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I had a bucket list long before the movie came out and I started its execution way before I ever started thinking about my own mortality. I always believed it served a dual purpose.

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First off, I never wanted to be lying on my deathbed and look back and say “Damn I wish I had bagged Miss Brazil”.

That was never on my list but now in my attempt at humor I am suddenly wondering how that was not at least a Top 10 contender, back to my point.

The list was to me a way of saying “I lived my life fully and have few regrets”.

Secondly, and my main purpose for a bucket list was to have memories that could with stand time and be a comfort in my Golden Years or even on my deathbed. (Miss Brazil could definitely make that transition smoother). I fear if I continue to mention her my wife might hasten my need for such comfort so back to my point.

I always believed that from my bucket list of adventures I would find the perfect memory for sitting in my rocker or as a final memory on that day that I leave this world.

It would almost assuredly involve standing on the wing of a plane, floating above the Tennessee Mountains on a glider or surfing till sunset. If not then it would have to include a naked adventure involving a lovely lady or even two. Maybe it would involve standing in front of a crowd of tens of thousands mic in hand and owning them one and all. I always felt certain that my greatest memory would be one worthy of the movies and I was right.

I am not dying any faster today than I was last week, at least not to my knowledge and I have a lot of years left if I am counting right, however I am sure that I have lived the top two days of my life in the last 7 months.
Dateline Saturday December 25th 2010, the best day of my life.

Christmas morning with an 11, 5 and two year-old is sure to be special for a proud father so no real surprise however when you find yourself in a movie moment straight out of some Hallmark Special then it becomes unforgettable.
The Christmas morning snow and the magic of my families holiday is a top two memory

Then last week we loaded up the “Family Truckster” and it was off to Daytona Beach.

This is the first year my oldest son really admitted to liking girls so I was a bit concerned some magic could be lost when it came to hanging out with the family. I was wrong, he embraced building sand castles, boogie boarding and throwing Frisbee with his old man.
My five-year-old daughter was so giddy she was almost floating on land and took to the waves like “The Big Kahuna’s” little girl should.

My three year old boy holds the new world record for running to the waves. He approaches the surf with the enthusiasm of a man in hell stumbling upon ice water.

My wife was glowing in the sun with the spirit of a young girl, wait she is a young girl, no wonder I am so damned happy.

At this point in this syrupy tale I feel that in order to keep your attention I should tell you guys about the 1998 Miss Hawaiian Tropic Finals on Daytona Beach. Tell you how, myself, Pauly Shore and that Hispanic guy from CHIPS found ourselves in a game of naked twister with several contestants but I can’t, I promised not to.

Maybe I should tell you about when on tour in Daytona in 1992 I warmed up Spring Break crowds for MTV’s Remote Control television program. I remember I almost went blind from starring at boobs in the blinding tropic sun. That one is better on video than print. I guess what I am saying is I have some really fond memories of Daytona Beach Florida but none as great as the ones last week with my kids.

My family played and laughed on the beach, enjoyed the resort and every activity that we did together, my mind making snap shots of each in their happiest pose. I realized in those moments that what I was experiencing was out of some movie, a movie of my life and this was the best scene in it.

In my movie my family, not Miss Brazil are the stars and I couldn’t be happier to have them.
My vacation was perfect!

I will not stop trying to create new memories for us and I am hopeful there will be many more just as great. But somehow I know that when I look back at the greatest days of my life, vacation 2011 will be near the top of that list. It is today and if “that is as good as it gets” then I am ready for a rocker or an urn because THAT WAS AWESOME!
As for Miss Brazil. If you read this and somehow decide you just have to get to know me better I have put you on my “Hall Pass” list of five famous people. So holla!
Enjoy the Summer folks!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

If you have been reading these pages for several years then you may have noticed that last week’s article may have seemed to have flowed with a bit more testosterone or had more cojones with less effort than normal.

That’s because it was written pre-ADoBK or BDoBK.

Many in Chattanooga believe that time may have very easily been the “Golden Age” of Mankind or at worst a damn good time for men of our kind.

Explanation?ADoBK or After Death of The Big Kahuna.

Translation:
Before said Big Kahuna, that’s me or was me, before Big Kahuna became a Father.

Many women have perished during child birth and so was the fate of my alter ego. It is true, just like the dozens of super hero movies I too had a moment of reckoning and for the named character in my comic book existence it rendered me powerless.

The night my daughter was born was the night that The Big Kahuna lost his powers. Like Kryptonite for Superman I was never the same.
Before I was exposed to the gummy smile of my little girl I was the KING of BEADS, BEER and BABES!

Armed only with a neck full of magical bangles, a pitcher of water and a microphone The Kahuan could bring a crowd of thousands to its feet and young hotties would do whatever I commanded.

Then it happened, Fatherhood, more specifically, my little girl. It was almost immediately clear to me that my mission had been temporarily altered and my powers could not be used in the same deviant (translation, fun) ways as before. For me this would be a life changing journey but around here it meant “Yep, here comes the minivan”.

While I was living La Vida Diapers those I left behind were being forced to spend countless nights at poorly executed club events recycled from “The Golden Age” or something tossed together off the internet. My many minions would work the mic in a way similar to a high school principal at graduation or Pukey the Crack-head at a Christmas Parade. It has been a dark time throughout the kingdom.

Last week my publisher reached inside Pandora’s Box, and opened a can of worms. First off, I am probably out of the running for President of the PTO. Secondly, upon reading the article myself I thought of a quote “with great power comes great responsibility”. Like Spidey leaving his town to the criminals I have deserted mine as well. I forgot some very important things like “Hot babes make warm beer taste better”. “Beads like some boobs may be plastic but they look good on the right girl” and finally “A dry t-shirt is like a sweater”.

I am sorry that I left so many of you to suffer here in Metropolis without any real hope of true entertainment but please realize that I have been on a pilgrimage of sorts and while on this journey your sacrifice has been greatly appreciated.

Your light in the sky has been seen, your calls for help have been heard and soon I shall return and I will bring with me hope for more exciting days to come. But right now its story time and SpongeBob can’t be kept waiting.

Peace

Kahunaman
AKA Dewayne Gass

...So who do you trust to provide fair and accurate analysis of such things? If you’re a budding conspiracy nut like yours truly, you don’t trust anyone any more. It’s always been said that “absolute power corrupts absolutely” and that has seemed to be the case whenever one party or the other had too much control. But when it comes to our government, the absence of absolute power just means that the corruption gets spread around a bit...

— Mark Bedford

Bonnaroo X aka Dust Bowl ’11 had come and gone. Ten years. Doesn’t seem that long ago I started covering this event. Back then it was three days and mainly jam bands. After five years it became more of an alternative rock festival and since ’08 it became even more mainstream inviting hip-hop into the mix.

For the first time and the last (I hope you are reading this Ken, Chris, Jim, Bobbie, etc.) I went as a regular journalist and not a photojournalist. Never again. It’s a completely different mindset. As a photojournalist you have a tight schedule. You make in advance once finding out who is performing where, where you need to be and when. You pick and choose which acts to shoot that are most relevant for covering for your magazine. As a regular journalist, there is no structure. You come and go as you please. And if you’re a music snob like I pretend to be, Bonnaroo offers an information overload. Even the side stages have side stages. There is too much to ingest in four days without missing out on something. I was one of 85,000 folks there instead of one of say, 75 photographers. What to do, what to do?

Driving up to the secret check in location I was in a bad mood this particular morning and I’m not sure why. But I was ready to mix it up with someone. I’m not sure why Bonnaroo staff thinks this location is so secret, people are driving and walking by at all times of the day and night – at least they will until late, late Sunday night when Widespread Panic finishes their elongated set.

I pull into the secret parking lot ready for someone to say something stupid. After driving down the long entrance I am met by a security guard directing traffic. I was sure this was going to be it. “Are you a guest checking in,” he asked very politely. “Media check in,” I answered. He smiled and welcomed me, telling where to park. Drat. He was super nice. I walk inside to get my credentials and am met by a young kid that looks like a young Andy Dick minus the warrants and oddly enough wearing Capri pants. Once again, he was super nice and mild mannered. What’s going on here? I’m used to dealing with jerks and power trips at most concerts and festivals I have covered for the last twenty-plus years. Not at Bonnaroo.

The vibe at Bonnaroo is like no vibe I have ever seen at any festival or concert. Everyone is in a good mood and helpful. In ten years I have only seen one person raise their voice. That was to get someone to get down from a light post so they wouldn’t get hurt. And afterwards the staffer apologized for being mean. Hmm… In ten years I have never seen an altercation, argument of fight of every kind. Not sure if it was the drugs or beer, or good karma, but Bonnaroo is the happiest place on the planet for four days.

Since I was a free agent and not tied down to a stage or stages I made the rounds. This year I did differently than in years past. I spent time at the cinema and comedy tents more so than the big stages. I saw my fair share of shows, but let’s face it, it was in the mid-90s all weekend and those two tents along with the media tent were the only air-conditioned places on site. I watched an interesting documentary on the dwindling honey bee population and watched a few shows from Adult Swim, which reconfirmed by belief in not having cable or satellite TV. Zach Braff (“Scrubs”) showed up Saturday for a Q&A session. JD was cool.

My favorite performance of the weekend was a comedy routine by legendary cult filmmaker John Waters. Waters came to prominence of infamy during the early ‘80s and ‘90s for such trash classics like “Pink Flamingos”, “Hairspray”, “Crybaby” and others. He’s one of those true pop cultural phenomenon. He is indeed funny and very off-color with his humor. Waters, popular in gay pop culture spoke openly about homosexuality, mixing in stories of what happened making some of his movies and his experiences meeting other famous people. We carried on about how cute Justin Bieber was, and wasn’t it good that he was never introduced to Michael Jackson. The tent erupted in laughter. He then said they could film a reality show called “To Catch A Predator” by placing the teen pop star on random park benches in different cities. Thanks to Waters I have been able to add the terms “Upper Decker” and “Frosty the Snowman” to my urban slang dictionary. Nothing was sacred to Waters. He started to poke fun at the Vatican but reeled it back in before it got too sacrilegious. All in all it was a very interesting look into Waters’ world and his take on it.

The best show I saw all weekend was Florence and the Machine. I never saw so many people pack themselves so tightly in such a small area to see one band. Definitely mainstage material. The median age of the crowd was about 23 about 60/40 women to men ratio. While I am very familiar with the band, they get very little airplay in Tennessee because there’s not an outlet for the genre. It borders on progressive with an alt-rock feel. It is very symphonic and full in sound. Florence Welch has one of the most powerful and melodic voice in popular music today. She sounds a lot like a younger Annie Lennox, who many consider the greatest voice in popular music history. And to my surprise everyone in the crowd knew each song by heart and at least the girls san right along with Welch.

The most disappointing show of the weekend was the show I really came up to see – The Strokes. The Strokes played a very uneven set. They started ten minutes late and then proceeded to cut their set short by 30 minutes. The band sounded a little out of tune. Either that or the sound engineers had trouble for a couple of songs before correcting it. They quickly abandoned their new material, playing a greatest hit set from mainly their first two albums. By that time people started to leave the area, many on their way to get situated for Widespread Panic’s annual festival closing jam session. Others just headed for the front gate and called it a festival.

Like at the Florence and the Machine show the median age for Bonnaroo is somewhere between 23-27. There are a few older ones there like me, but not many. One of those is my pal Alice who has been to every Bonnaroo. A great lady, she and I have shot shows since the film camera days. Alice is one of the nicer people you meet, but she’s also one of the biggest name-droppers I have ever met. She talks as if she knows all the artists on a first name basis. She knows all the little gossip about them as well. And gladly shares that information with you – whether you want her to or not. She also has a tendency of not knowing when to shut up. During the press conference we were at she sat next to me and commented after every quote from whomever was being interviewed, sometimes with an “amen sister” or “amen brother”. Stuff I can do without most of the time.

And then there was the new friend I made this year over between This Tent and the Cinema Tent, Erica. Bonnaroo X was Erica and her boyfriend’s first festival. They are a 20-something couple who traveled in an RV with friends from New York to hangout in the heat of Tennessee.

Her boyfriend and her decided to go to a music festival. They planned to go to Coachella, but tickets were sold out. They had heard about Bonnaroo and bought tickets and made the trek down here.

“You can be around and work with people every day, but you never know what they’re really like until you’re stuck with them in tight quarters,” Erica said as she watched her boyfriend throw Frisbee with some new friends he just made. “These people are disgusting,” she said.

Erica had packed a small tent with them when they left New York and she and her boyfriend camped away from the RV the whole weekend.

“I really loved Florence,” Erica said. Arcade Fire sounded good too, but by then I was too tired to enjoy the set and went back to the tent.

Like I said, a lot was going on. Almost too much for both young and old to take in, in four days. Well, at least now we can all get some sleep.

- Dave Weinthal

Three boys are in the schoolyard bragging about their fathers. The first boy says, "My Dad scribbles a few words on a piece of paper, he calls it a poem, they give him $500."

The second boy says, "That's nothing. My Dad scribbles a few words on a piece of paper, he calls it a song, they give him $1000."

The third boy says, "I got you both beat. My Dad scribbles a few words on a piece of paper, he calls it a sermon. And it takes eight people to collect all the money!"

I figured I would give you a little church humor this week since I received several emails and comments about last week’s article suggesting you “Think God”. Seems half of you thought it was a nice thought while some felt the need to ask me “What ever happened to the crazy guy from clubs and TV?”

A quick answer would be “I am still here” but then again maybe “I” was never the guy you saw on stage or TV? I still can tell a good dirty joke and if I decided to I am pretty sure I could insight a beach full of liquored up college students to get their Spring Break On, if the money was right. These days I rarely have the urge for such things since I don’t make my living that way anymore. However sometimes I think maybe I should saddle up and show these new guys and gals how it is really done.

I hate going anywhere and have to listen to a new age Emcee.

Seems most scream into the mic in broken English and substitute Yeah, Yeah, Yeah whenever their lack of skill starts to show. I want to take their mic and say sit down Kanye, I got this. Same thing with half the talk show hosts on TV and radio, the moment allows for them to knock it out of the park and they settle for a double.

Whatever happened to live entertainers who think on their feet? Radio guys are just as bad. They script their open, script in and out to breaks and record the calls, then when interacting with another person in the booth you can hear the panic when someone goes in another direction.

No one ever called me the next Luther but no one ever called me boring either.

Boring is a condition!

Like Genital Warts, you can live with it and it may seem to have gone away however it seems to pop up at the most inconvenient times.

How do I know?

Your Sister told me! YEAH ! YEAH! YEAH!

So maybe now I won’t get any more letters about the Kahunaman losing his edge or becoming boring.

Maybe now I won’t have anyone calling me Reverend, not that reverend is all that bad a thing, it beats boring.

And now for Riverbend.

After working that nut chaffing mess for over 10 years when I was in media and entertainment I had taken a few years off from the crowds until Sunday night when some friends in the media set me up with some passes. Wow has it changed in the last few. More shopping, more food and a cleaner look to everything.

Nice job Riverbend!

However I still think I have to point out

Kahunaman’s List of Goofy Ass Riverbend Sights 2011.

#6. Titty Tatoos……A plethora of boobage with brightly colored “ART”, proudly displayed and pushed up for viewing by all who would care to stop and Ohhh and Ahhh.

#5. Street Preacher……This year’s guy has a lack of mic skills and overall commitment to the cause. Now I am not saying his heart isn’t pure or that he may not be on a mission from the Big Guy. However in past years the other dude carried around a giant cross on his back. Hey that in itself shows dedication considering it is usually hot as that place he keeps telling us Riverbend is sending us too.

#4. Little Eminems…….Really? He was at Bonnaroo and they should be too!

#3. Muscle Heads with MMA shirts on……….Well it’s a step up from Fat Guys with Hooters shirts on.

#2. Police Observation Platforms…………..As I said the event has the feel of being very clean and safe and the police are a big reason why. However I think it would be more fun for them and us if they had paddle boards with flip numbers so they could rank all the hot girls they are obviously scoping out.

