3 Word Wednesday #50

It's a milestone week for 3WW! The 50th edition. There were actually two additional weeks at the beginning before I figured out what to call it, but since I've been counting, this is number fifty :) And it's all thanks to you. Because honestly, if no one else participated, I probably would have stopped this thing at least 43 weeks ago. Here is where it all began, if you're curious. Anyway, on with the show...



Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.

Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.

This week's words are:
Forgotten
Hotel
Obscure

obscure actress stars
poor cinematography
classic nonetheless

forgotten hotel
flashing sign reads vacancy
fateful rainy night

damsel in distress
she's just a stranger, mother
norman can't resist

Bachelor on Aisle Seven

If by some rare cosmic occurrence the stars do indeed align at some point in the future and I get married, I have a feeling I will not be allowed to do the grocery shopping for the family.

I really should live blog a trip to the grocery store one day. Despite what you might think, it's not all reaching items on the top shelf for attractive female shoppers. Rather, I think a typical shopping trip for me would best be described as laid back chaos.

For starters, I don't make a list. Ever. I mean, that'd be like Hendrix playing with a capo, or Van Gogh painting by numbers. The art and freedom of expression would be lost.

I did employ a no buggy rule for a long while, only purchasing those items I could carry in my arms, hands, and balanced on my head. But lately, I've been fudging on that rule and going with the cursed shopping cart, and it's been costing me.

Saturday, I came home with a jar of bacon bits. Nevermind that I had no lettuce, nothing with which to make a salad, nor anything else on which bacon bits could be used. They just looked good. This is a perfect microcosm of my grocery issues. By the way, I got Hormel real bacon bits, not imitation bits. That's important, somehow, for when I'm eating them out of my hand.

I failed to purchase milk because I thought I had some at home. Well, I did have some at home, only it had expired one day earlier. I'll drink it up to two days past expiration. After that, it's a crap shoot. No pun intended.

I also purchased a half loaf of bread. I always purchase a half loaf of bread. When I came home, I threw away my previous half loaf of bread which had expired about a week earlier, and of which I had only used five slices.

Five slices is probably the most I've used out of a loaf of bread in five years, and one of those I tore up and fed to a cat who has taken up residence beneath cars in the parking lot.

And don't even get me started on produce. It's good for two days, max. And when you're only going to the grocery store once every ten to fourteen days, that doesn't work so well. I've thrown away enough bananas over the years to feed every monkey in Malaysia.

Even when there is a product I'm absolutely sure I need, there are usually several options to choose from. There's skim milk, 1%, 2%, whole, and even something called half and half, which personally I find a bit offensive, but whatever.

With many items, there are name brands and store brands and generic brands. Depending on the item, the difference in quality may be great or it may be negligible. How's a bachelor to know?

And then there is tissue. To me, the issue of tissue comes down to one basic choice, comfort versus quantity. For a similar price, one may procure a 4-pack of durable 1000-sheets-per-roll Scott tissue, or a 4-pack of soft, velvety 300-sheets-per-roll Charmin Ultra.

Early on in my bachelorhood, I opted for the latter. They lure you in with commericials filled with clouds and feathers and teddy bears. But those tiny rolls run out fast! Pretty soon, you've got a two-pack-a-week habit. I felt like a chain smoker.

There are few things a bachelor hates more than leaving the house, er, going grocery shopping. So I changed philosophies to the more economical solution of quantity over comfort.

Let me tell you something, they shouldn't even be allowed to call that Scott stuff "tissue." It should be called construction paper on a roll, because that's what it is. It's a tad abrasive. I think it may be the same stuff they use to dry off elephants in the circus after they wash them.

Now I'm as rugged as the next guy, but we all have our limits. Needless to say, I'm back on the feather and cloud wagon, and my happy tail is back to buying a four-roll-pack a week.

Some might ask, "Bone, why not buy in bulk?" And to those I give a squinty-eyed look of confusion and say, "...Huh?"

I am Bone, the disorganized, disoriented shopper. Look for me in the frozen foods section of your favorite grocery store or supermarket. I'll most likely be wearing that same squinty-eyed look of confusion.

