This Time I'm Really Gonna Do It!

I had lunch with Aunt B. today, and I told her that I got an email this morning telling me that I had won the UK British National Lottery. So she talked me into finally quitting my job.

Now I'm going in to tell my boss what I really think of him!

God bless the U.K. Wish me luck...

Did Anybody Else Notice...

...that the City Paper is a half inch wider this morning? Great, now they'll have more space for verbatim wire reports disguised as articles and Sudoku puzzles. As a guy that sells paper, I'm all for the extra paper consumption. But as a fan of hard news, I doubt they'll make good use of the added real estate.

What Jet Lag?

How could I be lagging when I was lucky enough to have lunch at the "bbq joint of the people" with my muse, Sista Smiff and blogger-mom royalty like Busy Mom? It was much fun to swap stories about blogging and play the "do you know?" game about folks we grew up with.

I thought the most telling comment was how we admitted we were pretty shy people, but that we were more comfortable in environments like this lunch with strangers that we already knew.

At the next table was Kerry Woo and his wife who was nice enough to serve as photographer to document the event. More great blogger people.

And the pork sandwich was particularly excellent today.

Thanks to all the folks who made for a great lunch! Pass the Tums.

Back From the Emerald Isle

RUABelle and I are back in Atlanta after an 8 1/2 hour flight from Shannon. We left for the airport at about 11:00 last night Nashville time, so we're fairly wrecked. Give me a little time to detox, upload some pictures and figure out what time zone we're in and I'll regale y'all with some stories.

A teaser: I now know how many pints are in a gallon.

World Cup a Go-Go

Greetings from the international terminal of Atlanta/Hartsfield airport where it looks like rush hour in Beijing. The place is stuffed to the gills, and it looks like 2/3 of the folks are either on the way to or from Germany for the World Cup. Multi-colored football jerseys are the travel clothes of choice and the roars of hopes rising and crashing on the pitch are eminating from every airport bar with a television.

If I didn't know better, I'd say some people actually care about this stuff.

We saw something fairly creepy in the food court. A woman was pushing a baby carriage with three young kids of various ages piled on top of each other and hanging over the sides. She was wearing a t-shirt advertising some sort of teen abstinence pledge that read in big, bold letters, "I gave my word to stop at third!"

From the looks of that baby carriage, it looks like somebody stole home at least three times...Batter up!

WTF?!

I've been working in Louisville for the past two days, and when I come back I find that there's some sort of magic going on at The Dry Spot!

Then I go in the backyard and find my laptop doing this:



Listen up, Blaine! I'm gonna be in Ireland with RUABelle for the next few days, so I'm probably not going to be blogging for awhile. You'd better leave my damn site alone or I'm going to sic the Alliance of Magicians on your ass!

Think of a Card

Go ahead. Now concentrate on the card.

Now go here.

Was that it?

No? Crap.

Let's try again. Now think of another card. Really concentrate on it!

How about this?

Really? Are you sure?

Cut! We won't use this take. Tell the producer we're gonna keep on walking around the neighborhood until we get lucky.

A Friendly Warning

I'm sitting at home watching the weather radar to decide when
I'm going to leave for Louisville. There's a really nasty line
of thunderstorms steaming through southern Kentucky, and I have
to be at a meeting by 5:00 p.m. I feel like I'm shooting skeet
and trying to figure out how much to lead the pigeon by.

If you know my history,you might want to fill your bathtub with water.

I'm just sayin'...

Internet Exorcism

I just realized that if I were to just type one word and post it, then the last entry on my blog would roll off forever. That would leave no mention of that narcissistic moron, David Blaine, on my site anymore. Yipee!

Oh crap, I guess now he's now in the previous paragraph. Well, we'll all have to wait another fifty posts for him to disappear.

Curse you, David Blaine!


You've insidiously taken over my blog!
Go practice your dark magic somewhere else!