#1. Drunk People getting their ass’s beat by fancy folding chairs………No doubt man’s pursuit of the perfect folding chair to carry to an event such as Riverbend has led to some incredible feats in lawn chair engineering. However when operated by someone blowing a 6.0 these marvels can become an accident waiting to happen. Picture a chair small enough to fit in the pocket of a pair of cargo shorts. Then picture a 300 pound man attempting to assemble and sit in this contraption while never spilling a drop of his 15th beverage. Someone call Life Force.

Happy Summer!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

kahunamedia@hotmail.com

No I have never Twittered my man parts. This is not an attempt to save my congressional seat. And I don’t want to shock too many of you out there, actually I know I have shocked a lot of you out there over the years.

What I am saying is, it may surprise some of you out there but I am a Christian. I know if you have seen my club or comedy acts or even read some of these articles you may say, step back God is about to go Zeus on this guy and I can’t say I blame you, but its true.

I was raised in a Nazarene Church and unless they have struck me from their membership I am still a member of a Baptist Church to this day. I accepted the Lord and was baptized at the age of 12 and as I understand it, that makes me a member of the club whether some people like it or not.

I may not be the most sterling example of what God can do with a man’s life but as I understand it God, like any good manager always gives us just enough rope to hang ourselves.

And I must admit, I have “Dangled” a few times in my life.

Now before you go to thinking that this is a sacrilegious article let me just say, your wrong. This is one of my Kahunaman Specials, named that by one reader who has written me and called my articles where I “Lay it all out there for the world to see” my best articles, my “Kahunaman Specials”.

Now I don’t mean to always do that but since this space is an outlet for pretty much anything that pops into my mind I try and stay true to that. Sometimes the results are good, sometimes not so much, but it is what it is and if you are still reading lets move forward.

Why all the God talk you ask?

Maybe you expect me to announce that I have a terminal disease or that I saw the Virgin Mary’s image while pouring water over a T-shirt?

Nope, that’s not it, I have just been thinking about God a lot lately and like that movie Oh God, I thought maybe we could all just “Think God” for a minute. What can it hurt?

I think God when I look at my kids.

I think God when I look at my wife and wonder “What in God’s name was she thinking marrying me”?

I think God when an early spring makes the Bradfords bloom, then rains bring record floods and then record tornados tear apart entire towns followed by record heat. Then I thank God that we don’t live in Japan.

I think God when I drive through Ringgold or Apison.

I think God when I see people blowing each other up in his name.

I think God when after playing basketball I walk out sweaty and not on a stretcher.

I think God when I rest under the AC with a glass of ice water while choosing from 300+ channels of mostly worthless TV.

I think God when I eat while I know others have no food at all.

I think God when I see a father bow his head in a restaurant and lead his kids in thanks.

I think God when in the middle of a power lunch one of my business mates says “ Lord let us honor you by bowing our heads in this place in your name”, very meaningful words. Don’t you think?

I think God when I see a naturally beautiful woman. That form can only come from above despite the new technology, the best female forms are grown not manufactured.

I think God when I see Iraq on TV and ask him to please help our soldiers to be safe as they leave that awful land and that they leave those people with a good impression of our people.

I think God when I see the “Casey Anthony Trial” coverage or the guy from around here who tried to smoother his baby. I wonder what could possibly lead a person to want their child dead.

I think God when I stand in the surf and look towards the horizon as men have done since the beginning and marvel at how small we are in the big picture.

I think God when I look up on that beach and realize how small the earth itself is in the big picture of all the rest.

I think God when my wife does birthday parties for children with cancer. I thank God for the honor of being able to help them have their day. I thank God that my kids are healthy and hope they will learn to help others in need. I think God has a plan but sometimes it escapes me and that is when it is hard.

And finally:
I think God when I don’t know what to think about the world we live in and then, it all makes a little more sense.

God Bless You All
Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

I almost missed my deadline this week “I was on the beach”!

We’ll not really on the beach. I was daydreaming about being on the beach. Actually I was looking at my screensaver of the shot of the beach from the window of the condo I will stay on when I actually do get to the beach.

That my friends is how bad I need to go to the beach.

I need to go to the beach so bad that if I were not going to the beach I might actually lose my mind thinking about going to the beach. What I am saying is I really need a vacation, not any vacation, definitely not a “Staycation” I need to go to the beach.

“Staycation” is what we say when budget or schedule doesn’t allow us to go where we really need to go. “Staycations” can be great for one season, maybe two if you actually do stay and cation but I usually stay and half day this and half day that and never really cation at all. I need a “surfcation”, a “sandcation”, a “boogieboardcation”, a “littleumbrellainagirliebeachdrinkcation”, a “bikinication”, a “walkinthesurfandtastethesaltaircation”.

This year I will have a “Beachcation”!

Now that’s the life, The Big Kahuna on the beach hanging with my peeps, a couple of beach bunnies, a surfing buddy and my very own midget. No offense to my boy Tommy AKA the Lookouts mascot, but when you got your own little person in your crew, you have truly made it. I have a three-year-old so I am in the club. Big and Rich, Kid Rock, Johnny Knoxville and Doctor Evil all know the power of hanging with the short folks. Soon I will be hangin with some short folks!

ON THE BEACH!

On the beach, at the site where I once warmed up Spring Break crowds for MTV and judged the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Finals, where the beach, boobs, booze and bikinis made the letter B my “B” est friend!

Now-a-days that phrase has new meaning but “on the beach” is still “on the beach”.

I spent two great weeks “On The Beach” six years ago and only four days since. Work, work, work and babies have replaced boobs and bikinis but soon The Kahunaman will be back “on the beach”.

I may have to fly in and catch up to my entourage that will leave a couple of days ahead of me but believe me the party will be waiting on Big Papa to hit the sand.

Yep, The Big Kahuna will make a return to the beach in a few weeks but instead of being dropped off poolside to an awaiting crowd of flashing college kids, a microphone and turntables, I will be met by three screaming kids all wanting to jump into daddy’s arms at one time. Three years ago I went to the beach on my first ever “Family Vacation”and it rocked!
I only had four days before I would have to fly off and leave my crew so we packed all the sun and fun we could into every minute.

Every morning my ten-year-old and I went on a four mile walk/run on the sand, sort of the calm before the storm. Then upon returning to the condo I would find my three-year-old daughter and 15 month son covered in lotion and wired for the waves.

By day four covering our bodies with sand was a must do, then we would chase waves and clean up. Midday naps were a must to ready ourselves for “When The Sun Goes Down”, that meant the boardwalk and then late night crab chasing with nets, buckets and flashlights.

That trip I taught my oldest and my little girl to Boogie Board and despite some major wipeouts they trusted me and soon were having the time of their lives. Speaking of lives, I never knew how nervous being a parent can make you. I was on full alert watching for undertow, traffic, pervs and sharks every minute of every day.

Finally let me share the highlight of a trip full of highlights. My little boy just started walking and unlike his daredevil sister he was a bit timid, so much so he would cry when we used to go through the car wash so my wife was sure the surf would be a big drama, not so. I carried my son out into some nice three-foot waves and we bobbed like a cork. Occasionally a wave would smack us in the face but instead of freaking out my little guy laid his head on my chest and gently rubbed my shoulder. It seems the ocean calmed him as it does his daddy and I hope he will have a life long love for the waves as I have.

This time the beach damned well be ready because three-year-old Hurricane Christian is on the way and FEMA can’t save you.

I used to think that a trip to the beach meant Summer Romance, cheering crowds, big parties and a nice payday. Today the beach is still an adventure but it’s less about me and more about making memories for my peeps. Beachcation is on the way for me, my lady and three little party people who still cheer for me when I enter the room, even though the party is fueled by juice and served up in Sippy cups.

Here’s to Summer, whatever that means to you.

And here’s to “Beachcation” the only real cation there is.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Even the most casual of observers are probably aware that "football" is the name the rest of the world uses for the game that most Americans still insist on calling "soccer." As a British-born Air Force brat who spent many of his formative years in Europe and Asia Minor, I have been playing "the beautiful game" since I was about 10 years old. And I am happy to say that "footy" is starting to gain a bit more traction here in the Colonies The television coverage of the two most recent World Cups had a lot to do with that. Instead of sticking with those long-distance shots that show a lot of tiny men kicking and chasing a tiny ball across the screen, the networks and producers got a lot of great close-up views of players kicking, elbowing and grabbing each other. It was much more visually compelling than the tiny men/tiny ball stuff...

...Here in Chattanooga, soccer has always been fairly popular the high school level. College programs at places like Covenant, Bryan College and Tennessee Temple have been nationally competitive in their divisions. But last year's highly successful debut of the Chattanooga Football Club is shaking up the local summer sports scene. CFC won it league in its inaugural season and is well on its way to a repeat. Chris Ochieng's double-overtime goal against the Atlanta Silverbacks reserves this past Sunday propelled our home team into the Round of 32 of the Lamar Hunt US Open Cup. The 97-year-old tournament will get underway on June 16...

...If you've never been to a CFC game, you'll get your next home game opportunity on Saturday, June 18 at 7 pm. And if you've never been to a CFC game, here are the top five reasons why you should...

...1. CFC games are family-friendly. The team offers discounts to youth players in uniform and there are usually a lot of them there. Soccer is as great kids' game. As someone who has coached both Little League baseball and youth soccer, I'll tell you that youngsters get a lot more exercise chasing a soccer ball around than they get playing Abner Doubleday's game. At any given time, most baseball players are either standing around or sitting in the dugout...

...2. CFC games are also adult beverage friendly. A lot of Chattanooga sports fans were bummed out when UTC opted for an off-campus football stadium to replace the disintegrating Chamberlain Field. We were idiots. Moc football fans can get a cold beer or mixed drink in the Finley club area. CFC fans can buy and enjoy cold beers in the stands. Awesome...

...3. You can get as crazy as you want at a CFC game. The club's most rabid fans are a confederation of maniacs known as the Chattanooligans. Their pre-game tailgate gatherings begin several hours before the kickoff and conclude with a drum-, cowbell- and vuvuzuela-accompanied parade to their special section not far from the visiting club's bench. During the match itself, the Chattahooligans provide a rowdy (and virtually nonstop) soundtrack. Their chants and songs are witty and right on the edge of propriety. Best of all, the Hoolies are an inclusive lot. If you're on Facebook (and who isn't?), just do a search for "Chattahooligans" and join up. You'll get updates on trips to away games, the aforementioned tailgate gatherings and other fun stuff. CFC coach Brian Crossman came by before the US Open Cup qualifying match this past Sunday to thank the Chattahooligans for their ongoing and passionate support. He was rewarded by numerous chants and cheers in his honor...

...4. CFC games are inexpensive. Well...admission is inexpensive. Five bucks will get you in. Or you can buy a current team jersey for $60 and get free admission to all home games. The jerseys are spiffy, too... with main sponsor VW's logo prominently displayed on the front. Concession prices are... well, pricey... but no worse than at any other sports gathering. (One of the Chattahooligans' favorite chants bemoans the "four-dollar beers.") All in all, it's a fairly cheap outing...

...5. CFC is a darn good soccer team. The level of play is simply outstanding. Most of the CFC players were stars at the collegiate level and several have played on other semipro teams. The pace and ball control of the Chattanooga squad is top shelf. The rest of the league must truly hate the upstarts from the Scenic City. You've got to love that. For more info on Chattanooga Football Club, including updates on the US Open Cup, go to www.chattanoogafc.com. For an up close and personal look at the team, the Chattahooligans and those famous four-dollar beers, go to Finley Stadium on June 18. Look for me in the middle of the Hoolies' section...

-- Mark Bedford

By the time you read this article that I am writing at 5:17 pm on Tuesday, May 24th, area favorite Lauren Alaina Suddeth will have already been named American Idol. By now local media has sang her praises, social media has been overwhelmed with every clever remark that can be originally written or stolen from other peoples pages. To that I say “Why not”?

Rocker Steven Tyler called it and even helped it happen when after Lauren’s audition he said “I think we found the ONE today”. I am not a big Idol watcher but because I am a Pop Culture follower I have to at very least keep up. So when my wife called excited about this 16-year-old from down the street that just made it through on Idol and then Tyler’s quote came on, I must admit I was intrigued.

Then I found out that she actually lives down the street and went to my kids elementary and that my wife’s mom was her teacher and not only that they went on a school trip to Chicago together. Then I remembered she sang at the opening ceremonies of the Little League World Series that I announced.

That is when it became clear that Lauren isn’t just a girl from our area but a girl from the neighborhood or as the hot judge on Idol once sang “Lauren From The Block”.

So Lauren mania began as a curiosity and then grew into full on area hysteria. After each show my neighbors and my wife hang on the porch and text and call and vote in a very loyal manner to support our local celebrity.

Lauren never let them down!

Week after week she survived and thrived until she made the final 3 and came home. The area welcomed her as we should have.

Hangers on began to develop early and grew as political types slowly did what they do in an attempt to share the spotlight. Not knocking them, Lauren is a big deal and deserves the attention and those in certain positions can’t let that moment slip by, for her career or theirs.

However I am pretty sure that had she went out last July at the auditions most of her biggest fans now would never have gotten to know how talented our “girl from the block” really is. But I am pretty sure the Magoo’s Crew would still be singing her praises and pushing her to “Go For It” until she made it.

What has happened for “Lauren From The Block” is the equivalent of catching lightning in a bottle. It is a mathematical longshot however it was also unlikely Old Ben would harness lightning with a kite and a key, but he did.

Lauren won the Spelling Bee contest at Cloud Springs Elementary which is my kid’s school and I hear that she did so with a great deal of talent and work. I hope and believe she has become the American Idol or for sure close enough to have a shot at anything she can dream as long as she stays “Lauren From The Block”.

I don’t know Lauren as many do but she is “From The Block” or at least a few blocks and it shows. Folks from around here are real, folks from around here are caring, as she was when touring the Tornado damage and folks from around here are likable. Lauren is from here, Lakeview or Rossville if you go a block over on Cross Street. Some haters said “Why have a parade in downtown Chattanooga, she isn’t from Chattanooga”? Some haters have and will say mean things about this girl “From The Block”. It’s called jealousy. Folks from around here are better than most but every town has haters.

So before Lauren leaves “The Block” I want to give her some advice.

Lauren, people don’t usually hate on those who never step out into the sun. The shadows are always safer but like flowers, dreams can’t grow if hidden in the dark. You have stepped into the sun and you have grown into something incredible and you have taken the rest of us from “the block” with you. Stay true to yourself and your dreams even if they are to just return one day to “the block”. Don’t really see that happening but you have the kind of North Georgia tenacity that will get Ringgold through the storms and if you decide the music business is a pain in the butt, and it is. Well maybe you could come back home and be Queen of Lakeview or Rule Rossville, they do have two duck ponds you know.

Congrats young lady and good luck with your blessed life.

Kahunaman Aka Dewayne Gass

...My recent trip to the Red Bank Taco Bell couldn’t even get close to my very low expectations. For starters, the store has obviously joined the national fast food trend and is catering primarily to the drive-through diners. There were three employees filling drive-through orders while the “assistant manager” took dine-in orders and then went back to prepare them. As a result, I stood around with four other unlucky souls while we waited on our food. Meanwhile, the three other employees had time to stand around and clean their work area after filling the the drive-through orders at a rapid pace...

...I could forgive the slow service if the food had been worth waiting for. I had ordered a “meal” with two crunchy tacos and one of their new “Beefy Melt Burritos.” The Taco Bell website describes this item as: “Our classic seasoned beef, seasoned rice, three cheeses & cool reduced-fat sour cream sealed up by a warm flour tortilla & melted to perfection.” Let’s look at those ingredients one at a time. The “classic seasoned beef” is the same concoction that provoked the recent lawsuit. It probably has some beef in it. It also has at least 12% of something else. The rice had no apparent flavor at all. If there were three cheeses in that thing, they were all bereft of any cheeselike tastes. Similarly, the “reduced fat sour cream” was a tasteless gooey substance. Only the flour tortilla tasted like what it was supposed to be. And “melted to perfection” seems to mean... “zapped or steamed to the point that a reddish grease drips out of both ends and saturates the warm flour tortilla.” It was fundamentally inedible...