"I got rice cooking in the microwave. Got a three day beard I don't plan to shave..."

Sundays with Chachi

Well the eight-week Sunday night experience that was Scott Baio Is 45 & Single has come to an end. Therefore, this may be the last time I ever blog about Scott Baio, though I seriously doubt it.

I learned a lot from the show. Things like Chachi lost his virginity to Joanie; Scott doesn't like being called Chachi, which could come in handy, you know, if Scott and I were to ever star on the same reality show; "If This Is It" by Huey Lewis & The News is the ringtone on Scott's phone; some girls have the ability to remain bitter for many years; and last but not least, Nicole Eggert is still wawawa.

As reality shows go, this one was good. Very good. And keep in mind this is coming from a self-professed disparager of the reality genre in general. For example, I've never seen a single episode of Survivor.

But part of my dislike, I think, stems from the fact that so many of these shows aren't anywhere close to reality. Take Big Brother, for instance. Twelve people who don't know each other living in the same house is not reality for anyone I know.

Scott Baio Is 45 & Single, which will at times be referred to as SBI45&S, dealt with a very real and relatable situation, often doing so with humor, and other times leaving the viewer cringing.

The fact that Baio was a celebrity wasn't always in your face. Sure, there were guest appearances by Nicole Eggert, Erin Moran, and Julie McCullough, if you can consider her a celebrity, along with a phone call to Henry Winkler. But all of them combined got maybe fifteen minutes of airtime. That wasn't what the SBI45&S was about.

(By the way, Julie, I'm no life coach, but you might want to see about getting a mental evaluation sometime soon. I'm sensing some issues there.)

At first glance, Scott comes off as a pompous, shallow jerk. And he was. The show revealed Baio as having been a playboy and having commitment issues, yet at the same time managed to show some redeeming characteristics along with his desire to change.

Sometimes it felt like Scott was in rehab. But that's what made the show work, Baio's willingness to let his faults show, laugh at himself, and have his past exploits aired for all to see.

It wasn't always pretty. (See "cringing" above.) But that brutal openness, combined with Baio's surprisingly smooth and witty commentary, made Scott Baio Is 45 & Single enjoyable from beginning to end.

And now, a spoiler warning. Because ever since that whole Santa Claus thing, I've hated spoilers.

The show ended with Scott telling his girlfriend, Renee, that he is ready to be married. Then she dropped P-bomb on him. Yep, preggorama. So now Scott Baio is an expectant father. I just hope this isn't in going to affect my chances of Scott Baio Is 46 & My Mentor getting picked up next season.

Hmmm, I wonder if Jason Hervey is available. Oh, what am I saying? Of course he is!

"I'm not James At 15 or Chachi In Charge. I'm Adam and I'm adamant about living large. With the white Sassoons and the looks that kill..."

3WW XLIX

Well, Blogger apparently decided to have a nice little outage this morning, so the words are a bit late today.



Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) random words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.

Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.

This week's words are:
Corridor
Linger
Subtle

"Tatiana will be taking care of you today, Mister Smith."

She said it like she knew it was a fake name, or suspected it at least. Carl tried not to cringe, instead forcing a subtle smile. So he used a fake name and always paid with cash. It was better than word getting around town that he came here once a week.

Still, he regretted not coming up with something more creative than Smith. Though it was pointless now, he ran thru other names in his mind. Anderson... Matthews... Ruth... Mantle... DiMaggio...

"Tatiana is new. This is her first day. You will let me know if there are any problems."

"Oh, sure," Carl nodded. As he waited, he began to feel the familiar twinge of guilt he always felt coming here. Why? It was money paid in exchange for services rendered. That was the very foundation of our economic system.

A slender brunette appeared out of one of the back rooms. She was visibly nervous, but flashed a practiced smile.

"Hi, I'm Tatiana."

"Hello," Carl dipped his head in acknowledgment as the three of them stood in place for a few long seconds.

