italian bread crumbs and cook at 325 until you’re ready to eat it.
Have you just made the perfect mac ‘n cheese? You have not.
Before serving, you are going to make another French gravy: Bearnaise sauce. You can make it from scratch if you want, but those little packs from the grocery store work just fine.
Now, ladle that bearnaise over your mac ‘n cheese, and prepare your tongue and tummy for perfection.
Lawd, have mercy!
Worthy of a face plant!
But wait! Isn’t bearnaise what you put on steak?
It is. And if you’re having steak with mac ‘n cheese, just smother the whole freakin’ plate with bearnaise.
And serve a side salad.
Sharing is caring, and this gift I share with you will leave you fulfilled: full and filled.
And fatter.
And perhaps a little stopped up. Seriously, don’t forget the salad.
Peach Of A Plan
When I become king, the state of Georgia will have a new flag.
It will be a peach. A simple, single Georgia peach on a white background. Georgia is, after all, the Peach State. Says so on our tags.
Look! Cute little peaches in the corner…
If you don’t live in Georgia, you are likely unaware that my state has a flag identity problem.
In my lifetime, we’ve had 4 different flags. For most of those years, the state flag incorporated the Confederate Battle Flag.
As it became unpopular to honor or celebrate anything Confederate, eventually that flag had to go. Yes, it was certainly going to piss off a certain segment of the population, but change was in the wind.
It was an unenviable task, and the governor at the time tried to keep that certain segment of the population from getting too pissed off by giving us a new flag that still recognized the previous flag, while incorporating other previous state flags.
It was hideous and lasted just long enough for the next governor to come in, declare it hideous and change it to what we have now.
Current Georgia state flag. Bleh…
Think about good, recognizable flags. Alaska has the Big Dipper. Texas, the Lone Star State, has a flag with a lone star. New Mexico’s Native American sun flag.
South Carolina, the Palmetto State, has a flag with a palmetto tree.
Lovely and instantly recognizable
Honestly, I think you could show the Georgia state flag to most Georgians, they wouldn’t know what state it represents. It is most uninteresting.
We are the Peach State. We need a peach.
My wife argues against this, pointing out that we are neither #1 nor #2 in peach production. Those distinctions belong to California and South Carolina, respectively.
Doesn’t matter. We’re known as the Peach State, nationwide. We were reminded of that on a recent trip to Montana.
One restaurant served Brussels sprouts, ‘Georgia-style.’
Caramelized peaches add sweetness
Another restaurant in Bozeman actually named their peachy dish for Georgia.
Should have used pecans but oh my word, this was good!
The peach is almost the perfect fruit. It smells, looks and tastes so lovely. We refer to a pretty Georgia girl as a Georgia Peach, perhaps for similar reasons. Add ‘soft’ into the mix.
Using my wife’s reasoning - that we need to be a leading producer of something for it to be on the flag - our flag would feature a peanut. Or a pecan.
That’s nuts.
Courtesy of The Collection of F’Arts (Flag Arts) owned by Monica M Giles
5 Food Hacks Even Foodies Don't Know
Like my clickbait title? I modeled it after ones you see on the web.
*5 THINGS DRIVERS IN GEORGIA MUST KNOW!
*8 THINGS THAT WILL GET YOU ARRESTED IN INDIANA!
By definition, clickbait involves an element of dishonesty to get dumb people to click on the story. So does that mean my title is dishonest?
Yes. I like food, wanted to say a few things about it, thought it might be too dumb to read, so I lied a little.
I lied a lot. These aren’t food hacks.
But there may indeed be some undiscovered food truth for you here, so let’s get started.
Brew cinnamon in your coffee.
Why? Because it may be good for you. Look up health benefits of cinnamon and you find a lot of maybes.
Studies indicate… some studies suggest… In other words, nothing concrete.
My father was a diabetic and there are studies indicating cinnamon may be good for people with diabetes, so cinnamon was brewed into the coffee every morning.
It is an antioxidant and antibiotic, so we do this in our house whether or not it actually helps anything.
Is it good? Yes indeed. It may take a little getting used to but who doesn’t like cinnamon?
I have one dumb brother that doesn’t like it, but a roster of live-in family members who have stayed or currently stay with us while finishing school all enjoy it.
Fair warning: you can get too much cinnamon, so do your homework. Taking my word for anything makes you as dumb as my dumb brother.
Did you know you can buy these delicious little onion bits in a 40-pound bag? Me neither!
Okay, it’s not 40 pounds, but it’s not the little package you find in your grocery store. You find this size at warehouse stores, but since I rarely go into those, I am just now discovering this thing.
It’s a massive bag of yummy that goes on everything from salads to burgers to eating right out of the bag like potato chips.
Is it good for you? I doubt it, but if I don’t read the nutrition label, I figure I’m fine. A rare case of dumber being gooder.
Fair warning: Over-consuming may… will… contribute to your personal noise and smells and may lead to a loss of friends. It’s a good trade-off, though.
NECKING THE BOTTLE
Wine glass? I don’t need no stinkin’ wine glass. When I’ve finished the meal, I simply screw the top back on my ‘glass’ and I’m done.
There are several positives. Since you’re not washing a glass, you’re saving water, making this eco-friendly. And it’s efficient. Saves the step of having to pour wine into a glass before getting it to your lips.
Fair warning: Considered uncouth. AIn’t nobody want your backwash in their wine. Therefore, recommended only for a party of one. OR… when each person has their own ‘glass.’
We turn now to the condiment portion of our program, and I’m happy to start with perhaps the most versatile sauce in the entirety of the world.
CHICK-FIL-YAY!