...The two crunchy tacos had about a tablespoon of the classic seasoned (substance that vaguely resembles) beef at the bottom. The lettuce was composed mainly of the yellowish stuff that you would throw away if you were making a salad at home. And, again, the grated cheese had no cheese flavor at all...

...I opted for the “meal” because I felt like having a soft drink. I have cut way down on my Diet Crack consumption and have been drinking a lot more water lately... but I thought I’d get a big soda. Bad idea. I forgot that Taco Bell has Pepsi products. I had a Sierra Mist. Not bad. I was thirsty. I drained the lemon-lime beverage while the assistant manager was slowwwwly preparing the dine-in orders. Then I filled up my cup with Diet Pepsi. I took my drink to my table with my long-awaited food order. The Diet Pepsi was flat...

...As I dug into my Beefy Melt Burrito and those two sad, dry (hell yes, they were “crunchy”... just like dry leaves) tacos and sipped on my flat Pepsi, I thought about going up to complain to the assistant manager. But I was afraid he might offer me a gift certificate to Taco Bell as some sort of consolation for my horrendous experience. That was enough to keep me in my seat. I choked down my two tacos, chased them with flat Diet Pepsi, wrapped up most of the Greasy Melted Burrito to throw it away, used three napkins to get all of the red grease off of my fingers... and headed through the door of a Taco Bell for the last time... ever...

— Mark Bedford

In the end, it's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years.
- Abraham Lincoln

Growing older, to some it is a curse, to others a chance to learn how you should actually live. My five year-old daughter is absolutely sure that 6 is the ultimate goal. My father despite being a workaholic at 75 must be reminded by me sometimes that he has a lot left in his tank. I remind him that seeing the grandkids graduate should be a goal that helps keep his engine revving for many years to come and he agrees.

For me growing older has been a blessing as I actually like the advantages of wisdom and life experience. Add to that the chance to occasionally spank people more than half my age on the basketball court and I believe that age is nothing more than a number. I guess I also believe that an elderly Kahunaman will enjoy shocking folks with a few good zingers here and there and a sponge bath from a hot nurse sounds like a pretty good retirement plan. I guess you could say that like that TV commercial “I don’t believe I have an expiration date”.

Then today I here that science just might take all the fun out of growing older and even being younger.

Seems there is a blood test that can show how fast someone is ageing and it offers the tantalizing possibility of estimating how long they have left to live and it is to go on sale to the general public in Britain later this year.

The controversial test measures vital structures on the tips of a person’s chromosomes, called telomeres, which scientists believe are one of the most important and accurate indicators of the speed at which a person is ageing.

Scientists say it will be possible to tell whether a person’s “biological age”, as measured by the length of their telomeres, is older or younger than their actual chronological age.

Medical researchers believe that telomere testing will become widespread within the next five or 10 years, but there are already some scientists who question its value to humanity. There are concerns that as this and other tests become more and more accurate that people will be no more than commodities with value based on their expiration dates.

Think about it, would you want to know?

Even worse, would you want your insurance company to know you had short telomeres?

How about the guy in the HR department who is evaluating you for a promotion?

I just refinanced my house but what if the bank suspected I had an expiring shelf life? Do you think they might have come up with an excuse for not financing me?

Now if this becomes more of an exact science and it will then we will have another class structure, the longs and the shorts. Sort of like the porn industry but without the groovy music.

Honestly, what if you were required by law to have a telomere test before marriage? Would you actually marry the love of your life if you knew they wouldn’t be around past 40? I know, I know, you guys are thinking, of course you would, then you wouldn’t have to bother with the messy divorce, stop it already. Really, how many women would marry a man and have kids if she knew he would never live long enough to see them graduate? I know, I know girls, it would just mean you would have to take out a larger insurance plan. But wait, no insurance for a guy with a short shelf life. Would you even buy life insurance if your telomeres suggested you might break the century mark? Could you spend money on anything crazy if you knew in advance that you would need enough savings to last twice your working life?

Think about this, you have a short date of say 40, the wife 110, you can’t tell me she isn’t out lining up the dance card for the next 70 years without you.

What if your kid has an expiration of 55 but yours is 95, does he even come and see you on Christmas? I mean it would be pretty clear that Dad’s Elvis collection would never be theirs, what’s the use in even trying?

So once again just like when they switched from 8 track to cassette to CD, science is screwing us. I mean Velcro was a stroke of genius but other than that, well let’s just say, it makes life complicated.

So to all you short timers out there allow me to say thanks for reading my rantings, you will be missed. However, for all of you like me that hope to stick around long enough to see the mullet rise again, I say we party like its 99, 2099.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...World War II began with Hitler’s invasion of Poland, escalated with the U.S. involvement after Pearl Harbor (December 7, 1941... that “day of infamy”) and ended with the Germans surrendering in May of 1945 and the Japanese capitulating in August of the same year. If we hadn’t captured the German nuclear scientists at Peenemunde and taken them to Oak Ridge and Los Alamos, things might not have ended quite as quickly or as well for the Allies...

...We have been fighting in Afghanistan since October of 2001 and in Iraq since March of 2003. It remains to be seen if the recent killing of Osama bin Laden will result in an end to the fighting in Afghanistan. Regardless, we have basically repeated the mistakes of the former Soviet Union over there. The Taliban, whom we armed to fight the Soviets, have been chased into Pakistan... but not eliminated. In Iraq, we topped the government of Saddam Hussein in a short amount of time, but Americans are still fighting and dying over there every day...

...War isn’t what it used to be. “Band of Brothers” does a great job of representing what war used to be. Armies against armies. I used to watch a lot of WWII movies. I distinctly remember what would happen to soldiers who were captured in civilian clothes. They would be “shot as spies.” In Afghanistan and Iraq, all of our enemies wear civilian clothes. That makes it very difficult to separate those enemies from the innocent civilians of those countries. As a result, we kill a tragically high number of those civilians...

...We find ourselves fighting unknown enemies in hostile territory... with poorly-defined “objectives.” It’s great that we have eliminated the man responsible for the 9/11 attacks. So what’s the new plan for Afghanistan? It’s great that we claim to want to turn Iraq over to a new form of government. But that transition is happening at an excruciatingly slow and increasingly expensive pace...

...Sherman was right. War is hell. “Band of Brothers” spared no gory detail in showing the horrors of a “conventional” war. But World War II ended with the surrender of our enemies. How can there be a surrender when you don’t know who your enemies are? And if there is no surrender... when will these wars... end? The answer, I am afraid... won’t be soon in coming...

— Mark Bedford

BITD I can remember having pagers and sending out super secret codes like 143 which meant I love you & 1432 or I love you too and it was a nice thing to share with your special someone. But BITD we could only send numbers not letters so it was limited. BITD = Back In The day.

These days it is total AH or Acronym Hell. For our kids it is probably 2G2BT or Too Good To Be True but for someone like me who has been known to say FWIW or Forgot Where I Was, well let's just say this whole thing can be 2M2H or Too much too handle and is quite honestly deserving of the ole 5FS or 5 Finger Salute.

The whole thing is enough to drive you AS or Ape Shit without finding out that our kids could actually use this in their teenage plots to over throw the kingdom of Kahuna. Of course my kids are only 12, 5 and 3 but it is plain to see that WPCTS = When Push Comes To Shove, they are 14AA41 or One for all, and all for one.

Parents with teenagers have to worry about these super-secret APA or Anti-Parent Acronyms.

420 or Let's get high……6Y=Sexy………420="Marijuana"………9=Parent is watching…..POS or Parent Over Shoulder…… A/S/L/P = Age/Sex/Location/Picture which can lead your daughter to this little message AMRMTYFTS = All My Roommates Thank You For The Show, OUCH = OUCH! As in I bet all friends will see my daughter on You Tube as well.

Now I have to admit that there are interesting ones and even cool ones as well as a few that meet Big Kahuna standards as SFA or Serious Freakin Attitude, check these.

411 = Meaning 'information'……511 = Too much information (more than 411)……….. RUMCYMHMD or Are You on Medication Cause You Must Have Missed a Dose…….831= I love you (8 letters, 3 words, 1 meaning) which is a bit romantic.

Then there are the really attitude filled ones AFT = About F***ing Time………….AMF = Adios Muther F***er……………ATAB = Ain't That A Bitch………….AYCE = All You Can Eat……………AFDN = Any F***ing Day Now……………RUFKM = Are You Fu*king Kidding Me? And of course BTFO = Bend The F*** Over.

Sorry for the abusive language but consider this an educational tour of TEDOOFWL or The Early Days Of Our Future World Leaders. What the hell happened to chopping down a Cherry Tree?

Before we go can I ask you guys something? Shouldn't you know the answer to MOF? before asking RU/18? That's Male or Female.

I will admit that soon I will send AB or Ass Backwards just to prove that I am not an OF or Old Fart who needs to text these: ATD: At The Doctors…… BFF: Best Friend Fell……. BTW: Bring the Wheelchair……… BYOT: Bring Your Own Teeth………. GGPBL: Gotta Go, Pacemaker Battery Low……... LMDO: Laughing My Dentures Out…….. OMSG: Oh My! Sorry, Gas! and ROFLACGU: Rolling On Floor Laughing And Can't Get Up.

Yep sonny, things they are a changing and I am not talking about my Depends.

BM! No not Bowell Movement, BITE ME!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...One example: I know several people who, as of this writing, still have not had their electricity restored after last week’s devastating storms. Make no mistake. That is a major inconvenience. But when you compare that inconvenience to the losses suffered by the families of the nearly 80 Chattanooga area people who died... or the hundreds more who lost their homes, businesses, cars or other property... it pales in comparison...

...I think we lived for years thinking that “the big one” would never hit here. Dozens of major storms have headed our way from the west and been deflected by our seemingly protective barriers of mountains and ridges. Last week’s tornadoes cut through our region like a giant chainsaw in the sky. They destroyed our illusions of safety and proved (once again) that the forces of nature can humble humanity in a matter of minutes. According to the National Weather Service, 226 tornadoes were recorded from Wednesday morning to Thursday morning...a record for a 24-hour period. From Wednesday to Friday, the total might be as high as 312. The previous was April 3-4, 1974, when 148 twisters were recorded. How’s that for some historical context? The dollar total on the damage is still being tallied...

...My personal perspective on the tornadoes and their impact comes from someone who finished high school in southwest Oklahoma. My parents and I got stuck in a trailer park for a month or two while we were waiting on base housing. A big storm came in one night... so big that it knocked out the power to the tornado sirens. We woke up with pieces of our neighbor’s trailer in our yard. A trailer park several miles away got creamed. We spent several nights in a tornado shelter while we were in the Sooner State. I spent the night of my high school graduation eating pizza and drinking beer in the hallway of our base duplex (thankfully, the trailer stay was brief). That made for a pretty good “tornado story” around here... until last week...

...The death of Osama bin Laden also makes me ponder its context and my personal perspective. The Al Quaeda leader was reviled even more than Saddam Hussein... and for good reason. His gloating videos taking credit for 9/11 and our inability to capture or kill him were an insult to all Americans. Bin Laden became an obsession for our military and intelligence services. There are “big picture” concerns about reprisals from Al Quaeda and/or other Muslim extremists. But let’s be honest. Those groups are already targeting our country, for a multitude of reasons. As I heard “Hardball” host Chris Matthews proclaim at a conference speaking gig in Dallas years ago. “We’ll never understand the Muslim world view. They’re still pissed at us for The Crusades.” From their perspective, they have a right to be pissed. And we keep giving them more reasons. The 100,000-200,000 civilian casualties (depending on which source you believe) from the war in Iraq have some Middle East experts insisting that we are creating “legions of bin Ladens.” That may prove to be true. Global politics and policy are all about context and perspective. But it still feels good to retire the original Osama bin Laden...

...Which brings me to some self-analysis. Should I feel this good about our Navy SEALs taking out Osama? Is “an eye for an eye” justifiable? Would an international tribunal have been more “just”? I don’t know. I’m just glad the son of a bitch is dead. In the context of last week’s tornadoes, their wake of death and devastation, and the ongoing after-effects... it felt good to know that the “mastermind” behind the 9/11 attacks has gone on to whatever afterlife his deity keeps for such mass murderers. I’ll figure out the moral implications of my perspective at a later date...

— Mark Bedford

Quote from a local senior citizen when ask how she felt about losing everything to the storms of last week.

You Go Girl!

I have a secret.

I have always been a fan of Generation Blue Hair. NOOOOO, not like a want to shag a Golden Girl but like I could sit around all day and listen to Mr. Miyagi tell his stories. The early Baby Boomers and earlier especially amaze me. Old folks, experienced people have stories to be told and a wealth of knowledge about yesterday and ultimately today. I have listened since I was small to their tales of days gone by.

The Japanese and American Indians built their cultures around honoring their elders and treasuring the knowledge they held inside of them. America has the Smithsonian but our elders are like the web, they are spread out and the destruction of no single place leaves their knowledge inaccessible.

The Greatest Generation they call them and for a reason. They were self-sufficient, resilient and strong, they are well-traveled, even the ones who never left home. They watched as amazingly wonderful things were accomplished and overcame more than their share of hard times as well.

They witnessed terrible and terrific from the Great Depression to World War 2, from the development of interstate travel to a man on the moon. They saw Nagasaki and Chernobyl, Elvis, The Beatles and Disco. The world came to their living rooms with radio and TV and finally to their fingers with a thing called the web. All of this they did while putting a melody in their music.

In their day they took pride in their appearance, showed courtesy when driving, understood the importance of romance and the commitment to marriage.

They were responsible parents, promoted family values and were dedicated to their work. They would step up after a disaster and help their neighbors.

They were also drunks, druggies, abusers and lazy bums. Their generation had crooked bankers, POS politicians and people who would just as soon shoot a cop as look at him. Ask them and they will tell you, same problems just modernized. Same people different time.

One lady who is 87 stopped me Saturday to say that my articles and worries about the Gulf spill and police being shot were worthy of thought but not to worry. She pointed out that at one time Chattanooga’s air was unfit to breath and that blacks were beaten in the streets. “Every generation has its discoveries and its problems, its villains and its heroes. Each generation is different in how it handles it but God puts us all together in a way where it will all work out”.

Since the shooting I have personally seen people reach out and shake officer’s hands and say “Thank you for your service”.

Since the destruction of last week thousands have rallied to help with the recovery.

Last night it was announced that Osama is dead just as Hitler and other tyrants have fallen and tears came to my eyes as I watched thousands gather in New York and Washington chanting USA USA.

Maybe we are part of the next great generation? Maybe our children will grow up to be the “GREATEST GENERATION”? One thing is for sure as we age we too will have our stories to tell. Let us not just remember the tragedy but the triumph and the beauty of the good over the ugly of the evil.

Someone will be listening, let’s remember every little detail and pass it on so the next generation will know that in the end, it will all work out.

Spread the laughter, share the cheer, let us be happy while we’re here.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

While folks in Trenton and Ringgold, and all over the south were clinging to their homes, businesses and lives as tornadoes ravaged the area, CNN interrupted their coverage of a wedding in England to keep folks who still had power abreast of the horror show that was playing out for their neighbors.

The night of the tornadoes, surrounded by shivering dogs, while I still had power, I watched as one of the local TV stations told me all I needed to know about the storms….in Bradley County, but almost nothing about the storms I knew were approaching me from the west at 60-plus miles-per-hour. To get the radar I had to go to the Weather Channel.

Finally, as the last of the storms went overhead, no trees crashed into my house and none of us were swept away, the power went out and stayed out all night.

I started my generator and kept things going through the night, but my generator is outside in an open carport.

Portable generators are wonderful things if all they can do is let you have coffee in the morning, but they can kill you.

It is amazing, but there are folks who run portable generators in enclosed attached garages, never realizing until it is too late deadly carbon monoxide from the generator can and will migrate from the garage to the attic of the house and down into living spaces.

A couple in Hamilton County has already died from carbon monoxide poisoning from a portable generator.