The Internet Is a Dangerous Place

I've always been the worst musician in any incarnation of the various and sundry bands that I've been a member of over the past 20 years. But I'm generally an organized, fun kinda guy to hang out with and I'm willing to schlep the PA equipment, and hell it's just rhythm guitar and back-up vocals, so everybody has tolerated my awkward fingers.

But I also knew that this situation probably wouldn't last forever. As I got older and practiced less and less (limit goes to zero), bands that actually had gigs not only wouldn't want me around anymore but also wouldn't play any songs that I knew anymore. It's depressing when you used to be a top 40 band and you have become an oldies band by default.

So anticipating the end of my career as a guitar hero, I began to look for a fallback position. Maybe someone would let me play in a horn section of a kickin' dance band and I could still get free drinks at the weddings of total strangers. I used to play trumpet, oh 30 years ago, so how hard could it be to pick it up again and recondition the old embouchure?

$100 and a used eBay trumpet later, I was back in business. I remembered all my scales, thanks to my extraordinary finger memory, and while I was no Al Hirt, at least I wasn't "Ear Hurt" either. Unfortunately, after playing trumpet in the middle school band, I switched to baritone and then tuba. (Once again, I was the only one willing to lug the heavy crap around so I got the biggest instruments. And that's why my right arm is six inches longer than my left one.) The bad news is that I had forgotten how to read treble clef in favor of the bass clef notation of the b-flat instruments.

"No worries," I thought. There was always the internet. You can find anything on the world wide web. All I need is a treble clef fingering chart for the trumpet. So I did a Google search for the word "fingering." And let me tell you, the stuff that came up on that search! It took me literally hours before I found anything to do with the trumpet...

Yet Another Barbecumonic Convergence

Just back from the Mothership where I got to meet up with my two favorite Blogger crushes, Aunt B. and Brittney. Sorry, Bob, I like you and all but you'll never be in the same league with these two.

The rib plate was particularly smoky today. When I walked through the door at the office after lunch, somebody asked if I'd been to a pool hall. Now that's good bbq.

Is It Just Me?

The always witty Tennessee Mom has this picture posted over at her website as part of a nice tribute to Daddies on Father's Day.



She swears it's never occurred to her or anybody else in the fifteen years she's had this photo, but isn't that a truly unfortunate choice of fonts in the name of the horse "Great Clint?"

Maybe it is just me. I also thought Dave Ramsey was doing radio ads for something really disgusting...

Happy Birthday, Sir Paul!

That's right, Paul McCartney was born on June 18, 1942.

"Will you still need me? Will you still feed me, when I'm 64?"



Apparently not...

Have a great birthday, anyway Paul!

He Said WHAT?!

First of all, the disclaimers:

Don't keep reading this if you are easily offended by puerile discussions of bodliy functions or discharges. I, for one, think they're hilarious.

Secondly, don't read this if you're a big fan of Dave Ramsey and his financial ministry. I'm looking at you, 2 Retire at 50 Dude.

There, consider yourself warned. If you don't want to read this, just click on one of my other posts or go look at Neil Orne's puppies or something. Here, I'll make it easy for you.

Ok, so I'm flipping around the radio yesterday and I hear the familiar voice of Dave Ramsey. I'm always good for some self-righteous preaching and enjoy hearing the same advice over and over and over again. Who doesn't like hearing the plights of people who are much worse off than you are?

But this was different. Dave's monotonous voice jerked me to attention when he said, "Listeners, I want to talk to you about how to protect your most important asset...urine cum."

"Urine cum?" What the hell is that? My best guess is that it's the brackish substance that comes out between sex and your first pee after sex. I know that's nasty, but I'm not the one talking about it on the radio.

Ramsey kept blathering on about urine cum for awhile before I finally realized that he was talking about "your income." It's not my fault, I swear. That's how he pronounced it and that's how I heard it.

But I guess I should have figured out that there's no reason why anybody would want to insure that stuff...

You were warned.