"Well, don't just linger there," Sandra instructed. "Take Mister Smith here to room number four."

"Yes, ma'am."

Tatiana led him down a corridor and opened a door on the left.

"Take off all your clothes and lie down. I will be back in a moment," she spoke in a thick Russian accent, then closed the door.

Carl was digging the accent. He quickly got undressed, folded his clothes and placed them in a neat pile on the floor, careful to hide his hairbrush amongst them.

He always brought a brush because his hair always became disheveled, and he liked to straighten himself up when it was over. Still, he didn't know if other customers brought a brush, and he thought there might still be some rule that men weren't supposed to be concerned with their hair, so he would hide it.

Carl lied face down, covering himself with a sheet, and waited. The guilt was gone. He needed this. This was America after all. Land of the free, and home of cute Russian immigrant massage girls.

"Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio? Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you..."

A man's couch is his castle

The first year and a half I lived away from home I had a roommate. It was the first time for both of us to be on our own. Each of us had a bed, a small TV, a chest of drawers, and that was pretty much it. We basically had nothing.

People don't really throw formal housewarmings where they shower you with gifts from the Martha Stewart home collection for single heterosexual guys. At least no one did for us. Then again, we didn't register anywhere, so maybe it was our fault.

My parents gave me their kitchen table and bought me a small microwave. I also received a plaque from my girlfriend's sister which read: "If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie." I proudly hung it over the toilet, though I still sprinkled occasionally. I think it was the only thing hanging on the walls in the apartment for, um, a lengthy and indefinite period of time.

Since we now had at least one piece of furniture in the kitchen and both bedrooms, that left only the living room remaining to be furnished. I put my 13-inch-TV and small TV stand in there. But still, the room seemed empty somehow, like something was missing.

Ah, yes. A place to sit. A couch, love seat, lawn chair, milk crate, something in that vein.

My favorite aunt happened to have an old couch in her basement which she gave to us. The edges of the cushions had begun to tear, but we didn't really care. Oh, and did I mention it was not exactly the manliest of colors?

The fabric consisted of a floral pattern largely made up of pastel pinks and greens. So there we were, two young, strapping, virile, well-dressed bachelors, welcoming guests into our home to sit on our pink and green couch. Look out, ladies.

Still, we were in no position to be picky. It was something to sit on, and we were thankful to have it. Thrilled, actually. At that time in my life, free used furniture seemed like about the best thing in the world.

I happened to have an old red bean bag which had seen it's better days that I placed in the living room as well. Now you might think that a bright red bean bag would clash with the soft pastels of the couch. And you would not be incorrect. But when you're first moving out, things like that really do not matter so much.

That feeling of being on your own, learning to make ends meet, discovering the culinary and financial advantages of Chef Boyardee and Ramen, running out of clean underwear for the first time in your life, those are priceless life lessons.

Priceless, not unlike a free pink and green couch.

"I hate coming home to this old broken down apartment. I wish I had a dime for every hole that's in the carpet..."

...But somebody's gotta do it

From Seinfeld episode #70, The Lip Reader:
Kramer: "Hey Jerry, do me a favor. The next time you see that lineswoman ask her how those ball boys get those jobs. I would love to be able to do that."
Jerry: "Kramer, I think perhaps you've overlooked one of the key aspects of this activity. It's ball boys, not ball men. There are no ball men."
Kramer: "Well, there ought to be ball men."

Lately, I've been considering looking for a new career. Or, as some might say, looking for a career. Obviously, my first choice would be to go from being the unpaid-disseminator-of-three-words to a well-paid-comfortably-living-writer. But what if that doesn't happen? I don't want to be sitting around in my mid-30's playing Nintendo and not knowing what I want to do with my life.

So I've been keeping my eyes open, and I've discovered there are a ton of fascinating career opportunities out there. And though I'm not quite sure how one would go about obtaining any of these jobs, let's look at a few now:

Career Option #1: Lindsay Lohan's driver

I was watching a VH-1 special this morning on the troubles of the voluptuous one. Now as I see it, the majority of Miss Lohan's legal troubles stem from driving under the influence.