Please folks, that portable generator is just like a car in your garage or your living room, it cannot be operated in an enclosed space directly attached to your home.

With TVA’s main transmission lines getting really clobbered by the tornadoes that ripped apart parts of our area, it could be some time before power comes back. Be very careful indeed with your new generator.

During the huge ice storm in Kentucky a couple of years ago, several people because they tried to cook in their kitchens with a portable grill with an open flame. Folks, open flames produce carbon monoxide, too….you can’t use a grill in the house.

We are lucky, that with the exception of the first couple of nights after the storms the temperatures have been mild so there is no need to try to heat a house with some sort of open flame device that is not intended to be used in an enclose space.

The only thing that resembles the destruction left behind a big tornado is old pictures of London during the World War II blitz, or the photos of German cities after they were carpet bombed, or Hiroshima, Japan.

Very few folks in this part of the country go to the trouble or expense to build secure saferooms in their new houses; contractors don’t like them because of some nebulous liability issue.

And while many municipalities have warning sirens, many suburban areas do not. The local weather folks try to warn people to take shelter, but if the power is off, how do you get the message?

Many emergency management experts say every home ought to have a weather radio, and I certainly agree…one of the reasons my dogs were shaking in the basement was that my weather radio warning was going off, literally, every three minutes during the time the storms were going past.

If you don’t have a weather radio, you ought to, and so should schools and churches and workplaces.

All around us our friends and neighbors are digging through the pulverized remains of their homes and burying their family members. If you have an opportunity to help someone, do it.

Our local, state and federal governments are doing all they can to help, but the real recovery starts with us.

- Scorpio Jones III

...I never thought I’d get excited at seeing gas prices “down” to $163.5. They’re still not backing off of the prediction of five bucks a gallon by summer. I have never and will never advocate the war in Iraq, but since we all suspect oil interests to be one of the true roots of the conflict... would it be too much to expect us to exploit Itaqi oil a bit more? I’m just saying...
...Libya is still a bit of a mess. Mo Gadaffi is still alive and kicking. I still don’t know if we know who’s who and what’s what over there. We’re still trying to figure out which horse to bet on... and hoping Mo doesn’t go even more crazy...

...I type this on the brink of the big wedding across the pond. Prince William and Miss Catherine Middleton will tie the knot this Friday. Perhaps you’ve heard about the impending royal nuptials? Yes, those major royal weddings are a bit over the top. But the British love their lace and jewels. And they love the royal family. Americans don’t really get it. As a half-Brit, I get it. The British have their Parliament to make the big decisions, their prime minister to lead the nation and their royal family to make occasional speeches and public appearances while waving majestically...

...I saw a news story somewhere with a poll stating that just 38 percent of Americans are 100 percent sure that President Obama was born in the United States. Really? People are nutty. The “birthers” are bonkers...

...And add the head of the bonkers birther pack is Donald Trump. The Donald has decided to run for president, despite the fact that he failed to vote in over 20 primary elections. I like a little craziness in politics. The idea of Trump as president is no crazier than the idea of Arnie as governor of California. Crazy has become the norm in this mad, mad world... and we Americans refuse to get outcrazied by anyone...

—- Mark Bedford

If there is anything positive about the economic situation our country is in I would have to say it is the renewed appreciation that people have for the honor of working. People don’t seem to complain like they once did they are just happy to have a paycheck happy to have a j-o-b. That is human nature complain until its gone and then reflect on all that was lost.

Gasoline is four bucks a gallon and we bitch when we have to fill up. Make no mistake the price increases are based on supply and demand. However if we were to experience long lines due to shortages and find ourselves without enough fuel to drive to work people would not complain about the price of filling up once they found a station with no lines and working pumps. They would gladly pay and hope they could come back real soon.

It’s been a few months so I guess it is okay if I get all Zen on you. Zen readings teach “No work, No Food” which proves Obama isn’t Buddhist since the Liberal way is “ No Work Free Food”. But I regress, Zen teaches to gain worth through our work and that work is essential to our happiness. I have always agreed and believe that more and more modern day Americans now fully understand that work is a blessing not a curse. To quote one of my out of work friends “ I work harder trying to find work than I did when I had a job!” Since I have been a life long entertainer and entrepreneur that is a quote that I fully understand. It isn’t the gig that wears you out, its booking it.

This week’s piece includes some quotes and goes out to everyone who is thankful and satisfied with your work but still a bit disenchanted with the everyday grind of it all.

So for all of us who need a vacation I thought a few quotes just short of “take this job and shove it” could be therapeutic during these tough times.

Accomplishing the impossible means only that the boss will add it to your regular duties. 
~Doug Larson

Everyday I get up and look through the Forbes list of the richest people in America.  If I’m not there, I go to work. 
~Robert Orben

We pretend to work because they pretend to pay us. 
~Author Unknown

Executive ability is deciding quickly and getting somebody else to do the work. 
~John G. Pollard

When people go to work, they shouldn’t have to leave their hearts at home. 
~Betty Bender

Many people quit looking for work when they find a job. 
~Author Unknown

A lot of fellows nowadays have a B.A., M.D., or Ph.D.  Unfortunately, they don’t have a J.O.B. 
~”Fats” Domino

Monday is a lame way to spend 1/7 of your life. 
~Author Unknown

If you have a job without any aggravations, you don’t have a job.  ~Malcolm S. Forbes

A life spent in constant labor is a life wasted, save a man be such a fool as to regard a fulsome obituary notice as ample reward. 
~George Jean Nathan

Don’t worry about people stealing your ideas.  If your ideas are any good, you’ll have to ram them down people’s throats. 
~Howard Aiken

HAM AND EGGS - A day’s work for a chicken; A lifetime commitment for a pig. Is it just me or is a job like being married? You’re pretty sure you would miss it if you didn’t have it.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Because the Doldrums are upon us.

Spring practice is over, National signing day is over, and while there is always recruiting news, the signing is over till next February.

News about college football from now till practice starts in August is probably going to be bad.

Misbehavior or worse by college kids will get a lot of attention….or even, in the case of three high school kids from Columbus, Georgia, misbehavior by high school kids.

So what does the average college football fan do for the next few months?

Well, there is always the continuing saga of the NCAA vs. Auburn, or TheOhioState or Oregon…will the NCAA suddenly discover how to do the job it is supposed to do?

I’d say the odds of that are longer than for Tennessee to win the national championship in Derek Dooley’s “year one.”

And judging from some of the pronouncements coming from the NCAA headquarters, for instance the one where it is now illegal (or is it?) for a coach to pay to subscribe to one of the pay recruiting services, I am not exactly filled with optimism that things NCAA are going to get any more clear in the near future.

The NCAA and its new boss Mark Emmert seem to have no clue how to police the sport in an even-handed way and to ignore the pressure exerted on them from conference commissioners, bowl committees and other eminent worthies who have a monetary interest in a specific interpretation of the rules.

So no matter what the NCAA does to any of the afore mentioned institutions of higher learning, the only thing that is to be counted on is that no ruling the body makes will be viewed as fair and just by everybody.

Used to, if you were interested during the spring and summer you could watch NASCAR, but that stuff is beginning to get pretty silly. Fans of Earnhardt, Jr. for instance are shaking their heads at the finish of the race at Talladega (tal ah digga) and are wondering which wall Jimmy Johnson would have been smacked into if Dale’s daddy had been pushing Johnson at the finish line.

A lot of old time NASCAR folks have the view that the sport has sold out to things like TV and Ethanol, which ruins the motors in your tractors and chain saws, and many of these old world racing fans are asking the question: “What would Dale do?”

So that leaves baseball and golf, and I suppose tennis or something.

Uncle Roscoe is a baseball fan, but he is busy working at a Walmart in Andalusia, Al guarding Auburn’s crystal football as it makes its rounds around the state. Roscoe is not guarding the glass from some Bama fan, but from the NCAA who, in the back of Roscoe’s mind are going to come swooping in to take the thing away from him at any minute.

And golf….well golf is not a bad game to play, but watching it is, to me, more boring than watching Mother bake bread. Golf is one of those games you are supposed to be interested in if you are of a certain age and class, which makes a pretty keen statement about both age and class.

So us college football fans will open the paper, either live or on the web, and hope we don’t read about our favorite players at all, because if we do it will not be good news, they will have broken their leg playing golf or been arrested for speeding in a golf cart or something.

It seems like fall is an eternity away.

- Scorpio Jones III

…We are still the greatest military power in the world… on paper. We have more nuclear weapons than any nation on earth. We haven’t been invaded seriously since 1812. But our nuclear stockpile, depleted by several arms reduction treaties, is useless in the type of wars we have been fighting since it was developed. It makes a great deterrent. We are not in great danger of being invaded by another nation. But 9/11 showed us that we are as vulnerable as the rest of the world to crazed zealots. Our military hasn’t had a clear-cut victory since World War II, unless you count that little skirmish in Panama. Did we “defeat” North Korea? No. North Vietnam? No. Iraq. Kinda… but not really. We left Saddam in charge after the first Gulf War and we’ve been fighting Gulf War, Part Deux, in Iraq since March of 2003… with no end in sight. “Operation Enduring Freedom” has been going on in Afghanistan since October of 2001... and we are just repeating the mistakes that the former Soviet Union made there…

…Economically, we’re a debtor nation. The Chinese own a frightening amount of our assets. The U.S. federal budget deficit was $1.3 trillion in fiscal 2010, the second highest recorded since 1945. And things don’t look like they’re getting any better anytime soon. Recent instability in the Middle East has led us close to $4 per gallon gas prices… and experts are predicting $5 a gallon by the summer. I recently rewatched “Syriana,” an excellent film that does a good job of showing just how complicated the “oil business” is. Our nation rose to greatness on its ability to get relatively inexpensive oil. But today, U.S. oil consumption is approximately 21 million barrels per day. Domestic production is only 6 million barrels per day. Public transportation in our country lags behind most of the rest of the so-called “advanced” nations. We have all been living in a dream world full of unlimited, relatively inexpensive oil. The reality check is going to be very painful…

…Which brings me to our democracy. I tend to be more “liberal” than a lot of people, but there is really no party that tracks to my personal ideology. I have been completely disillusioned by the Obama administration on so many levels. I was completely disgusted by the rampant profiteering of the Bush II administration. I am now convinced that both of our major political parties are so far away from their former core values that there’s not much difference between them. Politicians have to sell their souls to get elected. As I have said before, politicians don’t really run our country. The people who own our politicians run our country. Despite this, there are revolutionaries fighting every day to overthrow governments so they can emulate our “democracy.” Sad, but true…

…A couple of months ago, I got involved in a heated email “war” with a devoted Tea Party member. She got pissed when I kept pointing out some of the blatantly racist views of some high-profile TP leaders. I got pissed because she really didn’t want to hear any factual information that opposed her views. The Tea Party still creeps me out a bit. There is no consistent message. There are some strange “leaders” involved. They have no real plan other than radical change. But… as time goes by and our nation looks less and less like the America I grew up being proud of… radical change is seeming good enough for me. Thomas Jefferson said it best: “Every generation needs a revolution.” America is too far gone for minor course corrections. It’s time to crash the system and start over…

— Mark Bedford

On April 17th 2010 I booked a nice and easy family vacation on the Gulf Coast. Even though I am an Atlantic Coast kind of guy I figured Panama City would be a quick down and back for our family. Our business is hopping with tourist and locals in June but I strongly felt my family needed to have some fun and memories also.

So I decided to surprise them with a four-day trip in June to the calmer Gulf waters and of course all the tourist trap fun the Redneck Rivera has to offer. Believe me, this would be a huge event for a family that lives to work when the weather is warm.

Then three days later on April 20th 2010 the Deepwater Horizon exploded and the Gulf Coast would no longer be the family get-away option it once was. Luckily I had taken out trip insurance so the loss was not as bad as it could have been for our family but soon it was clear that the Gulf might “never” be the same.

At first it was an explosion and the loss of life and property, after three months of gushing it became an environmental nightmare. The BP oil spill would soon become the largest accidental spill in the history of the petroleum industry.

I am not a tree hugger, I eat meat, spray bugs if they get in the way and if I found myself hungry I would shoot Bambi however this event crushed my soul.

Somehow as the event unfolded there was a feeling that our planet was taking a shot to the gut that might be the one that could signal a decline in our blue mother, a decline in mankind’s ability to feed ourselves in the future.

I mean just how much can she take before she buckles?

Horizon gushed for three months and BP started off reporting that 1,000 barrels a day were being dumped into the beautiful gulf waters. That number seemed manageable but soon we discovered the truth that by the time it was capped in July over 58,000 barrels a day had been assaulting the environment. On top of that dissolvents were being used on the oil in huge amounts in an attempt to disburse or hide the damage.

Over 42,000 square miles of the Gulf are off limits to shrimping, huge underwater deposits of oil are moving through the waters and there is an 8o square mile kill zone surrounding the site of the disaster.

Eighty square miles where anything that swims through or once lived in those waters is dead.
Marshes are oil soaked, fish, turtles and bird populations affected in ways we may never truly understand. Dolphins are dying in large numbers and tourist like us stayed away.

Tell me as you are reading, does this make you sick deep down inside? Does it feel like maybe we are pushing our planet a bit too far?

206,000,000 US gallons of nasty ass crude entered the Gulf of Mexico which to those of us who love our coastal waters understand is going to be an issue for generations to come. In case you’re wondering a generation is generally considered 20-22 years. I have been swimming in the Gulf for two generations, caught my first 100 pound fish and learned to sail surf in her waters. I have hosted a few MTV Spring Break Parties and watched the sun come up and go down on her beaches. I believe most of us would kick someone’s butt if they pulled up and dumped even one barrel of crude in the water. BP dumped millions yet our government has allowed them to pretty much get by with minimal punishment.

We all complain about four dollar gas and high energy bills yet my wife drives a van. Many people still like their SUVs (Sport Utility Vehicles) even though the only “Sport” they use them for is going back and forth to soccer practice. Speaking of soccer, my little girl wants to play that game from over the pond despite my insistence that it “isn’t really a sport”.

This is not really the place for this conversation but I am a bit devastated and even freaked out at the thought that I might have to actually sit and watch a game that Prince Harry calls Phootball.
My point about the above is less a point and more a concern. I love these Tennessee Mountains, our rivers and our lakes. The deserts out West are beyond beautiful and despite the rain the Pacific Coast is breathtaking.

However, Mother, Mother Ocean is the place where I am most at peace. The tides, the surf, the unknown of the depths and the breeze that leaves a hint of salt on my tongue and kisses my face as I look out at the horizon, that makes our oceans, seas and gulfs magical to me.

Not much else to say except maybe we all need to conserve more. Maybe we should all write our elected ones and ask what’s up in the gulf? Maybe we should all just say a prayer for God’s greatest gift of all, our planet. I am pretty sure he never meant for us to dump oil and radioactive materials into her waters. I don’t think God likes looking down through the smoke in her skies?

Humans rape her as if she will always forgive us.

We better hope that she does.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...Chattanooga is a paradox. “We” were recently named one of the “Seven Most Intelligent Communities” in the whole wide world. We have way cool fast fiber internet service, free electric shuttles, and a great big aquarium. But, in a lot of ways, this city is still run by a fairly small handful of feudal lords...

...As progressive as Chattanooga now seems to the casual observer, there are still a lot of old-school Southern business traditions lurking behind the shiny new facade. Private meetings that happen before the public meetings. Nothing big happens in this city without the right rings being kissed and the right palms being greased. Entire “non-profit organizations” have been formed to promote development... as long as it benefits the right people. One of the more fascinating implications of the recent influx of new money is the potential impact of that money on the regional status quo. There have always been “self-made men” (and the occasional “self-made woman”) who have floated to the top here without much help from the traditional power brokers. But the German invasion, in particular, threatens to create an entire money stream well outside of the traditional control structure. It’s going to be interesting...