If you are fortunate enough to live in a part of America that has Chick-fil-A restaurants, it’s likely you can now buy their delicious sauce in your grocery store.
What’s it good on? Everything.
True story: I’ve given it as a Christmas present.
If Chick-fil-A hasn’t come to your neck of the woods yet, move. It’s that important. As an alternative, send me some money, I’ll send you some sauce. Be sure and include enough for shipping and handling.
Fair warning: addictive!
And finally…
We’ll get around to what’s actually in this picture in a moment.
I know exactly one person who does not have A-1 in his fridge. He acts as if using this condiment is beneath his tastebuds, then proceeds to use siracha on everything he cooks. I’ve told him that’s dumb.
A-1 sauce is probably the top condiment in America for beef. But do you know how versatile it too can be?
Next time you’re making a sandwich, mix a little in with your mayonnaise for a little extra kick. Or mix a little into the ketchup you’re dipping your fries in. Or drizzle a little over a bowl full of those crispy onions.
Yum.
Now, take a look at this picture again and let us talk about…
THE A-1 CAP O’ NASTY
In that cap o’ nasty is where the true magic lies.
You see, as the sauce gets gunked up in the cap and dries out a little, it concentrates all of the spicy goodness into something of a paste that is bursting with… spicier goodness!
Fair warning: if you see a cap that looks like this, know that the preferred way to harvest this burst o’ flavor is using your little finger or your tongue.
For the photo above, let’s say I used my finger.
You Lookin' at Me?
A BBQ joint with a good reputation, that’s where you’ll find me. And that’s where we pull in for a late lunch.
It is one of those sweltering South Georgia days when you start your golf game early enough to avoid becoming the roasted pig you’re about to enjoy. By now, though, we’re pushing 2 o’clock and it is past time to find some food.
First up, something cold, so I order a tasty IPA as we park ourselves at a high-top table in the bar and look over the menu.
That’s when she walks in.
I’d introduce you, but this is not my town, and I don’t know her. I’m guessing she’s 50-ish. Quite attractive.
She takes a seat at the table directly in front of me and is seemingly looking my way, so I nod and smile.
“How you doin’?”
“I’m glad it’s Friday,” she says casually.
My golf buddy and I go back to rehashing every golf shot of our just-finished round while waiting for some yummy brisket burnt ends.
A little time passes before our server comes by and puts a Bud Light in front of me.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Oops,” she says. “Wrong white-haired guy.” And she takes the beer away.
“Hey now!” I yell at her. “Don’t go makin’ fun of my hair.”
“You have nice hair,” says attractive lady, who is still looking my way.
Like most guys my age, I don’t have nice - or much - hair, but I thank her anyway and we swap some light, polite conversation.
Look, guys in their mid-60s are mostly past having ladies notice us. But even as a happily married man, I appreciate the compliment and assume she meant it as nothing more.
Except that she’s still seems to be staring at me.
Seems like I ought to say something else maybe, so as after ordering a second beer, I pretend she’s judging me and jokingly ask, “What? It’s Friday. I can have another, can’t I?”
“I think you should,” she answers, though she appears to be drinking water with her meal.
Lunch continues for both of us at our separate tables, but every time I look up, I catch her gazing my way.
Then my light bulb moment happens.
Me: Can I ask you something?
Her: Sure.
Me: There’s a TV over my shoulder, isn’t there?
“Yes,” she says, realizing almost immediately why I asked and busts out laughing, to the point she’s covering her mouth so she doesn’t spit out her food.
My buddy cracks up.
“Yeah, it figures,” I say with a smirk.
After lunch I walk over and shake her hand. “It was fun having lunch with you.”
“You too,” she says.
When I got home, I told my wife about it. She laughed.
It ain’t that funny, y’all. She could’ve been flirting with me. Possibly… perhaps… There’s an alter-world where it could have happened.
And just like that, I was back to being the same ol’ me.
Make that the same old me.
When I was younger, I thought this would be different.
*sigh*
The Dating Game: Grumpy Old Man Version
I kill time occasionally by wondering what it would be like being single and wading back into the dating pool.
That is not wishful thinking. Fact is, I can’t imagine anything worse.
It is me recognizing that I have become so horribly judgmental of people based on first impressions I’d probably never be able to find another person on this earth that could meet ‘my standards’ (translation: perfect like me).
I see funky hair, lots of tattoos or piercings and - boom! - ye hath been judged.
It’s not something I’m proud of. And I’m almost always wrong. To know someone is usually to love them, regardless of hair color. Or lack of hair at all, as is quickly becoming my own issue.
But admitting my own character flaws is interfering with my fun, and we’re here to have fun.
So let’s pretend I’m back in the game, looking for a mate - or at least, a date.
Assuming this process begins by chatting online, I’ve come up with questions on a variety of subjects I would want to discuss.
Now here’s the kicker: each subject has a DKQ: a Deal Killer Question. Regardless of all other answers, it’s the one question that can kill the deal if not answered properly (translation: to my liking).
While it’s still in the developmental stage, feel free to take the quiz and determine the likelihood of us (n)ever being together.
Pets
This is really tricky because every question in this category is a possible DKQ.
-How many you got? (Best answer: none. Up to two is potentially acceptable unless it includes ferret, snake or parrot.)
-Are they allowed in bed?
-Do they ride in the shopping cart when you’re at Home Depot?
-Are you willing to board them when we travel?
Food
-On which day did God create pizza?
(I personally believe pizza is important enough that it was Day One, but any day is fine. This question is asked simply to determine that you believe pizza is divine.)
-DKQ: are you vegan?
Travel
-Is Panama City or Las Vegas your idea of a vacation destination?