Solution? Stop her from driving. And who better to drive around one of the great, misunderstood thespians of our time than yours truly?

The advantages would be tremendous. I'd live in California, could serve as both her father figure and trusted confidant, and in all likelihood I would be credited with helping to save her career and she would owe me big time.

Career Option #2: Commercial Lobster Fisherman

Last night, I was watching Lobster Wars on Discovery. Now I've heard people say this is a dangerous job requiring you to risk your life every single day. Friends, I risk my life everytime I sprint up and down the stairs in my apartment, running from whatever might be chasing me. Believe me, I've had a number of close calls!

Besides, not everyone on these boats are leaning over the railing risking their lives, right? I'm sure they have people who remain solidly in the center of the boat. Maybe I could work down in the hull, in the boiler room or something.

Wonder if I could get a note from my Mom. "Bone has a bit of an equilibrium problem. Please excuse him from hanging over the side of the boat and any other activities in which he might possibly die. Also, he dislikes loud noises and sometimes gets a tummy ache after he eats Mexican food." Wonder if that would work.

Career Option #3: Women's Pro Beach Volleyball Linesman

I was watching Misty May and Kerri Walsh on TV last weekend when the camera panned to this guy just standing at the corner of the court, signaling whether balls were in or out.

Where do I sign up! I could do that. I'm already sitting here in my underwear eating Doritos watching them. Why not put on my board shorts and watch them in person while getting some sun. Heck I could even apply sunscreen to the girls and get water for them during breaks in the action. I'm nothing if not a multi-tasker.

Don't discount this idea. Someone is doing this job right now. Why shouldn't it be me? They wouldn't even have to pay me.

Career Option #4: Sideline Cord & Wire Untangler

I go to a good number of college football games. Anytime the games are televised, there are several people who follow the camera operators and reporters around on the sidelines, holding their cords and keeping them straight.

I'm not sure what the prerequisites for this job would be, but I've always been good at getting shoe laces unknotted. I keep my garden hose coiled nicely when not in use, and I have braided a girl's hair before, in a standard, three-strand braid.

The benefits to this job would be tremendous. I'd get to travel around the country, take in a little football, and might even bump into Erin Andrews. Again, salary optional.

Career Option #5: Reality TV Show Star

This is probably the most obvious and natural career move for me to make. Here's the premise of the show. I would play the protege of a big-name celebrity, say for example, Scott Baio. The show could be called something catchy like, oh I don't know, Scott Baio Is 46 & A Mentor.

Scott would serve as my relationship mentor, with Nicole Eggert starring as my love interest. Since Scott is already unknowingly my relationship mentor, the transition would be seamless. Season one guest stars would include Henry Winkler and Willie Aames. Who wouldn't watch that!

There you have it, just a few of the career options stretched out before me on that vast horizon known as tomorrow. As you can see, the future looks bright for Bone.

"I study nuclear science. I love my classes. I got a crazy teacher. He wears dark glasses..."

3WW #48

Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) random words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.

Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.

This week's words are:
Burning
Quietly
Taxi

I never fully understood how the sound of tires on wet pavement could both put me to sleep and wake me. On this particular Sunday morning, it had awakened me.

I always slept with the window open, and raised my head to see a taxi idling quietly in front of the building. Smoke from the exhaust was wafting up thru the dewy air. Thru the windshield, I could see the burning end of a cigarette alternately growing brighter then dim again.

Soon I heard the expected noises in the hallway, footsteps along with the occasional sound of bags banging up against a wall. She never was very graceful. That thought brought the tiniest of smiles to my face. She could have been as loud as she wanted though. In his drunken state, it would take the roof caving in to wake him.

As the footsteps drew nearer, I became completely still and quiet, wondering if she would stop to say goodbye. I guess if I'm honest, I hoped she would. But the steps continued on past my door. That never was her way.

I returned my focus to the scene outside. She appeared from below, looking as sloppily put together as I ever saw her. The cabbie got out to help with her bags. And just before she got in, I think she glanced up at my window. Or maybe I just imagined she did.