A Friendly Warning

RUABelle and I are on the way up the mountain for a long weekend in Sewanee. We must have seen at least twenty THP troopers and local police on I24 between mile markers 100 and 114. They probably had ten different vans pulled over.

Look out Bonnaroonies! They're huntin' hippies!!

One of Them "I Wonders"

I just mailed in my quarterly tax payment to the IRS.

Why the hell do I have to put a 39 cent stamp on an envelope containing a check with a comma in the total that's going to the U.S. government anyway?! You'd think they could print a damn SASE.

I'm feeling extremely Libertarian today.

You Gotta Have Faith, Faith, Faith

Lately, the Nashville Sounds have been getting a lot of national press about there Faith Nights at the ballpark. An enterprising group of promoters have packaged what was to be a one time only event at Greer into a national campaign. Good for them, I say. It balances out "Thirsty Thursday" and their dollar draft beers. I have seen folks wait in line for their two small cups and then get in the back of the line while they drink them. Hullo? You could do that at home or in a bar. I know, it's all about the ambiance.

But is there anything better about the Sounds' Faith night than the fact that last year they actually gave out John the Baptist Bobblehead dolls?!


Yes, John the Baptist. Head on a platter, Herod's gift to Salome dude. Bobblehead.

And the jar of honey is hilarious. I know J the B lived on wild locusts and honey, but I think it makes it look like they bought some overrun Winnie the Pooh dolls and popped a He-Man head on top.

RUABelle and I actually instigated a bit of a stir at one of the earliest incarnations of Faith Night. They hadn't organized it yet, but the Sounds staff did market certain nights to lots of smaller church groups as a family outing. Unfortunately, that was also the year that they opened the hot tub deck in right field. A friend of ours was celebrating a birthday one Saturday night and we all pitched in to rent the tub and the surrounding patio area.

Sometime around the 7th inning stretch, they started to announce all the various groups in the crowd. We could barely hear from way the hell out in the outfield, but I hollered at all the nubile young girls in bikinis and all the besotted guys in surfer shorts who were overflowing the tub and hanging off the railings of the deck. "Hey guys, they just announced Sharkey's birthday!" Whereupon the derelicts we were with all went nuts, screaming, singing and jumping up and down and hoisting their plastic beer bottles across the field in a toast to all the folks sitting in the reserved section. (And I do mean "reserved.") Their enthusiasm was not returned. The silence was deafening.

The PA announcer had not said anything about the birthday party in the hot tub. What he had actually said was, "and a special welcome to our guests from the Church Street Church of Christ." I'm sure we were the topic of many a sermon the next morning.

I'm such a little stinker...

Back from the Mothership

 

Wow, what a week! I get to meet Aunt B., Kat Coble, Ryan, Huck and actually pay for Mothership BBQ? That's tough to beat.

I did just miss Ivy and didn't get to meet Sista Smiff or Sarcastro, but I'm sure there will be many more opportunities to "meat up."

That is, without a doubt, the most links I've ever inserted into a post. 

Good Thing I'm Impotent

You know what I'd do if I had a baby boy born on Tuesday 6/6/06?

I'd have 6-6-6 tatooed on his head somewhere where it would only appear when his hairline receded in his thirties.

That's what I'd do. Yet another good reason why I'm childless...

Lunchable

I spend entirely too many lunches sitting alone in a food court working the City Paper Sudoku. There are way too many interesting people out there to be such a stupid loner..

Aunt B. made today's lunch a helluva lot more interesting!

Thanks, B. We'll do it again soon at the Mothership.

Running the Fan Fair Gauntlet

The good Sista Smith and the always amusing Sara Clark shook the cobwebs in the cluttered attic of my mind and reminded me of an amusing Fan Fair story.

RUABelle used to work at a small advertising agency whose offices were on 4th Avenue, a block or so north of the interstate. One year in June, she noticed people walking in front of her windows headed south. After a day or so of this, she finally figured out what was going on.