...Chattanooga is a town where some people care more about where you went to high school than where you went to college. If you went to one of the “big three” local prep schools, that is. Baylor, McCallie and Girls Preparatory School have all instructed generations of bluebloods. Business and personal relationships cultivated in those schools can carry a lot of weight in later life. Marriages between children from within this hallowed trifecta sometimes seem as arranged as those in India’s upper castes. The lower-tier private schools — Notre Dame, Chattanooga Christian, Boyd-Buchanan, etc. — all exist to serve a higher purpose by providing a denominational religious curriculum... and to let parents protect their kids from the hazards of a multicultural, multiracial, public education. Baylor, McCallie and GPS only care about one denomination... the “Benjamins,” baby...

...The ongoing challenges of public education in our city shouldn’t come as any kind of surprise. Chattanooga’s early reputation as “The Dynamo of Dixie” came as a result of its manufacturing job base. As a “right to work” state (i.e. non-union), Tennessee has always been a nice option for manufacturers from up north. The last thing any of those manufacturers wanted was an overeducated work force. And all of the business owners and upper managers sent their kids to private school, anyway...

...If you think I seem jaded or negative, you’re just reacting to my inherently sarcastic choices in words and phrasing. The big-money families with five generations of private school education do an awful lot for this community. They make things happen. They support local charities and “the arts.” But don’t let the nobless oblige fool you. Old money got to be old money by adding to it... generation by generation. When bad genetics or bad luck create offspring without the smarts to sustain the family business, the ruling generation sells out rather than hand over control to those who can’t sustain or build more wealth. That’s just smart business. The impending collision of Chattanooga’s old money and the increasing amount of new money will take a long time to unfold... and I don’t expect much to change any time soon...

— Mark Bedford

Speaking of gas prices. Can you remember in the late 90s when gas was like 98 cents a gallon? I drove a jeep and never worried about the millage. Now, that was a good decade.

While digging through some files from my TV show Chattanooga Live I found some of my celebrity news from the late 90s. It made me wonder:

• Not really news but I found my Furby.

• Do you remember Elizabeth Shue in a sweater in Karate Kid? Was she worth all the butt whippings Daniel took over her?

• Do you remember how great Friends was? I loved Anniston's muffin butt however Courteney Cox in the Springstein video did have nice eyes.
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• If Nicolas Cage can have a movie career why cant I?

• Did Tom Cruise screw up by leaving Nicole Kidman? I say yes, BIG YES! But again he has Katie now and she is a cutie.

• I wonder if Hugh Grant still spends an occasional twenty bucks on cheap street hookers?

• Whose house does Kato Kaelin live at now?

• Tom Hanks is fat now which means there could never be another Forrest Gump movie, unless Life really is like a box of chocolates.

• Matt Dillon got the best movie part ever as the teacher in “Wild Things”.

• 90210, more famous than 0ICU812, amazing.

• Mel Gibson was the man, then he got weird, too bad.

• Janet Jackson was cute, then she got weird, too bad.

• Johnny Depp was weird, then he made Pirates and he was the man, then he made Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, too bad.

• Speaking of weird, one word, Whoopi. That's my view!

• Cindy Crawford sold underwear, I bought it. Then she sold Pepsi, I bought it. Now she is selling furniture. What the hell does Cindy Crawford know about furniture?

• The 90's Battle of the “I think I am cool”. Dennis Leary vs Dice Clay. The winner, VH-1s Where are they now.

• Donald Trump was Rich and Famous and had bad hair, is it still the 90s? Trump for President 2012!

• In the 90s Sean Penn was a rebel actor with a trailer park mentality and his wife Madonna was a sex pot pop star. Today he is a Oscar winner and she is an English Lady. Are you kidding me?

• In the 90s Snoop Dogg scared White people who played golf and drove Chrysler products, today he is selling Chryslers to them from the links.

• In the 90's I used to look back and wish for the days of Reagan, today I look back and wish for the days of Clinton.

• Then Courtney Love was a drugged out, skank nasty rocker, well at least some things are the same.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...Police arrested Jesse Mathews, 25, who has an extensive history of armed robberies for the murder of 51-year-old Chapin...

...Now throw in the tensions we all feel from the national and international issues that affect us all. Rising oil prices are hitting our gas pumps daily.Four-dollar gallons are coming. We are at war in Afghanistan and Iraq, while also flying over Libya and dropping some ordnance...

...Our national budget is incredibly out of whack. The Democrats and the Republicans can’t agree on what to do to fix it. So they might let our government shut down in a game of nationally-televised “chicken” with incredibly high stakes. No one has all of the answers. In fact, no has any of the answers...so far...

...Don’t think me a herald of doom. There are a lot of good things going on. Locally, the infusion of capital, employment and purchasing power caused by the Volkswagen and Amazon.com projects has sparked an influx of contractors and suppliers. Our downtown is vibrant and cool. Coolidge Park is usually a fun and safe place to hang out...

...Our community and our country face big decisions. Both need to set their key priority. Chattanooga has to put all of its energy, funding and manpower into making our streets safer. America needs to gets its financial house in order... now... without distraction...

...Sometimes there are nights full of bright lights and loud music... after those dark days. You just have to suck it up and keep going. One foot in front of the other...

— Mark Bedford

The shooting of one of Chattanooga’s finest cast a dark cloud over the weekend. It actually left bullet holes in the building where my corporate headquarters are located. It left holes in the hearts of many here in our city and as always leaves us all thinking about the sacrifices that our police and first responders make every day.

Of course it will be popular for a while to salute these professionals but then as always the memory will fade too quickly and before long citizens will be back to complaining about the force and in our cities case the force and its needs will be neglected by city hall. That was a shame before this bleak event and will be even sadder after.

Just last week I wrote about how “Our nation’s recovery begins right here in our community”.

Perhaps the healing that is needed downtown will begin right now. Maybe it will become even clearer in our leaders minds how very important a strong and unified police department is. Maybe the easily spoken cliché’s about sacrifice will have “true meaning” moving forward. Let’s all hope so.

As I said this has been a tough week and on top of that it is Spring Break for my kids. Good report cards mean promises of cool fun during Spring Break. So in order to fulfill those promises and to hopefully fight my own depression from the above I planned a Daddy/Daughter Day on Monday. So five year-old Princess and her dad load up for a late lunch and fun. Before we could complete the mission the weather began to turn so we left our downtown location and headed home. Upon arrival and as is the tradition at our house the rest of the family gathered on the big covered front porch and gave us the traditional and enthusiastic welcoming.

So with kids 3 and 5 on the porch with mom I went to bring up the garbage cans before the rain hit. Before I could start up the 20 yard hill with the can in tow I felt a drop of rain and then all hell broke loose up the street.

I glanced up the road after hearing the crash and splintering of trees to see debris, a dark cloud and what looked like a pine tree rocket that started up but changed its mind and just fell sideways. I stopped and looked like Will Smith spying the panic on his street in Independence Day, my neighbor was at their mailbox and then it was a race to the houses. The wife had an even better view from her perch and was corralling kids and screaming “to the middle bathroom NOW”!

In the moment my butt crack and hand slammed shut and I drug the garbage can up the hill with me as if to say “you can take the house and family but the can is staying with me”. Then as the wife went into the house she said “What are you doing? Leave the can”.

As I placed the can, leaped the steps and headed in I saw what I thought was my neighbor’s house coming apart.

After spending a brief time in the middle bathroom hunkered down we came out to find the neighbors houses had survived. The carport and a trampoline from the other street were the last debris I had seen flying and trees were toppled up and down the street.

I have a leaky roof now and my beloved VW was scratched by tree branches but as butt slamming weather scares go the entire block came out in great shape.

And I am happy to report that many of my neighbors were running around in the rain looking for their garbage cans while mine was safe and sound, just as I planned it.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...The NCAA Mens’ Basketball Tournament has been just plain crazy. Virginia Commonwealth University, one of the “play in” teams and a team that was almost universally judged to be unworthy of a place in the 68-team draw, joins Kentucky, Connecticut and Butler in the Final Four. Holy crap. There are no #1 or #2 seeds in the FF. A convergence of forces has created a perfect storm that has made men’s college basketball slightly more interesting...

...First off, this sudden “parity” between the “mid majors” and the top shelf teams from the marquee conferences is not that sudden. Big time programs recruit big time players who want to do some college time and start earning some bank in the NBA. “Mid majors” have four-year players and JuCo overachievers. Team chemistry on the mid-major teams is amazing to watch. It all comes together to create some sort of balance of power...

...I guess I’m pulling for Kentucky in the FF. When I was a high-schooler, my parents and I drove from Chattanooga to Oklahoma. During the long drive, we picked up Kentucky Wildcat games on the AM radio. We spent several nights listening to the exploits of point guard Jimmy Dan Conner and his cohorts. But, honestly, I’m kind of pulling for VCU too. Who wouldn’t be? Seriously...

...On this Tuesday night, I’m watching the U.S. men’s soccer team play Paraguay in a “friendly” (scrimmagelike) match. The Paras lead, 1-0, so far. The match is being played at LP Field in Nashville. I meant to go. But the game day kind of snuck up on me. If the U.S. comes back to tie or win, I’ll feel bad. Ten-ish minutes left to play. Not feeling bad yet...

...Last night, I watched Notre Dame’s Lady Irish beat up on the Lady Vols. The LV’s had to win to make it to the Chicks’ Final Four, but ND just owned them in the second half. I have not see anyone push a Pat Summitt-coached team around... ever. Until Notre Dame pushed them around...

...Things don’t look good for the U.S. men’s soccer team. Michael Bradley just nailed a shot at goal that was saved by the Guayan goalkeeper. With four minutes left, it will be hard for the Yanks to get another great shot at goal...

...Paraguay 1, Estados Unidos 0. I’m glad I didn’t drive to Nashville for that one. I’m glad I didn’t get tickets to the Chicks’ Final Four... and I’m glad I don’t really care who wins the Final Four this year...

— Mark Bedford

2008 was a national historic election. Many believed the next President would need to be a modern day Moses if we were to survive.

In 2008 this country was on the verge of financial collapse greater than anything most of us had ever seen. Our military was fighting two wars, three if you count the ongoing battle against Radical Islam.

Our people were divided on at least as many fronts. Racial debates, hatred between our political parties and many concerns about many parts of the world. Global warming sparked fears that Mother Earth was revolting against the human race’s treatment of our once green home.

China was threatening our world standing as the International Heavy Weight Champion, millions of Americans were without healthcare while educational standards continued to slip down to levels indicating our demise.

American’s were looking for a savior.

In such times the flashiest, most out spoken leaders often find the spotlight and 2008 was no different. America wished upon a “Star” and Obama was born, politically speaking. His rallies were like rock concerts. His words all rehearsed and made to shine in a time where our country was looking for light just like bugs on a country porch in the heat of a summer night.

Better to be drawn to the “Obama Bulb” than the “Burning Bush” I guess?

Fast forward to today.

The financial panic has settled a bit but the picket fence we have been straddling between recovery and a double dip disaster has been nothing short of a pain in the ass. There is no real relief in sight and many believe it may soon be time for shotguns and canned food.

We are now in four wars, Japan is the latest country to feel earth’s revolt against mankind and China is being heralded as the next great example of man’s ability to excel.

As for the savior that brought Oprah to tears, well it has become very clear that he is no Moses.

I have never been a fan of the man from Chicago, Hawaii or is it Indonesia? However I am pretty sure NO MAN in four years could lead us out of the mess we have been making for the last few decades.

“You go into Roosevelt’s presence, you feel his eyes upon you, you listen to him, and you go home and wring the personality out of your clothes.”
Author Richard Washburn Child describing T.R. after a visit to the White House

The personality of our leader has proven to be not enough. America needs to show “character” as a nation, that’s what changed the world during Roosevelt’s time.

“His crowds had been growing for a full seven days before the debates, but now, overnight, they seethed with enthusiasm and multiplied in numbers, as if the sight of him, in their homes on the video box, had given him a star quality reserved for television and movie idols.”
Theodore H. White on John F. Kennedy,The Making of the President

Kennedy’s charisma did not put a man on the moon, America’s determination did.

“We arrived at the place after a long journey and at the front was a sign that read BATHHOUSE. Outside people receive soap and a towel. Who knows what they will do with us?” Without screaming or weeping these people undressed, stood in family groups, kissed each other, said farewells. An old woman, naked with snow white hair was holding a one year-old child in her arms and singing to it. The child was cooing with delight.”
From the journal of an inmate at a German concentration camp

Nothing compares to the horror of the above but we have been on a long journey towards disaster ourselves and too many of us have accepted our fate.

“This is an American child. This is an American home. Lucky young American. No child in the world has so bright a future.”
1947 toothpaste commercial
I didn’t think I would see any company using this angle today. The closest thing would be “Smiling Bob” running the colors up his flag pole, of course it would have to folded up and put away after four hours or he would need to seek the attention of a trained medical practitioner.

Then Eminem, Chrysler and Detroit showed Super Bowl audiences a little community pride and in that moment it was clear to me.

Focus on Chattanooga, focus on our part of the world and allow our actions to filter out as they may. Maybe Libya will never know that Coolidge Park is safer or that our police rounded up a bunch of turds over the weekend but we will know. Maybe oil prices will continue to soar but if I drive slower and turn my heat down my bank account will feel a bit better.

If the USA continues to loose ground in education I can’t do a lot about it but I can demand that my kids make the most of their educational opportunities and that their teachers are held responsible by ME if they fail at their jobs. We can all reach out to less fortunate kids and offer them our support as well. The police will appreciate it because it could mean one less turd to round up later. It could lead to the Moses everyone is looking for. It will for sure make Chattanooga more worthy of an Eminem commercial.

Recovery for our nation starts right here, in our community. Let’s all do our part and hope others will do the same.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...The University of Tennessee’s maddest March ever ended with the Vols getting absolutely destroyed by Michigan. Vols’ athletic director Mike Hamilton made some ill-timed remarks about the future employment status of coach Bruce Pearl, then canned Pearl not long after. Thankfully, Tennessee sports fans have Coach Pat Summitt’s classy Lady Vols to root for still...

...I was ambivalent about going out on St. Pat’s day this year. As is often the case, I made my go/no go decision kind of late. I drove by a long line of emerald-clad partiers and pulled into the parking lot next to JJ’s Bohemia. Good call. Ringgold punksters Local Union entertained a relatively reserved throng. LU even pulled out a solid cover of “Shipping Up to Boston”... twice...

...The most recent round of violence at Coolidge Park has us all wondering what can be done. The Chattanooga Police Department hasn’t found an effective anti-gang strategy... yet. The best advice for now is the simplest advice. Stay away from places where you don’t feel safe...

...This March’s madness is extending all over the world. We are lobbing cruise missiles into Libya. President Obama’s actions against Moammar Gaddafi have him facing criticism from both parties. I think it was time for the U.S. to act, even though there are those who believe Obama overstepped his authority. Gadaffi was using helicopter gunships, naval vessels and his army to commit virtual genocide against his own people. If our armed forces have a purpose beyond protecting our own nation, surely it must be used to help defeat such tyrants...

...Meanwhile, the situation in Japan is still uncertain. One of the emergent truths of the earthquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster is the unreliability of official Japanese government information. As of this writing, things still don’t look good at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant. Aftershocks continue. We’re still not sure if all of spent fuel rods are being cooled down. But they have the power on again... and that’s something...

...During the maddest March in my memory, I take solace in the fact that Spring has sprung. We had an ugly winter this year and I’m glad to see it go. I liked the snow... mostly. But I got really tired of the bone-numbing cold. I didn’t even mind making my watch and clocks “spring forward” this year. I could use an extra hour of sunlight these days...

— Mark Bedford

Seems Spring has decided it too is an event.

No Christmas Star but a Giant Moon. As I mentioned no snow but equally glorious Spring weather. School is out for an early season Spring Break and BANG, perfect weather. As for me, I love Chattanooga for many reasons and one of them is the four seasons and the last year has now been completed with four very distinct seasons. And with the weather there are several other dead giveaways that something different is going on.

So let’s check out Kahunaman’s Top Signs Spring Has Arrived.

Donald Trump (The next President of the USA) has replaced his hair with fake Easter basket grass.

Lady Gaga’s egg is painted.

My friend Tommy has almost finished puking green beer.