-DKQ: Do you believe that Disney World is indeed the happiest place on earth?
Side note: wife, Beverly does not believe this, but I didn’t have this questionnaire 33 years ago, so she’s still around.
Yoga?
‘No’ is ideal but if yes…
-Is downward facing dog a good pose for a butt the size of yours?
-DKQ: Can I roll my eyes when you talk about how it ‘grounds’ you?
Hair color
-Do you treat your head like an Easter egg?
-DKQ: Is green ever an acceptable color for hair?
not green
Piercings
-How many you got?
-Did getting 10 holes poked in your ear hurt?
-Do you have any piercings that might be problematic for nursing a child?
“Doesn’t that interfere with doing body shots?” a younger me might have asked.
-DKQ: Septum piercing? (You do your thing, but I doubt you want me greeting you each morning with a “moo!”.)
Tattoos
-How many you got?
-What were you thinking?
-DKQ: Any near your nether regions? If yes…
-Is it because you felt like additional entertainment was needed? Does it have words? If so, will I need my reading glasses?
Side note: I once saw a lady on the beach with a large Phoenix on her back, ‘rising up’ from her bikini bottom. It was accompanied by the words, “Rising From The Ashes.” Given its location, I couldn’t help but wonder if ‘ashes’ was a misspelling.
Final Questions
-Do you want to be more like me?
-Why not?!?
Learning English: The UK
Driving on the left side of the road? I’ve done that, no problem.
Driving on the left side of the road with the steering wheel on the right side of the car? Completely bass-akwards from the way we do it in the U.S.
Still, as my wife, Beverly and I prepared for two weeks in the United Kingdon, I wasn’t worried about driving. My brain was more concerned about two other things: haggis and the language.
Would I be brave enough to try haggis, and could I understand the language?
Before we get into the obvious - don’t they speak English?! - let me get haggis out of the way.
It’s delicious.
Yes, it’s ground up sheep parts. Lungs, hearts and liver, specifically. But I knew a guy in high school who worked for a hot dog manufacturer. He told me if I knew what went into hot dogs, I’d never touch another one, and I still eat hot dogs.
Don’t ask, I say. Just enjoy.
We cheated with haggis. While traditional haggis is stuffed in the sheep’s stomach, boiled and put on your plate, we first tasted it wrapped it in chicken, then wrapped that in bacon.
Oh yeah, it also was smothered in gravy. What’s not to love?
The haggis taste reminded me of a liver pâté, something I don’t eat much but don’t mind.
The second time we ate haggis, it was fried in a dough ball. Again, cheating. Again, tasty.
“Prepare to fry it, mates! The Southerners are coming!”
My concern for understanding the language came from the British show, Clarkson’s Farm, which features an Englishman with such a thick accent, I’m convinced he’s only on the show for his amusing, indiscernible British gibberish.
Understanding the Brits was a silly thing to be thinking about. Who doesn’t understand Mary Poppins?
We thoroughly enjoyed hearing the variations on the British accents all across the UK, especially the way the Highland Scottish roll their ‘r’s. Quite charming.
Certain nuances take some getting used to. We took tea with a lovely couple in Scotland who had just purchased a parcel of land from the juke.
When I made a serious inquiry into who the juke was, it turns out he was saying, ‘the duke.’
Cool back story on meeting this couple. We were trying to buy gas in a tiny Scottish town with only one gas station and no attendant.
This is where we learned UK gas pumps don’t like American credit cards. More on that in a moment.
Fortunately, a local gentleman who patiently waited as we tried to use all six of our credit cards had seen this play before and finally moved in, offering to fill us up. When I told him we had no cash to reimburse him, he said, “Consider it a gift.”
(Pro tip: Getting out into the rural areas of any country, including the U.S. without a little local currency is dumb. Don’t be dumb,)
After filling up our car, he and his wife invited us to tea at their house.
“I promise, we’re not weird,” he said.
The gift of gas, the offer of tea and not weird… how do you say no to that?
It was a lovely visit!
The problem at the pump: Americans don’t use PINs with our credit cards. The only place that was an issue was at the pump. If you’re gassing up at a station with a store, no problem because your card works fine inside. It simply does not work at the pump.
Scotland is lovely. If you have the guts to drive opposite of the way you’re used to, that is absolutely the way to go. It allows you to get off the main highways and see all the sheeps.
Yeah, sheeps is grammatically wrong but fun to say. And Scotland has sheeps everywhere.
A week into our journey, we picked up our friend, Brielle. The week we spent in Scotland, she spent in Ireland. Once we plucked her from a ferry on the coast of Scotland, we began a two-day backroads journey through the countryside of Wales.
The only complaint with our time in Wales is not allocating enough of it. Like Scotland, it’s lovely, I see return trips in our future!
This Welsch village took its 58-letter name to promote tourism. Given that, there is shockingly little merchandise available, but we bought the t-shirt.
Then it was on to London.
There were a lot of driving hours, so we killed time comparing notes on the cute new sayings we were picking up.
Somewhere in her journey, Brielle had picked the term ‘spend a penny,’ a polite British term for hitting the loo.
For the two years she had lived with us, bathroom breaks never really needed discussion, so we didn’t have a clever code. We do now.
‘Spend a penny’ was a great way to indicate it was time to take a break from the road and wee.
Yes, we heard ‘wee’ used in that context. But that word is most frequently used the way we use the phrase, ‘a little.’ And you hear it a lot.
A wee bit of your time, a wee bit more tea. Here a wee, there a wee, everywhere a wee wee.
Brielle uses her hand for comparison after ordering a wee bite of fish and chips.
