High, and (still) dry

When anon I realized I hath not blogged in a span of nearly twain fortnights, I didst recall yon erstwhile days wherein my nimble fingers wouldest blog daily.  Erelong didst I question why I had just useth "fortnight" to describeth time.  But in nowise finding any answer, and whereby I am unable or unwilling to continue in my present manner of writing, do I ashamedly present the following scantily clad entry.

The election has come to an end.  The Electoral College has spoken.  I call for all Americans to now come together and enjoy a few weeks with no political ads, because one thing's for certain: Campaigning for 2016 will begin all too soon, if it hasn't already. 

In case you somehow managed to miss the election results, allow me to fill you in.  We here in Boneville USA voted for the status quo.  That is, to remain a "dry" municipality.  (Do people in the rest of the country even know what a dry city/county is?)

Chant with me.  Four... more... years... four... more... years... of no legal alcohol sales within the city limits.  More chanting.  No... we... can't!   I read somewhere we are the largest "dry" city in the state.  Kind of a quirky claim to fame, er, something, wouldn't you say?

But all is not lost.  For my state is one of several to have a petition started for us to secede from the Union.  That's right, ye Scallywags, tonight we're gonna party like it's 1861!

Oy.  That really is the facepalm of all facepalms.

But ere ye think we've all gone mad down here and have Sean Hannity piped into our homes 24/7 (was that redundant?), there comes this bit of news: Nick Saban received dozens of write-in votes for President in the state of Alabama.  (I said "in" not "of.")  Twenty-two votes in one county alone.  And suddenly everything is set back in order.

His wife even received a write-in vote for circuit clerk in one county.  And no, it wasn't my county.  Although I can't promise it won't be next time.  Let us raise a toast... Uh... on second thought, it's like a seven-minute drive to the nearest beer store.  So scratch that.  We'll have to settle for a virtual fistbump.  *makes explosion sound with mouth*

Speaking of football, I am sure some of you were concerned about me following Bama's first loss of the season.  Let me just say that your concern is appreciated, and very much warranted.  The past three weeks have been an emotional seesaw.

After the LSU game, I was on a three-day high.  Or what I imagine a high to be.  I've never really been high, at least not in the drug-induced-brain-altering sense.  Once I got a splitting headache from being around a guy who had obviously been smoking pot, but I don't think that counts.  Anyway, had you tested the levels of dopamine in my brain following that game, I would surely have been stripped of all my Tour de France titles on the spot, assuming I had won any, or owned a bike whose tires were not perpetually both flat.

It seems almost not possible that the football season has passed so quickly.  I guess time flies when you're in a near-constant state of anxiety interspersed with brief moments of relief.

And if ever I need to get away from the stress of it all, an afternoon walk with Nephew Bone does the trick.

As autumn wanes, we talk about things like why Uncle Bone can't crack just one pecan by itself, where does this road go, the importance of finding just the right stick, and "Ooo, look!  A helicopter!"  You know, the important stuff.

These moments are among my favorite.

I wish you all a wonderful Thanksgiving.  And on that note, I'll leave you with four-and-a-half minutes of not-entirely-politically-correct classic sitcom gold.



"Educated in a small town / Taught to fear Jesus in a small town / Used to daydream in that small town / Another boring romantic, that's me..."

Road Trip: Knoxville

The third Saturday in October.

To any football fan around these parts, that phrase means one thing: Alabama versus Tennessee.

To any non-football fan around these parts, it means you do not schedule your wedding on this day if you have any family or friends and would like for them to attend.  Actually, in some parts of Alabama, especially near my house, that last rule applies to any Saturday between the months of August and December.  But I suppose that's neither here nor yonder.  Also, no one was getting married Saturday.  I just threw that in as a helpful tip.

Axl and I decided to make the drive up to Knoxville to watch our beloved Crimson Tide (hopefully) roll over the Volunteers this past weekend.  Now, for those not familiar with Axl, here's everything you need to know: He self-tans, sings in a community chorus, and once lost the heel off his boot as we were leaving a Bama basketball game in some sort of real-life Mentos commercial gone horribly wrong.

(Hmm, I wonder if I should check with him before revealing the self-tanning thing?  Oh well, no time.)