I watched the taxi until I could no longer see it, until it blended in with the streets and buildings and the horizon. And suddenly the city felt very empty.

It was that time of morning just before sunrise, when the sky was barely lighted in some sort of deep blue which could be peaceful or depressing, depending on your mood. That day, I found it depressing.

Determined to get back to sleep, I buried my head in the pillow, and the hypnotic scent of her perfume.

"I think it turned ten o'clock but I don't really know. Then I can't remember caring for an hour or so. Started crying and I couldn't stop myself..."

The Boost Up

Please stop over and wish Pia a happy bloggiversary. I'm checking with Miss Manners right now to see what the appropriate gift is for the 3rd bloggiversary.

Summer has been forcing my hand lately, off the track and into the water. I only went running two nights last week, and spent most of the weekend not very far from the cool relief of H2O. I never remember us having this many 100+ degree days in one year.

I went swimming at my sister's this afternoon. While that was mostly uneventful, there was one noteworthy event. We were floating around and out of the blue she asked, "Do you ever watch Scott Baio Is 45 & Single?"

Sigh. What a proud moment in the life of a big brother. I'm not ashamed to admit I nearly became emotional. Just thinking for all the mistakes I've made, I must have done something right, you know? *sniff*

Saturday, Little Joe and I spent all day at my friend Jamie's house on the lake. Ten hours of swimming, boating, eating, reapplying sunscreen, repeat.

Also, I encountered a girl there who said she'd met me previously, though I have no recollection of such a meeting. And I mean, really, what are the chances I wouldn't remember meeting a girl?

Several of us went out to eat that evening at Mister Bean's Barbecue, owned by professional boxer Butterbean. He was there so we got to meet him. Normally I'm not a fan of people named after vegetables, i.e. Carrot Top, but Mister Bean seemed like a really nice guy.

Coincidentally, we'd been talking earlier in the day about the most famous person we'd ever met. Jamie's was Jimmy Carter, LJ settled on Jose Canseco, and mine was Faith Hill. I feel safe in saying none of those rankings changed after our visit to Mister Bean's.

After supper, we came back and swam a bit more. That's when the idea of jumping off the roof of Jamie's dock crossed my mind. I asked her if anyone had ever done that. She said a couple of people had, but that it was a bit tricky getting up there. You either had to stand on the railing of the pier and pull yourself up, or climb up the ladder of the slide and step across about a four-foot gap to the roof. I opted for the latter, or ladder.

It was a bit tenuous getting from the slide to the roof, but jumping off was worth the risk. You know, because I'm 34 and apparently still amused by the same things as a 16 year old.

I kept trying to get LJ to jump, but he was quite hesitant, claiming since he was shorter than me, it would be harder for him to get on the roof. Jamie urged him on saying, "Oh come on, Bone will give you a boost up."

Ah, yes, the boost up. That most ancient and reliable of methods for hoisting a human being skyward. The boost up is performed by clasping one's hands together in a virtually unbreakable grip, then turning them upside down like a stirrup. The climber puts his/her foot into the hands of the booster-upper and is lifted to higher ground.

It is unclear who invented the boost up. Some think Noah gave his wife a boost up into the ark. Others say no, that the ark had that big handicapped-accessible ramp. They surmise that perhaps Aaron gave the first boost up when Moses planted a dusty sandal in his brother's hands to get started up Sinai.

However it began, the boost up has endured for ages. I don't remember anyone ever teaching me how to do the boost up, it just seems I've always known. Maybe it's as instinctive as survival, blinking, or turning the channel whenever a Pauly Shore movie comes on. Someone needs to get somewhere vertically, there are no ladders or footholds around, your hands automatically go into position.

With the knuckles acting as a locking mechanism, not allowing the hands to slip apart, the boost up is virtually foolproof. I've never seen one fail.

I mean, think about it. Have you ever heard of someone getting injured and when you ask what happened they say, "Well, Bill was trying to give me a boost up, but it just didn't work?"

I didn't think so.