Driving in London is a treat. In the same way colonoscopies are a treat.
You know you’re in for a good time when you plug a destination into your GPS and it reads:
4 MILES/34 MINUTES.
We arrived in London late at night. Our hotel did not have on-site parking, so we were given the address of a private parking lot to use. Beverly took the luggage to check in and prepare the libations, Brielle and I set out for the parking lot a half mile away.
Navigating a foreign city, about the best you can hope for when your GPS announces, “arrived!” is to look around and at least get a visual on your destination. In our case, the parking lot.
Didn’t happen.
Okay, let’s circle the block and try again.
The situation: There is this thing in London called the River Thames. It cuts right through the heart of the city. We were very near the river, so circling the block was crossing the river, finding a way to turn around, come back across the river and trying again.
I think I’ve read there are 35 bridges that cross the River Thames in London alone. Pretty sure, we hit 30 of them looking for that stupid parking lot.
Tower Bridge. Some internet searches show this as London Bridge. It is not.
Finally, we find it. We think.
There’s a guard station, a gate and a few cars. Problem is, the guard station appears to be empty, so this can’t be it. Let’s circle the block. Again.
I’ll spare you the River Thames repeat, but will say that by now the humor is starting to wear off.
Eventually, we wound up back at the same parking lot but catch a little break. The gate is raised and someone is pulling out.
I stopped in front of them to block their exit, and Brielle hops out to ask how they got in. Reporting back to me, she’s got this huge grin going.
“He said there was a bloke in the box when they came in.” The phrase amused her greatly.
‘The box’ is the guard house, really just a simple attendant shack. Brielle walks over to it and looks in.
“Yep, there’s a bloke in the box, but the bloke’s sound asleep.”
Tapping on the window woke the bloke in the box and he motioned us in without speaking.
Finally! We spent seven hours driving to London, one additional hour finding a parking lot a half mile from the hotel, and now all that was left of the day was a 15-minute walk back to the rooms.
And a really stiff drink!
As you might imagine, ‘bloke in the box’ became the phrase of the trip and got repeated a lot over our three-day stay in London. Bonus: I got to use it one more time in a real-life situation.
Since we walked everywhere we went, the car stayed put for our entire visit. Checking out, the blo… attendant… asked me for my ticket.
“I don’t have one,” I told him. “When we came in, the bloke in the box was asleep.”
It was a great trip. There’s a lot to see and enjoy in London.
Most enjoyable thing we saw? Tina Turner, The Musical.
My thanks to Beverly & Brielle for their help producing this tale.
The Art Of Redneckery
Thesis: being a redneck is an artform.
Being an artform requires certain parameters. You can’t just be loud and rude and call yourself a redneck. That said, loud and rude seems to be the norm, so that can be part of the equation.
Despite a few country songs to the contrary, being a redneck is really nothing to brag about. Rednecks have only two or three friends who are typically as boorish as they are themselves.
They have abandoned any attempt at proper grammar and think doing things like shooting videos of themselves on the toilet is funny.
Before I begin defense of my argument, a confession.
Y’all, I’m Georgia born and bred. While I now identify as a Southern sophisticate, I must own up to some behavior that one might accuse of being redneckid-ish. To wit:
I was denied renewal of a lease on the first house I ever rented due to the fact that I wouldn’t cut the grass. (Ever.)
I was once invited to leave a wings and beer party for continually throwing chicken bones at the guests. (That was funny stuff!)
I have been over-served to the point of throwing up on myself. (‘Over-served’ is deferring blame to someone else.)
I’ve had my not-so-proud moments… but enough about me.
At this point, I shall abandon my own grammatical skills and defend my thesis with a collection of pictures I have took my ownself to help you identify when you are at the home of a sho-nuff redneck.
I had went to this place and done seen this with my own eyes.
Let’s begin with litter. Rednecks are trashy people. With tattoos. They’s cups and straws and candy wrappers scattered everywhere. And they’s always tars in the yard.
Gettin’ rid of tars is expensive.
Now, uptown rednecks would paint ‘em and plant some flars in ‘em, But why go to that trouble when you can just leave ‘em out back behind the shed.
Speakin’ of tars…
This here may look like an old, abandoned bike that was left in the yard ‘cause the seat’s done rotted, the chain’s off, and they ain’t no arr in the tars. But don’t let looks deceive you. This here bike was put on top of a piece of trash to keep it from blowin’ into somebody’s yard.
You can trash your own yard but not your neighbors. The mindful redneck.
And now we come to the true determining factor of the Chez Neck-rouge (French for the ‘House of the Redneck’).
Burnin’ stuff.
Y’all, a burn barrel is a must. Do not call yerself a redneck even to your friends unless you have one.
Now, a distinction must be established between a burn barrel and a burn pit.
The barrel should be generally only for yard sticks. OK, maybe a little light household garbage like paper plates and the cooked cabbage that somebody tried to serve you on ‘em. But not heavy burnin’.
Growing up in a little bitty town in northwest Georgia, we lived on the same property as the schoolhouse. They had a burn barrel out beside the playground where trash was burned at the end of the day.
One day, my older brother and me decided we should figure out why hair spray cans had “DO NOT INCINERATE” on them, so we tossed one in the burn barrel.
That sucker blowed sky high. It also cut my brother on the arm as it fell from its orbit.
The Ten Commandments should be Eleven: Thy shalt not throw Aqua Net cans on a far.
No, for trashy trash you need a burn pit.
You can throw anything in a burn pit, but beware, that don’t mean it’ll burn up.