He also has near-constant road rage.  So naturally, he drove.

Now I was a bit nervous about the trip, not because of Axl.  Well, not entirely because of Axl.  But because this was my first true trip into enemy territory.  I'd been to a couple of games at Vanderbilt, but that doesn't really count.  Football at Vanderbilt is kinda like going to a t-ball game.  It's fun.  You chat with your friends in the stands.  It's cute to see the kids out there missing the ball and falling down.  But no one really expects much.

But Tennessee?  That's a whole different story.  It's the definition of a rivalry.  It's Roll Tide versus Rocky Top.  The Bear versus General Neyland.  A vibrant, gorgeous sea of crimson clashing against that hideous, nausea-inducing orange.  We may have been on the same side in the Civil War.  But not since.

However, I must say all the Tennessee fans I encountered were as friendly as could be expected.  A couple of them were so nice, in fact, it makes me almost feel bad about the nausea comment.  Almost.

It also helped that the crowd was probably 40 to 45% Bama fans.  (Yes, I can guesstimate within five percent.  It's one of my many useless talents.)  I had a crimson-clad compadre sitting next to me and two more directly behind me.  Every time I would start to high-five the blonde sitting behind me, she'd full-frontal hug me instead.  And far be it from me to infringe on other fans' rights to celebrate touchdowns however they so choose.

The football stadium sits on the bank of the Tennessee River.  And while the stadium itself is a bit of a rathole and looks like it may not have been renovated since the Nixon administration, the area around it is quite scenic.  The World's Fair Park is a pretty area right near the stadium, as well. The World's Fair was held in Knoxville in 1982.

(FYI, it's taken every ounce of what little self-restraint I have not to refer to it as Knox-vegas this entire post.  You're welcome.)

Something else you need to be warned of should you ever attend a Tennessee Vol game:  You will hear "Rocky Top" roughly 127 times.  Before the game, during the game, after the game.  Even when there are 30 seconds left in the game and your team is annihilating Tennessee 44 to 13, the band will strike it up.  They have ruined what truly was one of the most venerable bluegrass songs of all-time.  Some sporadic eardrum bleeding is normal.

As the final few minutes wound down in the game, most of the Tennessee fans had long since passed through the exits, leaving the stands covered in crimson.  Such a sweet sight.

There's always a kinship one experiences when one encounters other Bama fans.  I would guess that is true for fans of most sports teams.  But when you're in enemy territory, that bond feels ten times stronger.  It was neat to experience that for the first time.

The drive home was magnificent.  Fall had come to Chattanooga.  I've always thought it a picturesque city anyway, such immediate and drastic contrast between the bluffs and rock faces of Lookout Mountain and the river meandering through the city below. The colors just amplified its, uh, picturesque-ness.

At one point on the trip, Axl and I found ourselves singing along in our best falsettos to Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive."  Which may seem odd to some.  Or, most.  I've forgotten my point.  Oh yes, I remember now.  It was good to have a testosterone-filled guys weekend away.

I suppose there are more stories I could share from Road Trip: Knoxville.  There was the Tennessee fan in front of us who I dubbed "Eighty Proof," because he was openly drinking his Crown from the bottle.  (Alcohol is "not allowed" in SEC stadiums.)  There was Axl and I arguing like an old married couple over the thermostat in our hotel room.  He sleeps with it on 50!  Fif. Tee!  And there was the waitress at the Waffle House who seemed to have no qualms showing us her chest tattoo -- both halves. 

But you know what they say: What happens in Knox-veg... Well, you know.

"Give me an 80-proof bottle of tear-stopper / And I'll start feeling I forgot her / Get a little loose and lose her memory..."

Music Monday: All those pretty people

Fall always seems to arrive in an instant.  Even though I know by the calendar it has to be near, that first chill of the season still catches me a bit by surprise.  But it's a good surprise, like an unexpected visit from a cherished old friend.  It leaves me smiling.

For the first time in several years, or so it seems, we've actually had about three solid weeks of what I would consider fall weather.  Temps mostly in the 70's during the day and 40's or 50's at night.  We decided to take in some of the fall colors this weekend, knowing the leaves won't be much longer.