Anyway, after I had jumped about four or five times Saturday, LJ finally decided to give it a go. He stood on the rail of the pier while I proffered a trusty stirrup. And while the story would probably be a bit more entertaining if there had been a mishap, that did not happen. My friend clambered onto the roof, the beneficiary of another successful boost up.

Accidents happen. Ladders fall, feet slip, people go hunting with Dick Cheney. But the boost up never fails.

That's pretty much it for my weekend. I'm not sure what's on tap for next weekend, but after watching Scott Baio tonight, there may be a cuddle party in my near future.

"Man, it's a hot one, like seven inches from the mid-day sun..."

3 Word Wednesday XLVII

Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) random words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.

Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.

This week's words are:
Determined
Pajamas
Yield

Through two years of dating and now over a year of marriage, Sondra had gotten her way in every single decision "they" had made. From where they ate, to where they went on vacation, to who their friends were, to what furniture they bought, which included the awful rattan chair where Martin now sat. Everytime a decision was discussed, he would eventually yield to her demands.

Until today.

Martin was determined to take a stand. He had been out in the garage while Sondra was gone to the mall, when he happened across a box of his things curiously labeled "trash." Right on top had been his favorite camouflage pajamas. He knew of her distaste for them--she had bought him some pastel green silk things for Christmas that he refused to wear--but never thought she would throw them out without asking.

The sound of the car turning into the driveway brought Martin to his feet. He walked almost tentatively into the kitchen. Clinching the pajamas like a vice, he took his place a few feet away from the garage door, and braced himself.

Sondra could be very intimidating. His friends always joked that he was afraid of her. And even though she was only about 5'6" and 120 pounds, there may have been a sliver of truth to that.

The key turned in the door and when Sondra appeared in a hurry, Martin's courage waivered a bit. But he seemed to draw strength from the camouflage.

"Why are you throwing these out?" He caught her before she had time to speak, holding up the cause he was fighting for.

"You never wear them," Sondra answered matter-of-factly. She always made such a strong case.

"But... they're my favorite pajamas," he pleaded, already thinking his argument sounded weak.

"Fine, keep them."

And that was it. Martin had done it. He had taken a stand, and won. That wasn't so bad, he thought, it's about time things started changing around here. He turned to carry his trophy back to the bedroom, but his mental celebration was quickly interrupted.

"Why aren't you dressed?" Sondra asked demandingly, not waiting for an answer. "We have to be at the Kirbys in thirty minutes!"

"I am dressed," he retorted.

"Oh, you are so not wearing that. Put on that yellow shirt I got you for your birthday and I'll pick you out a tie."

"Yes, dear."

"Been a whole lot happier without her face around. Nobody upstairs gonna stomp and shout. Nobody at the back door gonna throw my laundry out..."

Things that make you go hmmm, in Hazzard

For some reason, I've been quite inquisitive lately. Saturday I was questioning my roots and my very existence. Today it's on to a more serious topic, The Dukes Of Hazzard.

One has to marvel that the show stayed on the air for seven seasons. I mean, how many different episodes can you write where the good ol' boys save the day and foil the bad guys? I guess there were bound to be a few plot stretches. To wit, the defecting Soviet gymnast and the haunted General Lee. In that sense, it was sort of the Gilligan's Island of the 1980's, and poses at least as many questions.

It has long gnawed at me how Bo & Luke always seemed to have an ample supply of dynamite at their behest, you know, whenever the need arose. Thinking of that, I can't help but wonder how the Dukes would fare in this day and time. They should do a reunion show, Bo & Luke versus Homeland Security.

For some reason, I have been watching the show a bit more the past few days. And other questions have forced their way to the surface, like a bulb of pus culminating in a non-aesthetic whitehead.

Let's begin with the basic familial setup. You had Uncle Jesse and five cousins--Bo, Luke, Daisy, and oh yes, don't forget Coy and Vance. None of the five were siblings, and Jesse was father to none of them, yet they all had the last name Duke. That means that Jesse had to have at least five brothers himself, all of whom had at least one child who wound up living with the same uncle for a time when they were grown, right?.