Based on sifting through the ashes of the carefully constructed burn pit I have shown you, I now present a partial list of items that apparently will not burn:
tin cans
oscillating fans
metal plant stands
umbrellas
metal curtain rods
tricycles
I think we can conclude metal don’t burn, but don’t let that stop you from tossin’ it in the burn pit. That stuff’s gotta go somewhere!
At our place in the North Georgia hills, we have a burn pit. Not a fancy one made of cinder blocks like the one pictured above, ours is just a hole in the yard.
We tell our guests it’s an outdoor fireplace so they will feel comfortable roasting marshmallows and weenies and sittin’ around pickin’ git-tars, but it’s just a hole.
However, that hole was once home to a most glorious burn barrel. One made of truck tar rims. Three rims stacked up and welded together. In the beginning, each rim was painted a different color. One red, one white, one blue.
Nothin’ says ‘Merica! like a burn barrel made of painted truck tar rims in the front yard sportin’ the colors of Old Glory!
Now it’s just a burnin’ pit. Our nextdoor neighbors got one, too.
Those neighbors… whew, you talk about redneckacism. Every weekend, they set up in the driveway, pitch cornhole all day and drink beer like it’s water. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere? Istanbul, Turkey maybe, but it’s 10 a.m. when they get started.
We like ‘em though. The girls’ll hug you real hard and the guys’ll give you a free beer. They may not have but two friends, but it pays to be one of ‘em.
Seems like a good lesson right there. Love thy neighbor even if they’re rednecks.
Good hugs and free beer are real hard to beat.
Marketing To Dummies
Toilet paper wants your *ahem* business.
"Enjoy the go.”
“Let’s talk about care down there.”
If you don’t watch much TV, these words are how toilet paper companies are trying to peddle their product to you.
I find ‘enjoy the go’ the most interesting. Imagine this instead:
“Hey, gotta take a poop? Do you like taking a poop? No? Then use our toilet paper. Our toilet paper makes taking a poop lots of fun!”
Isn’t that what they’re basically saying?
I don’t buy the notion anybody’s TP makes ‘the go’ more fun but being without it would certainly be no fun.
Since my career in radio was financed by advertising, I admit to paying more attention to ads than most people. But honestly, I enjoy seeing how products are marketed.
A lot has changed.
I logged onto a university’s website the other day to buy tickets to a sporting event and noticed several sponsors’ logos. Two of them for alcohol.
Advertising alcohol on a school’s website? Not too long ago, that was unheard of.
Also changed, advertising liquor. Until fairly recently, there was no liquor advertising on television or radio.
Fun fact: in order to advertise liquor, the rules are there must be reliable data that 71.6% of the audience is over 21.
Let that sink in for just a moment, then ask yourself, what idiot came up with that number?
Not nice round figures like 70% or 75%. Not even 71%.
71.6%. That’s nuts.
Underwear used to be advertised a lot. Not so much anymore, it seems. Can’t remember the last time I saw an ad for a bra.
Personal products are all the rage. Especially for men.
We used to see tons of ads for treatment of ED. Now we’re seeing more ads for companies that market those products.
“Yo, bro! No need to be seen buying that stuff. We’ll ship it right to your front door!”
Speaking of ED, I wonder if anyone names their kid Ed anymore?
And I don’t know who came up with the idea of using misshaped vegetables for a certain condition involving a man’s privates, but I would have loved to have heard that conversation at the advertising strategy meeting.
“Anybody got any ideas on how we market this?”
“I do, boss! I was fixin’ dinner last night and looked at my yellow squash - and bingo! An idea hit like a lightning bolt. Then, I was making the salad and one of cucumbers was crooked. Carrots, bananas… everything was bent!”
These are a few of my crookedest things…
Brilliant.
A feminine hygiene product’s advertisement provided me with one of my favorite things to say on my morning show.
Being a station that targeted young adult women (soccer moms), we did a lot of celebrity news. And being that soccer moms often have kids with them, using polite words was important.
Whenever a dude was in the news for acting up - think Charlie Sheen’s career imploding - I liked referring to him as being ‘as fresh as a summer’s eve.’
If you are a younger reader, googlize that phrase. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them advertise
Well, that’s all for now. Gotta go!
Sure hope I enjoy it.
What's a Hoosier?
My last tale was my gift to you, sharing my cultural knowledge. Since this is a follow-up, you can read it here if you haven’t seen it.
A couple of my Hoosiers friends shared the story on their social media for their folks back home to see, and I enjoyed the comments it generated among folks in and from Indiana.
Debated points:
The word, y’all. I texted cousin Cindy who still lives in Indiana
What she should have said, is “They do not… in my yard.”
Apparently, there’s a lot of ‘y’all’ in parts of Indiana.
Learning there was a Kentuckiana surprised some people who live in that area. Others bragged about being from there.
Rocking chairs, or lack thereof, also got attention. Best I can tell, rockers are only porch furniture in that state. Cindy says she has none inside but sent proof she owns one.
Our former housemate added confirmation.
That’s just weird to me. The only chairs I have that don’t rock are at the supper table. And we never sit in those.
A chair that doesn’t rock is firewood.
Perhaps the most interesting comment on my last tale was a question from another friend in France. (I forgot I have more than one.)
“What’s a Hoosier?”
This is when it’s good to know people that know stuff. Y’all have me, so here we go.
Back in the olden days, as settlers were starting to migrate west, bourbon was discovered in Kentucky.
This was a game-changer.
With the discovery of brown water flowing freely from the hills in Kentucky, a whole lot of pioneering men figured they had found the American dream and stopped chasing it.
Besides, going farther than Kentucky meant you had to cross the Ohio River. That seemed like a lot of trouble, and heck, they were happy, so they nailed their boots down in places like Louisville.