At one of the scenic overlooks, someone spotted a couple of hawks across the valley.  Watching intently, I soon noticed a few others.  And then, even more.  At one point, I counted more than twenty of the majestic creatures circling overhead.

It was stunning.

As they glided effortlessly and without a sound, I stood and watched for several minutes, feeling small, and in complete awe.

Getting closer to nature and a little father from everything else always serves to ground me a bit.  And I'm left to wonder why I don't do it more often...

For some unbeknownst reason, I had this particular song stuck in my head the whole day, to the apparent dismay of some in my party. (I'm amazed at how effortlessly I can sometimes conjure up dismay.  It's a gift, really.)  Anyhow, Kenny Chesney recently brought this song into the pop-country mainstream.  But I'm kinda partial to Charlie Robison's original version.  It's a little grittier.



So what are you listening to lately?

"Did you hear the ocean singing? Baby, did you sing along, as you danced over the water to some old forgotten song? Or were you even here at all?"

iBelieve!

If you had told me two months ago that I could be even less productive than I already was, I'd have said you were crazy.  And not like in a joking, slap-you-on-the-back "Aw, you're crazy" sort of way.  But in a jumping-up-and-down-on-Oprah's-couch certifiable way.

I simply did not think it possible.

And then, I met my new best friend: the iPhone.

And now, huge chunks of my day are just gone, completely eaten up.

How much of my day?  To answer that question, I've prepared this helpful pie chart:

It's probably the best graph I've ever done.  It represents how I spend my non-working hours. (And if we're being completely honest, some of my working hours.) I think it's pretty self-explanatory. "Lost" represents those times during the day when I sit down and it's 3:15, then before I know it, it's 4:30 and I haven't really done anything at all, just kinda spaced out for awhile. Where did that time go? I don't know. But it happens quite often.

"Bone, you went a little overboard with the apps."

That statement was made to me by a seven-year-old, as he played with my new iPhone a few weeks ago.  By the way, the same kid also commented while listening to me yell at the TV as Alabama was dismantling Michigan on the opening weekend of college football, "I think you're a little obsessed with the TV.  Maybe you shouldn't watch TV tomorrow."  Out of the mouths of babes...

You know how those iPhone owners are always like, "If you ever try an iPhone, you'll never own anything else."   Like they're sooo special and in a completely higher class in the smartphone feudal system than the rest of us.

Well... they were right.

And now, I'm one of them.  I have been baptized into the cult.  And we're talking full immersion, not just sprinkling.  I have been given the name Tania!

We are a devoted sect.  A peculiar people, if you will, forever bound to our cellular messiah, Steven Paul Jobs.  We search the iTunes Store daily to see whether any of these apps be free.

As you may know, I didn't grow up in an iPhone family.  My parents raised me as a strict Nokia-ite.  But I felt there had to be something more out there.  Eventually I struck out on my own and after dabbling in several operating systems, I discovered the Blackberryists.  They suited my needs at the time.  But, lo, I had no idea what untold riches and glory did await my wretched soul in the Tabernacle of Apple.

After my Blackberry died back in July, for six days and six nights I wandered around in a cellular-less wilderness, with nothing but the manna of instant messaging to sustain my techno-starved soul.  Then, one glorious Tuesday afternoon, I experienced a road-to-Damascus-like miracle, as a customer-service-Moses at the AT&T store did shewest me the promised land.

That's right, dearly beloved.  I'm here to tell you there's something else: the Apple world.  It's a world of never-ending happiness, where you can always shop the iTunes store, day or night.  And they need no Kindle there, neither light of Nook, for the preponderance of apps doth taketh up their day.

Now I shalt go into all the virtual world, and preach the good news of the iPhone to every nation.  He that believeth and downloadeth (apps) shall enjoy eternal smartphone happiness.  He that believeth not shall be condemned to a life of frequent battery pulls, and possibly lots of unnecessary productivity.

And who would want that?

I would like to close today by paraphrasing a quote by the sage old bard, Thomas T. Hall: "Ain't but three things in this world that's worth a solitary dime: old dogs, children, and this iPhone of mine."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must attend to my Tiny Tower.  It appears the Glass Studio on the 26th floor needs to be restocked.