You have more daylight to go outside and breathe in Japanese radiation.

Pregnant women are everywhere. Most births in the US are in August due to cold weather snuggling but making it even more obvious is that when it is cold you don’t notice the baby bumps as much due to heavy clothing but when it gets warm, BANG! Good thing they are already bumped or they would be because these pregnant women sure don’t wear much anymore.

The background in Osama Bin Laden’s latest video looks suspiciously like the Warner Park Zoo.

Muammar Gaddafi’s wearing a festive Hawaiian shirt while pouring water over women wearing camo wife beaters.

Hillary Clinton is cutting off the bottoms of her pantsuits for maximum cankle-cooling. Meanwhile Bill is shining up his gun and like Elmer Fudd saying “I think I saw an Intern”.

God and Rush Limbaugh are deciding who to punish this hurricane season.

Lindsay Lohan is shoplifting sun block and little drink umbrellas.

President Obama returns from winter vacation in Brazil and starts packing for spring break in Libya.

Everywhere you look, animals are mating. Particularly if you go to Coolidge Park at night.

Just like every spring the Middle East is brimming with examples of how much better their way is than ours.

And finally, it’s Springtime in Southeastern Tennessee and the Meth Heads have finally decided to have yard sales featuring all the toasters they disassembled during the winter.

Get out of the house and go play!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Because if I have been there, I have without a doubt “been there and have the t-shirt”.

If I have done something in my life I have a t-shirt commemorating it. I wish I had one that said “Kahunaman for President 2008” or “Kahunaman Cured Cancer” but unfortunately I have not done those things just yet, but in the world of eventful t-shirt events, I have an impressive resume’.

Here is a small sampling of my 1000+ Ts.

• Greater Chattanooga Naked Fountain Society. Yeah I earned it on a dare.

• Sex is like Basketball and I can’t choose between a Slam Dunk or a 3 pointer? This one is a girl’s shirt and on the back it says “FOUL don’t even think about it”. Again when you are on Talk TV people bring you some weird stuff.

• Club Hedonism mixed topless mud volleyball t-shirt. Sorry to say I wasn’t there. Again it was a gift from a viewer of my old TV show.

• “Proud to be a Rossville Bulldog”. It’s a little sad to think that there is not a RHS anymore.

• Sports have played a huge part in my life, from my KZ 106 Foul Tips uniform to dozens of basketball, softball and football uniforms. The dumbest uniform? My Miller Lite Rugby jersey, stupid sport, but the girls and parties made it worth it. Ugliest uniform? My polyester “Gibson Discount Center softball uni. Ugly and HOT, but never wrinkled.

• “I Got Lei-ed at The Loft” Luau nights, “I was a Star” Karaoke at Shenanigans, “Enjoy Dick on the Deck” New Years Eve at Sunset Café and Beads, Beer and Babes Big Kahuna’s Wild Wednesday. Being an entertainment promoter forever means you have many, many bar shirts. My favorite? “Show me your tits and buy me a beer at Spinnakers” Spring Break 1999

• Speaking of “Spring Break”, I have a collection of MTV Spring Break Ts from the 4 years that I worked on stage during the chaos that was those events. My favorite? “Your mom and dad will never know”.

• Because of my stage name I have dozens of Big Kahuna shirts from all over, I also am a well known butt-man, I love a shapely female behind. I have Big Kahuna and thong Ts brought to me by friends, patrons and viewers “Who just couldn’t resist”.

I have a “Road to Aruba” paintball shirt proving that I played on the beach against and was shot up by some of the world’s best paintball players. Imagine being in Aruba on a topless beach with dozens of welts and bruises all over your body. People almost ran from me like I had The Plague.

• There is my Forgotten Child Fund “I know I am somebody cause God don’t make no junk” shirt and dozens of Walk, Run, Golf, Mud Volleyball and Pig Kissing shirts. My mom was a Cancer Survivor and she and I hosted and walked in an event on the fifth anniversary of her remission, now that she is gone that shirt means even more.

• All my years doing entertainment TV and radio means I have 2 decades of movie, music and concert shirts. My favorites? Autographed Lynyrd Skynyrd and Motley Crue, Titanic, Halloween, Independence Day, MIB. I even have some dogs like Water World and Water Boy.

• I have lots of sports shirts, Braves World Series, Falcons Super Bowl, a Hooters Tampa shirt signed by Warren Sapp, Raiders gear signed by Howie Long and Marcus Allen, #21 Atlanta Hawks and a guy named Jordan.

• Chattanooga sports are a big part of my life. My shirts tell the story. I have a field of 1000 dreams Softball T, featuring UTC and UT, a Round House dedication T featuring UT and UTC. My 20 years as The Moc Maniac is documented by, what else, my t-shirts. I have Sweet Sixteen shirts, Southern Conference Championship shirts, We Believe, Our House and a Huck Fuckaby shirt. I have the first ever Moc Maniac shirt and old school Indian Moc gear. 2011’s Black Out and I also have that damned “Shoe” shirt. I have new logos and some ugly stuff. I also have many shirts with past team rosters on the back including the Jr. and Senior shirt featuring #4 Terrell Owens, I think I will sell those on E-Bay.

• I guess my favorite shirt in a sick way is a shirt brought to me by a TV viewer, it was a public service shirt for the Tijuana tourist bureau “If It Smells Bad, Don’t Eat It”.

A shirt to live by.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass
PS. While I write silly stuff my heart goes out to the people of Japan.

As you race fans know, NASCAR has agreed to begin using ethanol-laced gasoline in its racecars this year.

And, as with any technical change in NASCAR, there are already repercussions. For instance, according to both published and broadcast reports, the new fuel is good for about five percent less fuel economy than the old, non corn containing gasoline.

But wait a minute. I thought we were spending all this money on ethanol plants and growing corn because it lowered our dependence on furrin oil?

But if NASCAR’s engines, which one would suppose, are considerably better tuned than momma’s mini van, get worse gas mileage burning ethanol than pure gasoline, then how does that help lower our dependence on furrin oil?

And in that question is essence of what will, at some point in the future, become the largest hoax ever perpetrated on the American consumer.

Corn belt states began subsidizing ethanol after the Arab oil embargo of 1973. The federal government joined the party a few years later. The Energy Tax Act of 1978 authorized an excise tax exemption for biofuels, chiefly gasohol (a gasoline blend containing at least 10 percent ethanol). Another federal program provided loan guarantees for the construction of ethanol plants, and in 1986 the U.S. even gave ethanol producers free corn. It’s estimated that the excise exemption alone costs U.S. taxpayers as much as $1.4 billion per year.

Some experts, at least those not supported by a direct subsidy from a corn state or an oil company, agree it takes more fossil fuel energy to produce say, a gallon of ethanol, than it does to produce, say, a gallon of straight gasoline. And, because of this, the gallon of ethanol, which is said to be cleaner burning than straight gasoline, and therefore much friendlier to the atmosphere, actually causes more pollution in its production than straight gasoline.

And, since ethanol-laced gasoline is less efficient, it causes momma’s mini-van to use more gasoline remember. Ethanol contains only about two-thirds as much energy per gallon as gasoline, so cars using ethanol blends get lower mileage.

So the addition of ethanol to gasoline actually benefits nobody….except the oil cartels, and one very large lobbying group….the corn producers.
According to the website “The Straight Dope,” “The immediate beneficiaries of ethanol subsidies have been corn farmers and, more significantly, the Archer Daniels Midland Corporation of Decatur, Illinois, better known as ADM. The world’s largest grain processor, ADM produces 40 percent of the ethanol used to make gasohol. As might be supposed, the company and its officers have been eloquent in their defense of ethanol and generous in contributing to both political parties. The politicians have been generous right back. The libertarian Cato Institute estimates that every dollar of ADM’s ethanol profit costs taxpayers 30 bucks.”

Who do you think is paying for the nice video of the big green tractor during NASCAR races?

The ethanol you are ruining the seals in your pre-2001 fuel injections system with, and ruining the engine on your lawnmower with (and any other small engine that depends on fuel to help cool the innards of the motor) is there not for “green” reasons, it is there for political reasons.

Congress knuckled under, and continues to knuckle under to the demands of the Corn Belt, and meanwhile, if the old car you love to drive is consistently getting lower fuel mileage, and is beginning to run a little rough when you start it to go to work in the morning, well, that’s just too bad, you should junk the old car and buy a new one that will run, although not as efficiently, on ethanol-based gasoline, and the car dealers will appreciate you, and so will your bank.

You, and NASCAR, can tell all your buddies that you “finally went green.”

- Scorpio Jones III

So like in 2008, like 2001, like 94, and as it was in 1973 the Middle East is going ape crap crazy and the energy dependent West, that’s us, well we are getting a self inflicted butt banging.

This makes the Kahunaman very angry as I am sure it does you. Obama said one, Uno, 1 thing that I applauded in his entire election campaign. “Ten years to eliminate dependence on foreign oil”.

Well Mr. O, Health Care is good, unless you can’t afford to drive to the damn hospital to get your hip replaced.
Healthcare is good unless the fuel cost to operate an ambulance means it’s cheaper to just bury you.

Healthcare may be needed as the Flying Pig Flu caused by the lack of oil to heat our homes kills us all.

Ten years to independence?

When Kennedy set his goal of putting an American on the moon in ten years I am pretty sure he didn’t spend half his budget and two years on checking Astronauts prostates!

Hell no, he brought in the best and the brightest including those German guys to start solving some problems. It is time to start solving some problems.

Problems? Kahunaman is the man to solve America’s Problems!
First problem. Soccer Moms! They all drive freakin SUVs and Mini Vans and leave the damn car running while waiting for practice to be over. Drive a VW TDI, at least cut the car off and roll down the window. Better idea, ban soccer, it’s not really a sport.

Second Problem. Fat people! More weight means more fuel burned. New law all Fat People must walk. Walk long enough and Fatties become fit and they can drive again. There I just made America healthier and now we don’t need healthcare so that Money Pit becomes research dollars and before long we are on our way.

National Goal. The Big O said Detroit should build more Hybrids. I say that is an uninformed mandate. America should build more Clown Cars. Your carpool just got crazy efficient.

Next Kahunaman Mandate. No More Drive Through Windows.
All people wanting fast service must park their cars, walk through the window and then drive away. Millions of barrels of oil saved on excessive idle times in line and again if you eat that food you get fat and then your walking again so don’t even go there. See how simple this is?

Next Problem. Stupid People. Turn down the music and get off the phone.  I love my tunes and I have had a mobile phone since they cost as much a month as my current house payment. However, how many times have you seen people listening to a song on the radio with the volume turned all the way up and then they look down at the phone all the while they are running up on red lights, speeding a block to the next light, slamming to a stop and riding their brakes while they read a text? New Law Stupid people have to walk! The more stupid people walk the more they get into traffic, eventually we have reduced our energy consumption and weeded out the stupid ones as well. Test scores soar and suddenly America is on the rise again.

Finally, the Redneck Rule. No gun racks, guns add weight, no cow horns, they cause wind drag, no more than 40 beer cans in truck beds at one time and all trucks must run with their tailgates down unless taking sick drunk friends home from local bar.

It’s a simple plan for a great nation but “We Can” do it.

However you still might want to dust off the roller skates and bikes, it could be a long summer.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Auburn has called for calm. Auburn president Jay Gogue tried to ward off the inevitable counterattack from his ranks, imploring fans in a statement to remember, “Individuals act alone, not on behalf of anyone or any place, and all universities are vulnerable to and condemn such reprehensible acts.”

What’s actually amusing about all this is that there are people out there in rest of the country who think this behavior is weird.

NASCAR takes an interesting approach to having a season-ending Super Bowl-like event. They have it at the beginning of the racing season.

This year the Daytona 500 marked the 10th anniversary of the death of Dale Earnhardt, and in tribute, on the third lap of the race, there was a “moment of silence”, which almost, but not quite, silenced the Fox broadcast team for a whole minute.

Effectively every fan in the stands spent the lap with three fingers raised in tribute to Earnhardt’s number three. It was, I have to admit, pretty moving.

Out on the track, the racecar drivers have found the new pavement on the track at Daytona allows them to find new and creative ways to destroy racecars. The latest is to draft in pairs at something approaching 200 miles per hour. This latest trick is an extension of the “bump-drafting” technique used for years at most super speedways, with one notable difference.

In “bump-drafting” the guy behind backed off in the corners, in the new “pairs” technique, nobody lets off anywhere on the track.

The problem with this is two-fold for the drivers….The guy behind, the pusher, if you will, can not really see what is going on in front of the guy he is pushing, and the pusher’s engine does not get enough cooling air so it is necessary to constantly swap places which leads to some interesting moments during the race.

There were some interesting, multi-car pile-ups, which must have overjoyed the Fox Sports bosses, since that is all they seem to be interested in their promos for the NASCAR season.

By the end of the race, all but one of the cars left on the lead lap had at least some structural and cosmetic damage.

Interestingly, the one car that was ding-free, won the race.
The Number 21, Woods Brothers car, driven by Trevor Bayne who is reported to be from Knoxville, had spent most of the race pushing other more imminent luminaries around the track, but at the end was fast enough to out-maneuver and out-run the pack to take the win.

Bayne, who at 20 is the youngest driver to win a Daytona 500, was driving for NASCAR’s oldest team, the Wood Brothers in a car carrying one of the fabled numbers from the all time history of NASCAR, that of David Pearson.

Bayne, during his winner’s circle episode, actually managed to thank God, which is something that does not often happen in NASCAR post-race Champaign bathing.

Bayne had only signed up for 17 races with the Wood Brothers, reports are that that may change.

- Scorpio Jones III

With a sagging economy where even corporate giants like GM and IBM don’t look like good long term career choices, I have been searching for “The Next Big Thing”.

So I pick up a few magazines that offer me “The Chance at Financial Independence”. These magazines are packed with more ads than articles, each one exciting yet, unbelievable. Ads that attract you with slogans like:

“Success isn’t about luck…It’s about discovering the right opportunity”.

I say, “Amen”.

Turn Spare Time into Cash”!!!

“I don’t have any, but I sleep sometimes, and money is better than sleep”. 

“Program your mind for success”.

“Alrighty, lets do it”.

“Dirty Dogs, Can Make You Rich”!

“I like dogs, even dirty ones”.

“$25,000.00 in 2 Weeks”! “Just Mail My Big Cash Flier”.

“I have some stamps, sounds good”.

There are dozens of opportunities on every page. It’s like one of those Vegas Hooker magazines, “if you can’t get laid with our magazine you’re a loser”.

If you can’t get paid with one of these magazines, you’re a bigger loser.

But like that book featuring 2000, $2,000.00 a night call- girls, where do you start? After hours of sorting through hundreds of opportunities it was clear that windshield repair, candy vending, maid services, porn sites and on-line casinos are the best the magazine had to offer. Oh and “the miracle growth potion that will make you the man you always wanted to be”.

After a closer look I realized I would probably be stuck with IBM or Ford….Unless.....I created my own “Next Big Thing”, not to work it, but to sell it in one of those magazines. There were tapes on “How To”, I could do that, hell there are a lot of things I could sell in there if I would only put my mind to it.

Here are few I am working on:

One I know will work “TRUMP For President 2012” argyle sweaters. Listen to me people this might keep us all from needing these other business ideas.

The “Your Fired! Which Technically Means We can Sleep Together” nightshirt.

Learn how to “Get Rich and Go To Jail”.                          

 “The Bernie Way”.

“Gas Bandits” Make millions by siphoning gasoline.

Our exclusive “Gas Bandit” system will show you how to steal millions of gallons of gas disguised as a Wal-Mart shopping cart. No one will ever know you were there.

“Dirty Bomb Housing”. Our exclusive video broadcasting system beams a fake CNN update directly into the home television set of people trying to sell their New York City property. Its simple, choose the property, go in and start negotiating a price, click on the fake disaster and watch as the sellers drop their price in an attempt to escape the next Jihad coming their way. Sign it and seal the deal with a deposit. Then sell it “QUICK”!