That meant the pioneers who decided to keep moving were mostly womenfolk.
They crossed over the Big Four Bridge and moved on to settle in Indiana. But they needed help. They needed to raise families to work the land.
For that, they needed men.
Since men were in scarce supply, the few that had made the journey were a high-demand commodity. Eventually, they were a shared commodity.
There was no shame in this. It was a necessary rite of survival. Even the children knew this.
What the children often did not know was if they shared a father with neighboring children. So, they learned to ask.
Here’s how a conversation of three kids getting together for the first time might go:
Kid 1: My dad’s Henry. Who’s yer’s?
Kid 2: Henry’s my dad, too.
They would then turn to Kid #3 and ask, “Who’s yer’s?”
The “who’s yer’s” question became so common that if you heard it, you knew it was being asked by someone from Indiana.
The end.
And that right there is such a good story, it’s gotta be true.
A Lesson In Culture From A Sophisticated Southern Gentleman (Me)
To succeed in life, you need to learn to talk right.
That includes learning that certain words should only be used by certain people.
For instance, you’uns - meaning, all y’all - should only be used by people living within 10 miles of the Georgia-Tennessee line.
Because we have a house within those boundaries, I’m allowed to say, you’uns.
By the way, correct pronunciation of the word is one syllable: yuns.
I’ve expanded my personal mountain vocabulary to include we’uns, us’uns, and them there.
“How much you’uns want for them there rockin’ chairs?”
But I want to talk about the word, y’all.
In a perfect world, it should only be used by proper, delicate Southerners. But who qualifies as such?
This was called into question recently when a young lady who lived with us for the better part of two years posted, “Happy New Year all!”
A French fried friend of mine (from France) responded to her post, “Shouldn’t that be Happy New Year, y’all?”
While indeed he lives in France, his business brings him to The States. Frequently, the southern states. He’s fluent not only in English but in Southern English.
His challenge was valid, especially since he only knows her as our houseguest in Georgia. The two are connected only on social media and have never actually met.
What he didn’t know is that she’s from Indiana. But as I offered that explanation to him, I started recalling how often she said y’all during her time with us.
It was a lot. A whole lot.
Y’all fell off her lips so easily, it never occurred to me she maybe shouldn’t be using it. You know, being from Indiana and all.
Let the investigation begin!
First up, a text to my cousin in Indiana.
“Hey cuz, do Indians, Indianites, Indianaians - whatever y’all are say, y’all?”
Her response: “We’re Hoosiers, and no we do not.”
Interesting.
Our former housemate had come to live with us as she finished up an advanced degree at the University of Georgia. Had she picked it up there? Or was she a fraud? A phony. A pretender, pretending to be a gentle Southern belle when she was a…
…a Yankee!?!?
I called her up to call her out.
It didn’t go as expected.
Turns out, there’s a cultural divide in Indiana. Our girl is from what’s known as Kentuckiana. It’s the part of Indiana across the Ohio River from Louisville, Kentucky.
(Technically, Kentuckiana includes parts of Kentucky, too, but let’s keep it simple.)
It’s the ‘Deep South’ of Indiana that perhaps relates more to the culture of Kentucky and the South.
My cousin is not in northern Indiana but she’s far enough up that she’s out of Kentuckiana, and therefore belongs to another culture.
Her people do not say y’all. Her people do not have rocking chairs on their porches. (And what’s up with that??)
Kentuckiana is considered hillbilly territory. Hillbillies say ‘y’all’ and have rockin’ chairs.
Ask me how I know, y’all.
Two of seven rocking chairs at our place. Six of them are red.
Christmas With The Animals
Right before Christmas, I was watching a special in which various celebrities talked of their favorite Christmas memories.
They had such great stories! Did they make them up? Because Christmas for me has always been a pleasant, but benign event.
Watching this show, it occurred to me that I would be a terrible celebrity interview. I’ll interview myself to demonstrate.
Today, we’re speaking with The Great Tibby about a few of his favorite things at Christmastime. What’s your favorite gift ever?
I don’t have one.
Nothing sticks out?
Nope.
What’s your favorite food at Christmastime?
I don’t have one.
Really?
Does coffee qualify?
Do you have any ‘Christmas gone wrong’ stories you can share?
It’s Christmas. What goes wrong?
What’s your most memorable Christmas gift?
Ah. That one I can answer. A shotgun!
(Interview ends quickly as apparently the network thinks the gift of guns from Santa is not where they want this to go.)
That .410 shotgun doesn’t qualify as my favorite gift - I sincerely don’t have one I can recall - but it sticks out as memorable. If you’re not familiar with this gun, it’s a ‘four-ten.’ And yes, there’s technically a decimal point in front of it.
It’s a smaller shotgun but a shotgun nonetheless.
At age 10 I was hardly close to being a man, but being old enough to have your own gun is a bit of a right of passage for a boy.
I was probably 7 or 8-years old when I started going rabbit hunting with my dad, my older brother, an uncle, several cousins and a pack of beagles.
I was taught how to safely handle a shotgun but was handed someone else’s second-hand gun. It was always a .410 one of the older boys had ‘outgrown,’ if you will.
Now I had my very own! But…
I hated rabbit hunting. Hated it. From the beginning.
So, while getting my very own gun! was a very big deal, this meant my Saturday mornings would be ruined for years to come.
We followed the rule of eating what you killed, and I liked eating fried rabbit (with gravy and mashed potatoes), so I didn’t object to hunting. But there was nothing about stomping through briar thickets in the dead of winter that appealed to me.
Nor eating a lunch of Vienna* sausages and soda crackers.