Fan Fair was held out at the Fairgrounds for years. These folks were spending their mornings downtown buying records at Ernest Tubbs and teddy bears at Bobby Bare Country. Then they were schlepping their swag up 4th Avenue, wearing cut-off denim shorts, cowboy boots, white atheletic socks (with a couple of stripes showing above the boot line), Mandrell Sister t-shirts and raging sunburns. Apparently they were reading their Chamber of Commerce maps that said that 4th Avenue turns into Nolensville Rd. that runs into the Fairgrounds.

And that was true...but it necessitated a several mile walk through some of the scariest housing projects in town, where I imagine the Conway Twitty Fan Club was not well represented or appreciated. RUABelle asked her boss whether or not they should warn these hapless tourists. He said, "Naah. How often do you actually get to see Darwinian evolution at work."

Indeed.

My 100th Post

Wow, that's a milestone. The Nashville Knucklehead wasn't sure if I would stick with it, and I wasn't so certain myself.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I'd better come up with something extremely witty and insightful.

Nope.

Well, that's a load off my mind. You may now return to your regularly scheduled snarkishness.

What the LP?

Well, it's official. The Adelphia/Hyperion/Tennessee/Nashville Coliseum/Stadium is going to be named LP Field. I, for one couldn't be happier. Why, do you ask? Because that's the attitude I have always had with regard to the Titans. Since I know I have no say in any of these matters (team name, colors, logo, ownership, coaching, draft picks, thug cornerbacks, etc.), I have chosen to blindly learn to love anything they do so as to maintain my fanatical partisanship. Kind of like people who watch Fox News.

But this one makes sense. Despite what all the curmudgeons that Big Joe on the Go interviewed at the Waffle House on WKRN this morning that universally hated the idea, this is something that Nashville should rally behind. The deal with Adelphia averaged about $2,000,000/year for the team/Bud Adams. The new deal is for $3,000,000 per annum. This is a good thing. I know that taxpayers are footing a huge burden for stadium upkeep, but money that comes from naming rights eventually flows to player salaries. If there was a hole in that income stream, taxpayers and season ticket holders would ultimately have to pay more.

A friend of mine feels that these multi-millionaire owners have enough money and don't need to sell out for a paltry few million a year. That's certainly a noble idea, but millionaires don't get to become multi-millionaires by stepping over easy opportunities to earn 3 large a year for hanging a sign on the outside of a building. And what's the difference between accepting ads inside the stadium vs. putting a name on the outside? It's all money that we as locals don't have pay ourselves. Instead, we can share the burden with every Louisiana Pacific customer all over the world.

Also, I'm not going to listen to people bitch about the name "Louisiana Pacific." Yes, I know we're not in Louisiana or anywhere near the Pacific Ocean. But we're not anywhere near Nissan, Japan or the planet Saturn and we were awfully happy to associate our state with those companies. Plus Louisiana Pacific is already moving away from that name to the more generic "LP," ala KFC vs. Kentucky Fried Chicken. The stadium naming program will be a key component in that campaign.

We were rightfully proud when LP moved its headquarters to Nashville. They could have gone many places, but they chose us because we rolled out some serious financial incentives. Now that we have them and they are a part of our economy, we should embrace them and take any chance to get a little of the money back that we put out in the economic package. I know it goes to Bud Adams instead of the state or city, but just remember that he is going to pay it to Vince Young who will pass it on to local builders, realtors, charities, Harris Teeter, Hummer dealerships, Hunter's Custom Auto, etc.

If you want to be worried about something, think about the fact that the Gaylord Arena is no longer sponsored by Gaylord. They're only keeping the sign up until a new sponsor can be found. And McDonald's has long been searching for the right naming opportunity. I've warned you all before. Fear the McArena!

Say It Ain't So, Jim Bob!

Frank at The Left of the Dial beat me to the punch with the news that University of Tennessee back-up quarterback to the back-up quarterback Jim Bob Cooter has been indefinitely suspended after a DUI.