Can I get an "amen?"

"Then I saw her face / Now I'm a believer / Not a trace / Of doubt in my mind / I'm in love / I'm a believer / I couldn't leave her if I tried..."

A penthouse in Port Charles to a pineapple under the sea

News like that isn't shared lightly, but you know you have to.  I thought it better to get it over with quickly.

First, I texted LJ.  Yes, texted.  Because, well, if there was a chance either of us were going to become emotional, I didn't want it happening on the phone.  That would be the most uncomfortable moment in both of our lives.

"You see where Steve Burton is leaving GH?"

His reply was quick, pain-drenched, and expected: "Nooooooo! It's the first day of college football season and you had to go and ruin it." (Actually, he texted "football reason" instead of season, but as he only recently got his first-ever cell phone, I let it slide.)

We commiserated briefly.

Next, I texted Wolfgang.

His reply?  "Cool."

I immediately unfriended him.  Not on Facebook, in real life.  I can't surround myself with such callous, uncaring energy.

And so, as August gave way to the first tinge of fall in the air, I was already feeling the cold, cruel winds of winter.  For the day I had feared, dreaded, and hoped I'd never live to see, had arrived: Steve Burton, the actor who has played Jason Morgan on General Hospital for the great majority of my post-pubescent life, was leaving the show.

For so long, Jason has been one of my heroes, right up there with Mike Seaver, Luke Duke, and obviously, the Karate Kid.  I can't count the times I've compared myself to Jason Morgan.  He was often the voice of reason in Port Charles.  Somewhat remarkable considering he's in the mob -- er, coffee importing business.  And now?  He's leaving.

How will I cope without one of my heroes?  By bottling my feelings up inside, of course, in true Jason Morgan fashion.  Also by following Steve Burton on Twitter.  I don't know that it helps.  (Yes, it does.)

By the way, all this occurred over Labor Day weekend.  And yes, I'm just now getting around to writing about it, in true Bone fashion.  Apparently, posting five times in August left me scribically exhausted.

So I played laser tag later that weekend.  What, I was clearly disillusioned.  I've been trying to figure out how to smoothly transition between topics, but there's just no connection between Jason Morgan and laser tag.

Or is there? (Duh duh duuuuuuuuh!)

It was my first time to ever play laser tag.  And how shall I put this?  Well... I was dominating the dojo.



Did I mention I was mostly facing children?  What?  Most of them had obviously played before! 

Now I may have fudged on the rules a little.  They say "no running."  But I figured if things escalated to a physical confrontation I could take either of the three teenaged female game masters.  Or at least, outrun them.  And I did wind up shooting my own team members a few times, but thankfully that doesn't count against you.

At the end of the match, or battle, or recital, or whatever it's called, you push a little button on your electronic thingie and it tells you what your game name is so that you can find your score.

I finished 2nd!  And no, that wasn't out out of three.  There were actually thirteen of us playing, although I'm pretty sure a couple of the kids were too small to actually make their gun fire. 

My game name?

SpongeBob.

And suddenly, a new hero is born.

No?

Well, we gotta do something, because Frisco Jones isn't walking through that door.

"All I need / Is just a little more time / To be sure what I feel / Is it all in my mind / 'Cause it seems so hard to believe..."

The Last Walk-In

 A nearly two-year streak came to an end this past weekend. 

Maybe you were too busy watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo to notice.  But for the first time since 2010, I, Bone, went to see a movie. In a theater.

I know what you're saying. "People still go to the movies?"  Well, judging by the twelve souls who were in the same theater we were Saturday night, I'd say the answer to that question is a big ole resounding... "not really."

Tired of all the bizarre they-must-be-entirely-out-of-ideas movies lately, such as Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Slayer and the talking Teddy Ruxpin (is that redundant?), we opted for an imperceptibly more practical flick: The Odd Life Of Tom Green.

What?  Oh.  Timothy Green.  Sorry.  Or as I kept referring to it: Honey I Grew A Kid In The Garden.