Make a Killing with The Miracle Flying Pig Flu Vaccine. Drug companies have been doing it for decades, now you can too! Sell bogus “Flu Vaccines” on-line. No one really knows what will stop it once it mutates so what the hell, maybe we have gotten lucky with ours?

The media and the President are promoting your cause and will drive millions of terrified people to your site.

So no advertising is needed.  As the death count soars, so will your profits. Remember cash only no checks please. If you survive, you’ll be rich! It’s not hard to do, fight “Pig Flu”.

Finally how about we buy a Chattanooga radio station and hold the $1,000 a day cash contest. Guess what the hell we will be playing tomorrow and win. Format, who needs a format, no one is listening anyway.

Well that’s a few of my ideas, if your interested send      $10,000.00 today and you could be on your way to financial freedom.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

...We had great noodles at The Noodle Shop. (Get the chila sauce. Empty it into the bowl with the noodles. Well, almost empty. It is a freakin’ fantastic.) I had a great cup of dark roast at Green Sage cafe’ and coffee house (while Bob slept off his minor hangover). We visited Asheville’s Greenlife on Merrimon. It’s smaller than the one in North Chatt, but still cool. We caught another wine tasting there and found a great, authentic malbec... and some epic coffee cake...

...As I said before, this trip to Asheville was a blur of walking, shopping, food and drink. It was my third visit to North Carolina’s cool commune in the mountains... and not my last. We didn’t even visit The Biltmore on this junket. America’s biggest private residence takes a solid five hours (minimum) to fully appreciate and we were moving too fast to slow down that long. But... I’ll be back to Asheville... and The Biltmore... and the GPI... and Salsa’s... and Mast General Store... and The Wine Gallery... and The Noodle Shop... and Green Sage. Asheville and its cool scene seem to have magnetic powers. If you go once, you’ll go again. So... go already...

— Mark Bedford

Vitamin K is a lipophilic vitamin (meaning it is fat soluable) and is required chiefly for blood cooagulation, metabolism of bone and other tissues. There are two natural forms of this vitamin and several synthetic versions have been created in the laboratory. Vitamin K1 also known as phytomenadione and Vitamin K2, menaquinone, make up the two natural forms. Vitamin K2 is produced chiefly by bacteria in our large intestines, while Vitamin K1 is found in green leafy vegetables such as spinach, turnip greens, Swiss chard and the brassica vegetables like cabbage and broccoli and kale.
Fruits like kiwifruit and avacado, and soybean oil have significant concentrations of Vitamin K also.

The chief utilization of Vitamin K in medicine as a “therapeutic” is its role in coagulation of blood, it plays a key role in factors II, VII, IX and X as well as in protein C & S serum proteins, all linked to the clotting cascade that prevents us from hemorrhaging in the event of an injury. Additionally, Vitamin K has a significant part to play in bone metabolism with a relation to osteocalcin, so it acts as a bone building hormone in a way, and in vascular biology in the realm of artery plaque formation. Osteocalcin is synthesized by Vitamin K and is the “matrix” in bone that holds the calcium molecules together. Without Vitamin K, hip bone fracture rates go up (despite adequate Vitamin D and Calcium intake). Intake in the amount of 110mcg/d of Vitamin K in the 1998 Nurses Health Study, showed a drop in hip fractures when compared to controls.

There are Vitamin K dependent proteins involved in atherosclerosis. Warfarin (Coumadin (R)) is a drug often used to treat folks with coronary artery disease or to prevent blood from clotting in heart chambers and deep veins where severe issues can arise. However, while treating certain medical conditions with these blood thinners which act to inactivate Vitamin K, we create other problems, chiefly with increasing our risk for developing plaques in our arteries, possibly affecting our immune system, and likely bone mineralization.

Vitamin K’s effect on coronary arteries goes like this. With low levels of circulating Vitamin K in the serum there is an impact on the function of a protein within the endothelial lining of the arteries called the Matrix Gla protein (MGP). The impact or effect of low Vitamin K on this protein is that it allows for an increase deposition of calcium in arteries. Drugs that lower Vitamin K’s effect in a sense raise the risk for coronary artery disease. Vitamin K also has a role to play in our immune system in that it is linked to phagocytosis and chemotaxis (the process by which micro-organism “attacking cells” in our body find and eliminate infectious organisms). Furthermore, Vitamin K is appears to have a role in apoptosis the process of natural and desirable cell death.

Because Vitamin K2 is produced by bacteria in human alimentary tract, the overuse of broad-spectrum antibiotics can wipe out this good bacteria in our intestines and can cause a relative deficiency. Poor nutrition with inadequate intake of greens and fruit is another way to achieve deficiency. Thus both means can lead to clotting dysfunction and coronary disease. It appears that Vitamin K2 is longer acting, has better bioavailability and provides better bone strength when compared to Vitamin K1. A subset of Vitamin K2 known as menaquinone–7, or MK–7 show promise in research as even a more potent form of Vitamin K.

There is no know upper limit or toxic level of the natural Vitamin K1 & K2, however, research shows toxicity with the synthetics and they should be avoided. There has been a recent ban on synthetic Vitamin K3 due to hemolitic anemia and cytotoxicity. Yet another example of how natural trumps synthetics in nutritional medicine. Humans in labs can rarely out perform Mother Nature it appears.

How to get the most Vitamin K out of your veggies, well cooking them in water will yield less due to the hydrophobic properties, cooking them in oil (sautee in olive oil for example) will retain three times the bioavailability. Eating meat, eggs and dairy will provide Vitamin K2 in addition to that produced by E. coli in our gut.

Deficiencies can occure with IBS, cystic fibrosis, Alcohilisim, Liver disease, Bulimics, and those taking chronic anticoagulants. Bleeding and bruising disorders are a sign of deficiency, osteoporosis and CADx are also associated but found over the course of many years. Long term use of ASA can lead to K1 but not K2 deficiencies. Vitamin K is recycled in our bodies, thus reducing deficiencies provided the two enzymes responsible in our bodies are working well. Warfarin (Coumadin (R)) blocks one of these enzymes. Vitamin K epoxide reductase is one of these enzymes responsible for Vitamin K recycling and maintaining levels and is the one sensitive to warfarin.

Because newborns are succeptable to clotting abnormalities, due to immature livers and sterile guts (inability to have E. coli produce Vitamin K2), they are usually born deficient to varying degrees. There is a 1.5% incidence of unexpected bleeding in newborns due to low levels of Vitamin K. Therefore the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends up to 1.0 mg of Vitamin K1 be administered to each newborn to prevent morbidity and mortality. Mothers on anticonvulsants, rifampin and isoniazid while pregnant tend to have offspring with sterile guts and Vitamin K deficiency.

There is a connection in theory with Alzheimers disease. The APOE4 gene that has been implicated in Alzheimer’s Dz seems to be responsible for low Vitamin K levels in this subset of patients. Therefore supplementation with Vitamin K may reduce the occurance of Alzheimer’s Dz. There appears to be a connection with some cancers too. Interestingly, there are two Japanese studies showing females with Liver Dz have a 90% reduction to develop liver cancer if supplemented with Vitamin K. In a German Study of men, there was a drop in prostate cancer risk with Vitamin K supplementation.

Vitamin K must be important to our body as there are three ways in which it is maintained, by diet (eating greens), by production in our gut (bacterial) and by recycling and reusing. Sometimes the importance of a particular substance can be found in the redundancies our body makes to keep it around.

Osteoblasts with Vit. D effecting production of osteocalcin a Vit. K dependent protein leads to bone health.

Growth arrest specific gene 6 protein (Gas6) a Vit. K dependent protein is responsible for cellular growth regulation factor found in nerve tissue, heart, lung, kidney and cartilage.

Good idea to supplement with between 10 - 120 mcg/d (providing coumadin users are monitored closely under physician supervision)

Large Vitamin A doses affect absorption of Vitamin K, while large doses of Vitamin E can affect and antagonize Vitamin K enzymatic activity. We see with large doses of Vitamin E intake a rise in bleeding risk.

- JP Saleeby, MD

Dr. Saleeby is an Emergency Medicine physician and also involved in internet medicine launching in Feb. 2011 a direct access lab (www.eStatLabs.com) and online medicine consultations (www.AtroGene).

References:

Berkner, K. L. and Runge, K. W. (2004), The physiology of vitamin K nutriture and vitamin K-dependent protein function in atherosclerosis. Journal of Thrombosis and Haemostasis, 2: 2118–2132.

Neil C Binkley, Diane C Krueger, Tisha N Kawahara, Jean A Engelke, Richard J Chappell and John W Suttie. (2002)”A high phylloquinone intake is required to achieve maximal osteocalcin {gamma}-carboxylation”. American Journal of Clinical Nutrition 76 (5).

Higdon (2008). “Vitamin K”. Linus Pauling Institute, Oregon State University. http://lpi.oregonstate.edu/infocenter/vitamins/vitaminK/. Retrieved 12-07-2010.

Warner, E.D.; Brinkhous, K. M.; Smith, H. P. (1938). Proceedings of the Society of Experimental Biology and Medicine 37: 628.

Stafford, D.W. (2005), The vitamin K cycle. Journal of Thrombosis and Haemostasis, 3: 1873–1878.
Saxena SP,

Israels, E.D.; Israels L.G. (2001). “Novel vitamin K-dependent pathways regulating cell survival.”. Apoptosis 6 (1-2): 57–68.

Nimptsch K, Rohrmann S, Linseisen J (2008). “Dietary intake of vitamin K and risk of prostate cancer in the Heidelberg cohort of the European Prospective Investigation into Cancer and Nutrition. (EPIC-Heidelberg)”. Am. J. Clin. Nutr. 87 (4): 985–92.

Brown, S.E., “Key vitamins for bone health — vitamins K1 and K2”. www.womentowomen.com. http://www.womentowomen.com/bonehealth/keynutrients-vitamink.aspx. Retrieved Jan., 10 2011.

Saxena SP, Israels ED, Israels LG (2001). “Novel vitamin K-dependent pathways regulating cell survival.”. Apoptosis 6 (1-2): 57–68. doi:10.1023/A:1009624111275. PMID 11321042.

Nimptsch K, Rohrmann S, Linseisen J (2008). “Dietary intake of vitamin K and risk of prostate cancer in the Heidelberg cohort of the European Prospective Investigation into Cancer and Nutrition. (EPIC-Heidelberg)”. Am. J. Clin. Nutr. 87 (4): 985–92. PMID 18400723. http://www.ajcn.org/cgi/pmidlookup?view=long&pmid=18400723.

Allison (2001). “The possible role of vitamin K deficiency in the pathogenesis of Alzheimer’s disease and in augmenting brain damage associated with cardiovascular disease.”. Medical hypotheses 57 (2): 151–5.
Habu, D., (2004) “Role of Vitamin K2 in the Development of Hepatocellular Carcinoma in Women With Viral Cirrhosis of the Liver”, JAMA, 292 (3): 358-361.

Bellido-Martin, L. (2008) “Vitamin K-dependent actions of Gas6.”,Vitam. Horm. 78:185-209.

“My wife has thrown me out of my own Man Cave because I made fun of The Vagina”. 

Before you go thinking I am being overly naughty allow me to clarify.

I am talking about ABC’s The Bachelor AKA The Vagina, at least that’s my pet name for it. NO, not because there are lots of hot humans with vajayjays to pick from. That would be crude and as you know, I am a kinder, gentler Kahuna these days.  I call it that because it seems that most of the men who star in this “reality series” must secretly have a Vagina.

Now I am sure that most if not all of these “Men” are not packing a lady part but they sure didn’t pack a pair either. If they did they would realize why they should be marked with a giant V across their foreheads.

These guys have been selected to be the focus of a 10 week reality series where over the span of six weeks of filming 25 women throw themselves at them in an attempt to be proposed to on air. Imagine, 25 mostly hot women and you are wined, dined and treated to some really awesome dates in locations made for lovin’.

All the time ABC makes sure that “The Bachelor” appears as a real life Prince Charming.

Imagine, your not only charming the 25 ladies your hanging with but a few million more who are home watching you and yes, fantasizing about you. This is truly a “Real Man’s Dream Come True”.

The only way you can lose at this game is if you truly play the game and these dummies fall for it like a teenage girl on prom night.

I get it, they are ready to find love, they are ready to settle down and it would be easy to get caught up in a smoking hot girl, in a hot tub, on the roof of a Vegas hotel, at least for one night. But then the next day, Ding Ding and here comes another hot chick, on a cool date and so on and so on.

Weed them out, who is a good kisser? Check for funky toes, bad breath, sweaty palms, chewing with their mouths open and with 25 to choose from kick them out for crumbs in the bed. Look for the one you want to further explore as a potential mate but realize it starts after the show ends.

You don’t go crying because the choice is too hard!

Don’t apologize over every little reason you must say bye. You don’t want to say “I saw a picture of your mom and your modeling future will be cut short by a tragic lawn chair collapse”, but it is what it is. And it is your chance to find the one or even more likely your chance to never sleep alone again until the day you actually find “The One”.

That is unless you blow it!

Don’t be a jerk but you can’t appear to have a Vagina either. “The One” you choose, well she isn’t going to want to see you crying over every other girl you send home. “The One” and you will watch this after said choice is made, if Captain Cry Baby wants to stand a chance he better come across as good on every date as he did on the dates with “The One”.

Then there is the real possibility and even most likely scenario that you have not a chance in hell of finding lasting love on a reality show. So be Prince Charming and the guy that 25 hot girls wanted to marry. Even the best of woman would be curious, all the sluts would want a sample and if through these adventures you want to continue the search for true love there will be more than 25 to choose from.

That’s my take on it.

ABC must have a personality test for potential Bachelors that seek out guys who will forever have a high heel planted in their groin.

 As for the Kahuna, I might have cried on that show had I had the chance but I assure you they would have been tears of joy. Yep, I would have cried every time I glanced down at the bungalows of the Palms Hotel and realized that there was a booty buffet waiting just for me.

Kahunaman  AKA Dewayne Gass

I’ve always liked that quote. Have seen it cited often in various ways. I never knew who came up with it I Googled it a few minutes ago. I don’t know much about Mr. Acton, other than that he was the first Baron of Acton, lived from 1834-1902 and had a long name. I shortened it above. The first baron was actually named John Emerich Edward Dalberg Acton. Wow. That is a lot of name...

...Absolute power does corrupt absolutely. I never like it when a political party has control of the presidency and the legislature. I like checks and balances. I don’t like monopolies. I like options...

...I have some friends who work at the Electric Power Board. They are good people. They work hard. They are smart folks. I think EPB does a lot of good work for the community. I have EPB fiber internet and it’s blazing fast. There are a lot of good things to say about the Electric Power Board...

...But the EPB is not the folksy power company it used to be. It is a big-time provider of electricity, telecom services, internet bandwidth, television channels, and other stuff. It is a highly automated, technologically advanced power and services provider... with a tragic flaw...

...Automation has dehumanized the old Electric Power Board. When my bank account was compromised, I shut it down. I already had an automated payment lined up for the EPB. I was in the middle of dealing with the nightmare of having my identity stolen for a second time. I was busy being co-owner of a new business in the middle of an exciting project. I was busy...

...EPB shut my power off on Christmas Eve. They sent a contractor to do it. Looked like a meter reader. Click. No juice to my crib. On Christmas Eve. During the coldest winter in decades. Wonderful. I have a history of over 20 years’ worth of paying EPB to give me electricity. From three Chattanooga addresses. EPB’s computers saw that my payment didn’t go through and they dispatched a contractor crew to cut off my power on one of Chattanooga’s coldest Christmas Eve’s ever. Classy...

...EPB is the lone provider of power to most of Chattanooga and Hamilton County. The have a monopoly on the precious juice, unless you want to buy a big generator or put up a metric shit-ton of solar panels. Or pedal a generator. Or put up wind turbines. Or build your own hydroelectric down. Or nuclear plant...

...EPB has a tax-subsidized monopoly to distribute power that taxpayers have already funded via the Federal appropriations to the Tennessee Valley Authority. Nice business if you can be in it. You’d think they’d be grateful enough and profitable enough to fund human beings to call people before they cut off their juice. You’d think...