Nor getting outta bed at the butt-crack of dawn to participate in any of this.
I tried begging out. It never worked. I guess somehow it was ‘good for me?’
The shotgun memory came back this Christmas.
It was just past dawn, and I was already awake but still lying in bed Christmas morning when a single gunshot rang out.
Being on my wife’s family farm in rural South Georgia, I knew the sound I just heard was very likely that of venison being harvested.
Again, no objection. It just seemed like an interesting way to start Christmas day.
“Hon, I’m gonna go out and shoot me a furry animal, then we’ll wake up the kids, open some presents and celebrate Baby Jesus!”
I quit deer hunting many years ago after spending an absolutely frigid morning in a tree stand with my feet feeling like frozen basketballs and seeing nothing but a hungry squirrel foraging for acorns.
I have since given my rifle away.
The only animal involved in my Christmas this year was a white elephant.
I wound up with a light bulb that throws out revolving Christmas colors.
It came from Big Lots.
Whoever submitted it to the gift pile didn’t attempt to hide the fact they had been shopping at Big Lots. They also didn’t attempt to hide the $12 price tag, which I think is $2 over the family limit for white elephant gifts.
But it is far out, man!!
*Vienna. It has three pronunciations:
-vee-enna: the boys’ choir
-vie-eena: the sausages
-vie-anna: city in Georgia. We don’t say nothing right in Georgia. It’s perfectly acceptable to say you eat vie-eena sausages with ‘soe-dee’ crackers.
"Imagine" John Lennon Was Right
We’ve just passed the anniversary of John Lennon’s death. December 8th.
That’s not something I keep up with; I was reminded of the anniversary by a friend’s Facebook post.
I was only a marginal Beatles fan. Oh sure, as an 8-year old boy I was fascinated by that first album, Meet The Beatles. But it faded pretty quickly after that.
The only Beatle music I own was heisted from my radio station. I could return it, but they have as much use for a CD as they do a cassette.
By the time the Beatles were finally done as a band, it was pretty clear to anyone with half a brain - and who listened to their later songs - drugs were a pretty big part of their music-making process.
Yeah, some of it was fun, but a lot of it was nonsensical (says the guy who writes a pretty goofy blog).
As for John Lennon in particular, I never cared much for his music as a solo artist. His most successful and beloved song, Imagine, seemed to me to be the musings of a stoner.
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Fire up another one, John-boy, and let’s take a ride in a yellow submarine!
Alas, from the release of Imagine to where we are now is a lot of years. And somewhere in those years is my own spiritual journey, still a work in progress.
It’s a journey built on reading books dealing with religious thought including some that are a complete about-face to my Southern Baptist upbringing. Others deal with the history of religion itself.
It’s built on travel. Meeting people in other places, seeing how they live and realizing that people all over the world generally like each other. It’s governments that can’t get along.
And it’s built on just living life. Seeing things and forming ideas about what’s here and what’s next.
That brings us back to the heaven and hell John spoke of in his song, wondering if the world would be better off without them.
A popular movement in more progressive churches these days seems to at least partially embrace Lennon’s imagination. They are increasingly dismissing the existence of hell as presented in the traditional biblical sense.
After all, they question, why would an all-loving, forgiving God ever sentence anyone to eternal damnation in a pit of fire?
More traditional churches, especially in rural America, have noticed.
When you begin to see push-back, church marquees with messages like, “HELL IS REAL” or “THIS CHURCH BELIEVES IN HELL,” that tells you there’s a bit of a theological divide developing.
Like most things dealing with religion, it’s not worth arguing over. You believe what you believe, and you’re probably not going to change anyone’s mind in an argument.
But as surely as we grow older and change physically, we grow and change spiritually. We grow more secular or more devout. We believe a little less or a little more.
Regardless of which direction we take, it causes us to see things differently than we might have before.
So, I hear Imagine differently now.
Do I buy into every line? I don’t really think about it that deeply. But I no longer dismiss it as the hippy $#!+ I used to label it.
It has some nice thoughts for a more peaceful world, especially in these times when political nastiness is en vogue.
You may say I’m a dreamer, but…
‘Tis the season we celebrate love, joy and happiness a little more than usual.
I wish you lots of it all.
The Secret of Doing Less
The main complaint most of us have about switching from Daylight Saving Time back to Standard Time is how early darkness comes.
We should be happier about it. After all, when the light starts to fade, don’t we all start thinking about supper? What’s so bad about an early supper?
Instead we whine.
The Georgia legislature has passed a bill making Daylight Saving Time permanent. So have 19 other states. The problem is, it can’t happen until things change on a federal level.
Personally, I don’t care if we go to permanent DST or not, I just want to stick with one or the other. But until that happens, here we go again.
Darkness is setting in mighty early.
I’m learning to work it to my advantage though. For starters, happy hour tends to start when the sun goes down.
I’m completely good with the concept of ‘it’s 5 o’clock somewhere,’ but the truth is, in the middle of summer you’re likely to be involved in some project at 5 o’clock with another 3 hours of daylight still left.
So let me line up the Standard Time day of a retired man. Feel free to adopt it as your own.
8 a.m. - get up and make coffee. Hit the email. I get newspapers and newsletters in my email, so this can take a while.
10 a.m. - finally finish off the coffee and morning reading. By now, the stock market is open, so let’s see what’s happening there.
11 a.m. - realize you’ve skipped breakfast and start foraging the fridge and pantry. But don’t eat yet. It’s not lunch time until…
12 noon - eat lunch. Golf may also occupy this time slot, but let’s say it’s a no-golf day.