I'm crushed. By all accounts, Jim Bob Cooter is a nice enough guy. Jim Bob Cooter is supposedly fairly intelligent, evidenced by the fact that Jim Bob Cooter has been the guy that the Philsbury Doughboy coach has selected to stand next to him and hold his clipboard every game. Jim Bob Cooter has even made mop up appearances in several games, but was unable to garner enough attention to work his way into Randy Sanders' eight quarterback indecision rotation.

Are you getting any idea of the joy I get from saying (and typing) "Jim Bob Cooter?" I have taken such great pleasure over the past few years watching as nationally broadcast games show the camera sweeping the sideline, stopping on the amorphous orange jumpsuited blob that is Phil Fulmer, and noticing that standing next to him is a strapping young man with 256 point Times Roman on his back reading "COOTER."

Damn, I'll miss him.

Of course, getting a DUI on the UT football team usually means a one week "indefinite suspension" during the summer when he will not be allowed to lift weights with the team and instead has to wash Ned Ray McWherter's Budweiser trucks in Dresden.

Come back, Jim Bob Cooter!

Yoga Screw Yourself

Let me preface this by saying, “It was all my fault!” In an attempt to spend more quality time with my girlfriend, RUABelle, and learn more about what is important in her life I volunteered to try out this yoga thing she’s been into for the past few years. It is certainly working for her as she is more toned and, ahem, flexible than she’s ever been and I could certainly use help in both departments. Especially in the face of my recently chronicled neck problems and fortydom.

We did the “beginner” DVD twice this weekend. She was extremely helpful and showed me which way to face on the mat and where to put those cool foamy bricks to help me reach the floor on some of the more ambitious stretches. She paused and rewound the demonstrations so I could figure out which way I was supposed to be facing as the incredibly fit instructor raced from pose to pose.

And now a day later, I really do have a feeling of inner peace, of calm, of centeredness, of placidity, of a STABBING THROBBING PAIN THAT SHOOTS FROM THE VERY CENTER OF MY BEING AND RADIATES OUT TO THE TIP OF EVERY NERVE ENDING IN MY FREAKIN’ BODY! I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW I HAD MUSCLES IN SOME OF THESE PLACES TO BE THIS SORE. AND WHEN DID MY LEGS TURN INTO TWO QUIVERING SHAFTS OF JELLO THAT NO LONGER SUPPORT THE SPASMODIC BULK OF THE REST OF MY BODY?

Calm down, boy. Achieve your center. Allow your spine to elongate through the top of your head and balance yourself lightly upon the earth. Feel that you are a part of the earth. Feel the grounded confidence in the stability of your pose. Be present in your breathing. Repeat your calming phrase.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmm.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmm.

OhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmmmyFREAKIN’GOD!! DID SOMEBODY JUST STICK A RED HOT SKEWER IN THE SMALL OF MY BACK?! WHO IS SLICING MY GROIN OPEN AND PLAYING “DUELING BANJOS” ON MY TENDONS?!

Like I said. It’s all my fault.

An Assignment for 30/40-somethin' Nashvillagers

Alright all you old heads like me. Here's four names that came up in conversation last night. Your challenge: 1. (the easy part) tell me what they had in common 2. (the trickier part) tell me something unique about each one.

The names:
Bob Lobertini
Tom Siler
George Goldtrap
Boyce Hawkins

Bonus question-Do you remember Miss Eleanor, Miss Norma and Miss Nancy?

Pump and Dump Redux

I knew I'd get educated when I posted this. Thanks for the info.

To defend my friend a little bit, she did leave early, she didn't get wasted and her husband was at home taking care of the baby with one of the grandmothers. Like many first-time parents, I think they're pretty much learning this stuff as they go along.

I personally, can't keep a goldfish alive. After my father passed away, somebody gave me a beautiful orchid, which I accepted with trepidation. I told the giver thank you and that I was immediately placing it in hospice care with the hope that I could at least keep it comfortable until its inevitable demise.