You may be asking, "What might possibly have possessed you to go see that, Bone?"  Well, as the title of one of my seven future autobiographies will state, I did it for a girl.  (There's also Unfortunately I Was There For Almost The Whole Thing.  And the groundbreaking On-bay: Y-may Entire-way Ife-lay En-nay Ig-pay Atin-lay.  The other four are TBD.)

Some will say the movie theater is dying, that Redbox, On-Demand, and poor writing have killed what once was a staple of American weekends.  They will say why put on clothes and go to a theater when you can lie on the couch in your underwear and pop in a DVD.

To them I would say only.... hmm... OK, actually they have a decent point there.  Where was I going with this?  Oh right.  It's not just about watching some crappy movie.  It's about the entire movie-going experience:  the sticky seats, covered by years of who-knows-what; the almost-expected projector malfunction; the previews of even worse movies than the one you're about to see.  

Plus, where else are you gonna get six-dollar soft drinks and nine-dollar popcorn?  An airport?  A ballgame?  A concert?

OK, those are all good answers.

Ah, but here's the kicker:  Where else can you go and pay to be annoyed by the small children of complete strangers for two hours straight?

OK, maybe an airplane.

Anyway, getting back to the movie. What was it called again? Hark, Who Grows There?  Jack Is The Beanstalk?  I must say, once you got past the almost-laughable unbelievability of the premise (which I never really did) it wasn't too awful, albeit predictable.  And I might have to take issue with the guy sitting behind us.  This cinephile could be overheard as we were exiting the octoplex saying in a steep Southern drawl, "That feeyum awwtuh win uh Ah-uhscur."

I'm guessing the Academy might go in another direction on this one, Siskel.

Still, it did have Jennifer Garner in it.  So there was that.  And the guy who played Peter on Office Space also had a small part.

Ah, Office Space.  Now there's a movie.  I actually watched it one afternoon last week. 

From my couch.

In my underwear.

You know, at this point I can't help but think it might be tough to fill seven autobiographies.

"Don't hang around and let your problems surround you /  There are movie shows / Downtown..."

The single shutting and reopening of one's eye

Sometimes it meant camping out.  I know some of the names changed from time to time, but for some reason thinking back on it now, I can only remember the four of us -- Me, Allan, Hollywood, and Mouse.  That was the core group.

Gazing up at the stars, talking about girls you'd dated and ones you almost had, singing any song that came to mind until eventually one of the other guys told you to shut up or threw something at you -- usually the latter, knowing you didn't have to go home until morning.  It felt like freedom.

And there was always a fire -- a big one.  As we gathered every stick and pine needle within a fifty yard radius, it was usually more bonfire than campfire.  I would say I was surprised no one ever called the fire department on us, but for that one time someone did.

Even so, once the fire died down, it seems like we always wound up chilled to the bone or soaking wet.  Sometimes both.  It probably didn't rain as much as I seem to remember it did, but those are the nights that stand out.  I can still vividly see Mouse, who weighed all of 120 pounds soaking wet, sitting there shivering, telling us how he was never doing this again.  But he always did.

I remember one night Hollywood and I rode Allan's tandem bike into town about 1 AM to go to the Walmart, for no reason whatsoever other than it was something to do.  It was about four miles one way, and long before we had a 24-hour Walmart, so we pooled our change and bought a couple of Mountain Dews from the vending machine out front, then rode back.

It feels like there should be more to this story, like we got pulled over by the police or ran into a mailbox or were shot at on our way back or something, but there isn't.  Just me, riding a bicycle-built-for-two, with another guy, at 1 o'clock in the morning.  That is all.

Sometimes it meant tapping on my future (now ex-) roommate's bedroom window late at night -- the universal signal that a game of spades was about to commence.  He'd let us in through the carport door and we'd play for an hour or two.  One night we were a person short, so he went and got his sister to play.  His sister was one of the great crushes of my adolescence.  I spent a good solid four years, I'd say, finding any excuse I could to hang out with her.  So from then on, I always tried to make sure we were a person short.

Sometimes it meant sneaking into the basement door of the Baptist church and playing ping-pong, or cards.  Axl and his parents attended there so he knew where they hid the key.  He said no one would mind, and who were we to argue.  We ended up holding our fantasy baseball draft that year in the classroom for the 5 & 6-year-olds, amidst some Noah's ark memorabilia which I may or may not have played with a little.