Or maybe Uncle Jesse was not really an uncle at all. Maybe he was more like a modern-day Uncle Remus, a jolly old man who took in strays and walked around with bluebirds perched on his Libertys.

And what about the General Lee? It was supposed to be souped up, right? Well how come anytime there was a chase which also involved Daisy's Jeep, Uncle Jesse's truck, and/or random bad guy's sedan, the other vehicles were always able to keep up with the General?

Here's another peculiarity. Everytime anyone was ever driving around looking for someone, even if they had no clue where that someone was, they'd eventually meet them on the road. How many roads were there in Hazzard County, like two?

Also, what was the point of having Bo and Luke wear the same outfit 99% of the time? I mean, it was fine for the Flintstones, but come on, no one wore the same shirt day after day after day in the eighties. Plus, Daisy always had on different tops and such. Was she controlling the budget in the household and not alloting Bo and Luke enough money for clothes? And if so, why wasn't there an episode about that?

Why wasn't Daisy ever married, or even dating anyone?

And is it just me, or were there a curiously high number of bridges out in Hazzard County?

I believe these are all pertinent questions which require much research and in-depth analysis to answer. Then and only then will we begin to understand the sociological intricacies that defined Hazzard County.

It's funny, you don't really ponder such questions when you're playing with your matchbox General Lee and cop car in a gravel driveway. When you're ten years old, all you really think about is trying to persuade your Mom to put a Dixie horn on her Cutlass.

"My girl bust in, caught us creating a boom. She said, girlfriend? Things that make you go hmm..."

Joe Namath, Mom, & Existential Questions

28 days until the first Alabama football game!

I suppose I have reached the point in my life where I have begun to ask myself certain questions. What is life? What is real? Who am I? How in the world is Jimmy Kimmel's talk show still on the air?

While we may never know the answer to that last one, today I want to focus on the Who Am I question. Or more precisely, why am I the way I am?

I have written before about my love for Crimson Tide football. And while I know this trait largely comes directly from my mother, I've never known where she got it. So this week I decided to ask her. Why does she love Alabama football, and who did she get it from?

Here, to the best of my recollection, is her answer in her words:

"I don't know. The earliest memory I have is watching them when Joe Namath was quarterback. I remember one year we lost to Tennessee and it tore me up. I was down in the floor crying and I remember Momma saying, 'Child, you don't need to let a football game affect you like that. Win or lose, the sun's gonna come up tomorrow.'

Sunday morning when I woke up, it was pouring down rain. And I knew then the sun doesn't come up when Alabama loses."

Indeed.

Oh, I would have asked her the Jimmy Kimmel question as well, but I'm pretty sure her answer would have been, "Jimmy who?" Mom flips back and forth between Letterman and Leno, and only knows Craig Ferguson as that "crazy man who looks like a gorilla."

Don't ask me. I don't analyze it, I just report it.

"From Carolina down to Georgia, smell the jasmine and magnolia. Sleepy, sweet home Alabama, Roll, Tide, Roll..."

3 Word Wednesday XLVI

Welcome to Three Word Wednesday. Each week, I will post three (or more) random words. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to write something using all of those words. It can be a few lines, a story, a poem, anything. I'll also attempt to write something using the same words.

Leave a comment if you participate. Many fun and interesting people might visit your blog.

This week's words are:
Gray
Fathom
Memphis

It's the lasting imprint
Of a cold, gray summer day
Thousands came and millions wept
Unable to fathom the reality

It's tears that never ceased
That you can't see, but feel
It's the music you can still hear
In your mind and in your ears

It's the feeling that others
Have tread these same streets
And the haunting sense that
Someone is just beyond your sight

It's the history in the walls
Echoes in the wind
Voices from the past
Shadows on the sidewalk

It's crossing the Mississippi
Feeling the ghosts surround
Knowing I'm almost home
Or maybe I already am

That's Memphis to me

"I'm walking in Memphis. Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale. Walking in Memphis, but do I really feel the way I feel..."