1 p.m. - start thinking about the things you want to accomplish that day, but don’t actually begin doing anything because you need to:
- buy a new meat thermometer on Amazon
- go get a key made at Home Depot
- buy a new phone charger on Amazon
- clean up the photos on your phone
- buy some new printer cartridges on Amazon
- run to the grocery store (drive, don’t actually run)
- buy a snazzy new corkscrew on Amazon
This is not an endorsement. But if you’re a wino, you need this in your life.
Now. It’s finally time to get something done.
Let’s say today’s activity is splitting some firewood because you took down that tree over a month ago, and the wood has been piled up on the side of the driveway ever since.
Don’t actually begin any task without first announcing it.
“Well, I think I’m gonna go tackle splitting and stacking that wood out there!”
Makes it official.
Only then can preparations be made for accomplishing your task.
You’ll need water. You’ll need your chainsaw. You need ear protection. And eye protection. You need gloves. You’ll need to set up the splitter.
Uh-oh. No gas for the splitter. Run to the gas station. Don’t actually run… (have I used this already?)
Get to work and work until dark.
Upon concluding for the day and going back in the house, your wife may ask you something like, “Did you get it all done?”
“Nope, ran out of daylight.”
Then she’ll say something like, “Well, you didn’t start until 4:30. You didn’t give yourself much time.”
Oh, crap. She may be catching on.
Ah well, worry about it later. Time for happy hour.
The Fall of Pants
Everybody loves autumn.
That first little burst of cooler air signals a break from the scorching summer days and warm, muggy nights we deal with in the South.
In our house it also send the signal to PREPARE THE FIREPLACE!
A cracklin’ fire is the sweetest part of fall. All it takes is that first evening when the temperature drops below 60° and boom! The season of fires is underway, and it’s usually twice a day. One for morning coffee, one for evening toddies.
With this idyllic picture painted, you are probably wondering, is there a ‘but…?’
There is. Actually, there’s a but and a butt.
Let’s start with the one-t ‘but.’
But pants. Long pants. I despise ‘em. It’s not a dislike, it’s hate. Truthfully, I hate clothes. I’m not much better with long sleeves, but let me try and focus.
This year, fall came in with a bang along the part of the country where the Georgia, Tennessee, and North Carolina lines converge.
Instead of just a quick cool snap, we suddenly faced several mornings with temperatures in the low-40s.
While it is perfect weather for producing fall colors, it is challenging weather for golf, especially for morning tee times.
I’ve been forced into long pants. Immediately.
This is our part-time home, so we have provisions here. The problem is, it is part-time. So there isn’t a lot of anything, including pants. In fact, I have one pair that is suitable for golfing in.
While it’s true that I will only wear one pair of pants at a time, here’s the next problem.
My weight. I lost a bunch during recent treatment for throat cancer.
I’m now about a 32” waist. My pants are 38.
My wife called the look sad. I thought an H-word was more fitting. Homeless. Or hobo.
And that brings us to the two-t ‘butt.’
Older men have a problem with disappearing butts, anyway. It’s a fact of life.
Now, compound that issue with having lost 30 pounds, and I’m experimenting with sofa pillows to fill out my pants.
I’ve already bought new shorts. Eventually, I guess I’m gonna have to break down and buy some long pants that fit my waist.
My hesitation is that while I love being 30 pounds lighter, I know my eating and drinking habits well enough to know it won’t last. It’s the same reasoning that makes me reluctant to toss out of all of my 38s.
So for now I’m stuck with these pants with enough room for someone to share them with me.
Sadly, nobody wants in my pants.
Scarred For Life
This is me.
The bottom scar is from 1992, colon cancer. The top scar is more recent, a triple bypass in 2011 .
While there are people that go to great lengths to hide scars, I own mine.
I’m happily married, but if the situation was different, these things could be a chick magnet.
“Hey, dah’lin, it’s Tibby time! Wanna see my scars?” (She certainly would.) And the show would begin.
“Now, this one here I got when...”
But I’d have better stories for them than cancer and heart surgery. Something manly and exciting.
Years ago, I showed up one morning for my radio show with a really nasty cut under my eye. As my two show partners inquired about what had happened, a plan was already in progress.
That gash on my face was about to become a big deal.
”I’ll tell you guys what happened, but it’s a bit embarrassing, so I’m only gonna tell the story one time. I’ll tell you at 7:50 this morning.”
As mentions of the injury continued, I stuck to that ruse of “you’ll only get this story one time - at 7:50 this morning, then we’re dropping it.”
It’s how you suck the audience in. Hopefully they’ll be interested enough that they’ll stick around or come back to the radio to hear it for themselves.
At the appointed time, the story unfolded. While I elaborated in great detail, here’s the gist.
I saw some clown manhandling a woman in the grocery store parking lot. It seemed to be escalating to the point I needed to step in between them. The dude jumped on me, threw me down and kicked me in the face with his pointy-toe boot.
It was a good story, and my partners were amazed.
They were also lied to.
Here’s what really happened:
I had hit my golf ball into the woods and was trying to play it out. The ball slammed into a tree directly in front of me and ricocheted right back into my face. It hurt like crazy.
But that’s just a story of bad golf and who cares.
So, the scars on my chest and tummy need better stories too.
I do have some fun with them. Anytime my shirt comes off for a medical professional, I ask if they know of a diagnosis that would require an operation that might connect the two scars.
They usually just smile politely and we move on.
I got a different answer recently. Taking my shirt off at the direction of a young nurse, she actually had an idea about connecting the scars.
“A good stab wound might do the trick.”
Brillliant.
Thinking I might get liquored up and head on downtown tonight, y’all.
Stay tuned.