Sometimes it meant picking a road we'd never been down and seeing where it led.  Pick A Road, we called it.  The name has a certain understated stupidity to it, don't you think?

Flying through the countryside with the top off my old Jeep sated a bit of wanderlust, I suppose.  As we lamented the lack of anything better to do, all the while pondering life and wishing we had one.

And the radio.  There was always the radio, or some worn out cassette.  Turned up wide.  Letting the songs affect me too much.

I still remember a couple of those roads, and any time I pass by I can feel a smile start to begin.

Such were my late teens and early twenties: One long continuous quest for something to do, some place to be, never wanting the night to end.  There seemed to be time to burn.  So burn it we did.

When I think back on those times now, they're not some faded, distant memory.  Rather, they're clear.  Vivid.  Almost close enough to touch.  Like if I could somehow turn back one single page, there they would be, as real as the day I lived them.  But when I reach out to grasp them I unclench my fists to find my hands still empty.  And it blows my mind to think, and it just does not seem possible, that twenty years have passed.... just... like... that.

I suppose that's how the brain's files work.  Twenty years ago can seem as close as twenty minutes ago.

And just as far away.

"And the sound the king of spades made / In the spokes of my old Schwinn / I was racing Richie Culver / For a Grape Nehi / Yeah, lately I've been thinking / 'Bout Route 5, Box 109..."

Brainchild

Anyone wanna venture a guess as to what this week is?

National Breastfeeding Week?  No, that was last week.  National Scrabble Week?  Actually, yes it IS National Scrabble Week!  But while that surely deserves its own post, that's not what we're talking about today.

No, today we are talking about a week you probably thought you'd forgotten about.  A week as fundamental to your being as International Whistlers Week, or Bread Pudding Recipe Exchange Week.  A week that has ruined you for all other weeks.

It's NaBloSoFroDraWe!!!!!!!!!!

That's, uh, National Blog Something From Draft Week for you newbies, or those of you who don't have photographic recollection of a made-up blog holiday you might have read about once or twice, long ago.  (I'm thinking about shortening the name to make it easier to remember, since even I have trouble keeping the abbreviation straight.  NaBlo and FroDra are my two best ideas thusfar.  What do you think?)

The brainchild of wannabe-seminal-blogger Bone back in 2008, NaBloSoFroDraWe is the perfect cure for what ails ye bloggers during these dog (and often blog-less) days of summer.  Don't have any ideas for a post?  No worries!  Just reach back into your drafts, pull something out, then copy and paste for all the world to read.

Perhaps it's something you started but never finished.  Now you don't have to finish it!  Just click and post.  Maybe it's a personal post you're afraid could cause a schism between you and a family member.  Well, chances are you're gonna have a falling out someday anyway, so why prolong the inevitable?  Just. Hit. Publish.

In previous years, it has been brought to my attention that some bloggers don't have anything in draft.  As someone who has 111 things in draft, that seems like a foreign concept to me, but I can respect it.

This holiday is for the rest of us.  Those of us who thought we were ready to post something but once we stepped up to the blog urinal and saw all those people standing around, we got a little stage fright and couldn't quite pull the trigger.  It happens.  But today is the day to shed those blog inhibitions and just let it go.

(You had to know someday I would manage to work in a writing/urinal analogy.  I'm only surprised it took me this long.)

Still, some will say, and even I have said, posts that are in draft are in draft for a reason.  Well, as the always eloquent Biz Markie once pontificated, "Don't give me that.  Don't even give me that."

Besides, remember our slogan: "Someday we'll look back on this and cringe."

For those who might be interested, I dug into my drafts and posted something over at Poetry Wrecks.  You know, since it somewhat resembles a poem.  And also because I haven't posted over there since early spring.

Later, we may analyze why suddenly my blog has become all about obscure holidays and asking questions which I pretend someone else is answering.  Or... we may not.

And hopefully I won't have any more brainchildren, at least not for awhile.

"Shake it out, shake it out / Shake it out, shake it out, oh whoa /  And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back / So shake him off..."