— Mark Bedford

Okay, so it was a terrible pun and I should have said so, but what’s the fun in that?

Anyway, there I was, doing my best impersonation of a freezer pop and trudging along through the bitter, wicked cold, wheeling a couple of bags past row upon row of splendid places for people whose mothers didn’t raise them right to lie in wait for some hapless, easy -pickings chump, preferably one in the disoriented throes of advancing hypothermia.

Giving myself a swift kick for not seizing upon the services of the available bellmen as I wheeled past the main entrance, I noticed a shoe untied and stopped to remedy the situation. Satisfied, I then tucked my furry little chin a bit tighter against my coat and pressed on towards the elevator, itself a good place for all kinds of unpleasant stuff you wouldn’t want to have to tell anybody about, to have happen. I’ve got no access to any hard numbers but I’m guessing that the majority of people who’ve been accosted outside their homes by roving bands of transsexual gypsies and Jehovah’s Witnesses were waiting on elevators at the time (Screw the American Express card, I’m saying don’t leave home without a .357 Magnum revolver).

Lest there be any doubt, I would like to state at this juncture that I am most certainly not advocating the shooting of any kind of gypsies, unless no other viable option exists, thank you, but it pays to be prepared to deal with all kinds of crazy people.

Maybe I’m just a touch paranoid, but having stepped onto the waiting elevator car, its doors squeezed shut behind me and on ascent to a warm and inviting lobby, I began to relax a bit. Momentarily relieved to be safe not only from the clutches of the potential hostiles previously mentioned but from misplaced polar bears as well, I waited for my unbearably slow conveyance to lollygag its way to a final stop and then make me fume at the interminable four seconds it took for the doors to spread wide. In the kind of joyous welcome usually reserved for returning war heroes or a bachelor party stripper, I met the incoming blast of warm air through doors that parted so slowly into a relative paradise. One where the only frigid element that might be encountered would be a judgmental sizing up by a horde of greedy bellhops, recently snubbed and well aware of it, and a front desk clerk that, despite her patronizing, obviously rehearsed attempt at some Olympic caliber sucking-up, clearly was not happy to have the likes of Yours Truly as a guest of the house that day.

I’m guessing the much-too-casual shoes, subjected to an apparently careless and less than effective tie job and with laces slapping around everywhere, were a dead give-away that somebody was clearly out of their element here, but ask me if I care.

Go ahead, ask.

No. No, I do not.

Thirteen years ago I weighed 146 pounds on a good day (I am 6’1”) and had hair that stretched almost to my knees and I was prone to wander around out in public, drunk. I’ve been stared at before.

Trundling ourselves and our bags past the idle porters that glared as if we’d purposefully farted in their direction, the lovely company I was keeping that had been smart enough to leave the car and walk right in the front door (skipping the dubious thrill of dragging luggage for distance through a frozen wasteland of peril and discomfort) and I arrived at a long row of doors to other, warmer and more accommodating elevators. And with button mashed repeatedly, as if it might not have worked the first time, I allowed myself a last, sweeping gaze around at some folks that were masterful experts at icy stares, but will likely burn in the afterlife because of it, before disappearing from their sight.

I can only believe that the elevator doors, closing like the curtains on a bad fifth grade Christmas play and marking the end to a virulent stare down match between a former hippie and some uniformed, bag-toting creep I wouldn’t want anywhere close to anything I wanted to eat, had barely snugged shut before a hotel-wide alert was made to all staff on hand to keep an eye on room 427.

The woman, it probably said, looked to be okay. But better keep an eye on that bald dude she’s with because A) He’s a proven cheapskate, and B) You never know what to expect from somebody too stupid to tie their own shoes.

At least that’s how I had it figured once I reached our admittedly kickass suite and flopped down on the couch to watch a little television. I don’t know about you, but first thing I do in a situation like that is kick off my no-class footgear and stretch out my toes to the fullest in my very probably mismatched socks.

Hey, if it hadn’t have been the middle of winter I’d probably have been wearing Tevas, I don’t care how many freaking stars the place had after its name. But even old hippies do what they must when the temperature plummets and looking down to find that the shoes you really didn’t want to wear in the first place either never got tied or were trying to work themselves off your feet on their own can be a bit embarrassing.

I’m just glad we didn’t take the escalator. Staring down hostile bellhops and desk clerks, who know that your shoe is untied and you look like a dork, is one thing. You might even think you’re winning, what with all the slowly rising up above their lobby-level plebian selves, eyes locked in a take-no-prisoners game of deadly seriousness. But let a dangling shoe lace get caught in the moving steps that had so recently hoisted you to lofty, glorious victory and before you know it, the footage (Another really bad pun, I know) of your shoe being ripped from your screaming, mangled person at the top of a hellish moving staircase that was some fool’s idea of a bad joke, is taken from the security office and broadcast on YouTube.

I think my lady friend was oblivious to most, if not all, of this but she did notice the untied shoe right about the same time I did, adding one more way to the list I’ve compiled as to how to feel like an idiot around her and no, don’t ask about the length or content of that list, please. She might just read this and I don’t need to go reviewing any case she might be making for sending me down the road, not that she needs any help.

I don’t think I embarrassed her too badly at dinner later that night either, even though the black linen dinner napkin across my lap looked remarkably similar to the pants leg of my very dark suit when it came time to wipe some high-dollar sauce that had once graced the top of a sliced pork tenderloin that had been cut from what I can only imagine was the world’s most valuable pig, from my fingers. Contrary to what you might have surmised, I was not eating with my fingers. The fork just got away from me is all (probably because I’m so used to eating with my fingers) regrettably and unceremoniously catapulting some high-end pig parts drizzled with goo into my lap. I dropped a buttered cracker that probably cost about fourteen dollars on the same leg earlier and yes, it landed buttered-side down.

It has always been my contention that fine dining should be conducted in as dimly lit an environment as is practical, since the ability to rub butter and pork sauce into one’s pants leg undetected is priceless, especially when dining in the company of your sweetheart’s most important business associates. Alcohol was present and I’m convinced it helped but I still hope nobody noticed that my shoe was, yet again, untied.

Fortunately, there was more carousing to be done after dinner and some of it played in my favor. We had splintered off from any and all people she might have to answer to for anything at a later date and found ourselves in a couple of bars that don’t seem to mind accommodating a white trash bald guy in what had previously been nice clothes and his happily buzzed, smoking hot, woman-person friend. One place sucked, the other did not and I’ll just let you guess which one was the Howl at The Moon Saloon in Louisville, Ky.

Glorified karaoke, a pointless cover charge for the questionable privilege of hearing it, and seven bucks for a beer and a Diet Coke. Throw in a little credit card hocus pocus on the tab and all I can say is “Don’t go”.

We left, a little miffed, after I noticed a dangling lace and tied the thing so tight, I began to envision tourniquets and bear traps.

Our second stop was far, far better in all respects and I’d give it a “thumbs up” for anyone who’d like to go but I can’t remember the danged name. I know that before we left, though, I checked my stupid shoes, just in case. All tied up, and ready to go, we were on our way back to the Rich Bastards Only Hotel where one of us (probably the bald guy) didn’t belong but was going to run laps around the gargantuan shower and swipe all the little shampoo bottles anyway, just for the hell of it. After a short walk in the kind of cold that would kill a moose and a cab ride that I may never forget, we strolled ourselves regally into the lobby of what will likely be the nicest place I may ever stay (with the notable exception of the parking garage) in my life. There, in the coven of desk clerks on duty, was the very same clerkwitch that had snobbed me out initially and I nodded pleasantly at her as we passed.

I couldn’t help but notice that she gave us the “once over” twice, and then fought to contain a sneer. I didn’t even have to look down to know what all that was about but I did it anyway. Yep, shoe laces untied again, don’t ask me how.

If I was the kind that embarrassed easily, I’d have most likely gone upstairs and hung myself with the damned things.

I’m just guessing they’d have probably held tight.

C. Fentress

P.S. I’m thinking about going back there just as soon as it warms up a little. I’m wearing penny loafers this time but I’m still going to take all the shampoo.

In case you have been snowed in without electronic contact or just blind to all things happening in town, I think you should know, The Chattanooga Mocs are hot! I am talking headline grabbing, time to grab some tickets, snow melting, you need to be seen at a game hot!

After their B-Ball-Battle and Win on Monday night with Charleston the Mocs are 7-0 in Southern Conference play which is really good. But even better are the signs they are giving off the hint that maybe, this team can be “special”. No…. not special like your buddies girlfriend who tried to run her credit card through the homeless woman’s shopping cart but special like, “Bandwagon Fans, all aboard”! Special like, come March all things Blue and Gold will be cool, kind of special.

As many of you know I have stalked the sidelines, stands and court for 25 seasons as The Moc Maniac. A sign wielding mad man with a microphone who acts so crazy it makes other fans that get a little rowdy feel normal.

I am always asked: Twenty-five years? That is a long time. I bet a lot has changed in 25 years?

Yep, 25 years is a long time, over 760 men’s games total, about 400 home and Tournament games where I have done my thing and I am proud to say I have only missed six. As for change, when I started there were no fancy scoreboards, no video and the PA system included 100 foot mic cords. I was one of the first announcers in the country to go into the crowd with a wireless mic and the uniforms looked more like Speedos than pants.

To give you idea, when I started gas cost eighty nine cents a gallon, a stamp 24¢, an average new car cost ten not thirty thousand and rent was about $395 a month. The Simpsons debuted on TV, the first year FOX was a network.

DNA evidence was used for the first time to convict a felon, the “first” hint of email debuted as “Protocol” though no one used it. You needed major cash to own a cell phone and I was cool because I had a beeper baby.

The A-Team was a TV show not a movie, the Karate Kid didn’t star a kid named Smith, Michael Jackson was a living legend and Hillary Duff was born.

Next question: How could anyone possibly do that for so long?

After a quarter of a century it isn’t so much what I do, it is who I am and I embrace it because the Moc Nation is my family.

UTC fans represent the best of our area including current and past students, faculty, and two or three Chancellors.

Moc fans are business owners, the families of current and past players and people new to our town who want to become one of us. They are guys getting out of the house and Movers and Shakers, they are retired folks and young couples looking for a cheap date night. There are kids watching a game for the first time with dad and dads who were kids when I first started working games.

Moc Fans are mostly the best people, even those who would confuse the best use of the letter “B” and “Bitch” rather than “Believe” are still family. How is this? Because when it is on, when the whistle blows and the threes start to rain, that’s when we all become family. And when one of those magical nights occur like this past Monday, we all leave knowing we shared something great in “Our House”. Another memory tucked away forever and waiting to be joined by the next great Moc Moment.

Go Mocs!

Dewayne Gass AKA Moc Maniac

Back when I was young and the world didn’t suck so much, a snow day was a thing to be cherished and reveled in, an invitation to escape the mundane trials of everyday life, to cast off the worrisome burdens of overdue library books and incomplete homework assignments and go run a sled off into a tree, as God intended.(I would think such a thing would be universally appealing, crossing age barriers effortlessly, but I’ve been wrong so many times it’s come to be expected of me).

Once you’d done as much damage to person and property as you could stand and your extremities had turned a threatening shade of blue, you’d kick off your Converse All-Stars, or the cheap Pic n Pay generics of the day (“buddies” they were scornfully called) into the corner of the garage and follow with the torn and sometimes bloodied clothing that only those who’d truly enjoyed themselves to the fullest that day might boast of.

Next order of business was usually to suit up into some fresh clothes from your personal stack on the dryer and to step into the kitchen where supper would be simmering for the next few hours in a big iron kettle. Better not lift the lid to find out what, though, or some mean, bossy tyrant who now masquerades as a kindly little old lady might whack you one and tell you to go clean up your room which, as everybody knows, is the worst thing, ever. Better not let her find you reading any comic books or watching that crummy little black and white TV either or there’d be trouble, mister….big trouble.

I was a bad kid, what can I say? Or maybe I just remember it that way.

Regardless, snow days were events, man! Bent up sleds and swollen ears from where Robbie Fansler, the neighborhood hellion had pounded you with a snowball with a rock in the middle were the norm, and nobody was complaining. Not even a mother who had to face the daunting mountain of filthy wet laundry left behind by her five thankless offspring.

I suppose making us go clean our rooms was only fair. She probably did it just to give herself time to sort all the colors and whites and knits and whatever else it is that women feel an overpowering need to do to a big pile of clothes before piling them into a machine that’s just going to beat the hell out of them anyway. And before all that laundry was anywhere close to being done, round two would usually commence with all its accompanied snowman building, igloo construction, snowball wars and sledding and my guess is that that’s when Ernest & Julio made their appearance, there to partner with the hypnotic plot lines of the day’s episode of General Hospital to transport poor old Mom to a place where opening a vein didn’t seem a viable option.

We weren’t trying to torture the woman, we were just kids being kids and I know she understood that. Never once, that I can recall, did she ever holler about all the laundry as one might expect but I’m convinced beyond a glimmer of doubt that she hated it.

Whatever it might have been to her, it was the Time of Our Lives to five rambunctious kids, and I haven’t forgotten it. It was everything good about life before we even knew of everything bad about it, and I wish I could go back if only for one snowy, slushy, freezing day in a paradise where even Robbie Fansler could get his face rubbed in the snow, if your big brother had anything to say about it.

Yeah. I’ll take a kid’s snow day, any day. Some people might think I need to grow up, but what do they know?

Nowadays, it gets to snowing and people my age are Facebooking to the world all day long that…Hooray they’re off work today and have some “yummy” stuff lined up for dinner…. and I have to say I don’t understand it at all. Time’s a’wastin’ as the old saying goes! I realize we’re all getting older and even the priorities of the profoundly immature have got to shift over time, but spare me the day when its highlight is to stuff a bunch of pork and potatoes in a Crock Pot when there’s six inches of snow outside (everybody knows that’s women’s work, anyway!).

I suppose I’m something of a hypocrite here, as I was checking my FB page every time I came inside today, just to see what everyone was up to. You know…to see who broke a leg skiing, or ran a Jeep into a mountain or something like that. And while I was busy doing that, I admit I posted some stuff in case you care and I’m sure that you don’t…….

Mangled in a trampoline accident (I don’t own a sled these days so things worked out as they probably should have).
Of the opinion that ditches are fine places for people in SUVs.
3) A statement of proud association with a cousin who, by all accounts, is somewhat disturbed but builds one hell of a snowman.
4) Going to throw snowballs at people and this time, try not to get arrested (It is possible, incidentally, to be charged with felonious assault with the weapon being a snowball, in case you were wondering. I know of this, personally. Don’t ask.)

See what I mean? Not a word about preparing hot chocolate and crumb cake. Nothing at all about being wrapped up in a blanket inside while staring out the window at a duck or posting pictures of the neighbor’s dog whizzing on the sidewalk. None of that adult stuff, no siree!

When there’s snow on the ground, it’s time to get outside and throw the stuff, tromp through it, sculpt objects of questionable taste out of it, ride around in it and do doughnuts in every parking lot that doesn’t have a cop sitting close by and even tackle an unsuspecting Great Dane in it just before it’s time to go inside and thaw out a little. He might not ever forgive me for that one and I’m quite sure I came very close to getting bit but it was worth it to see the look on his face. Maybe I shouldn’t have done that but certain people tell me I’m just plain evil and they might be right.

This is the best part about winter, if you ask me. I love the snow, even though it can be treacherous at times. I was thinking about some of the trouble it’s caused me over the years while I was changing into some dry socks and apologizing to the dog with a fistful of ham and, for a minute or two, my enthusiasm for the frozen stuff may have waned slightly.

There was a time when I very nearly died of hypothermia one night, outside in a hot tub at a chalet in Gatlinburg in the winter while the snow fell all around, but there were drunk cocktail waitresses in there with me and plenty of the stuff that got them that way so I can’t exactly blame the snow. Having one last shot before leaving to go inside just seemed like a good idea at the time but a lot of my good ideas involving liquor have turned out to really, really, really suck.

Then there was the blizzard of ’93 where I was without power for seven days and tried to stay warm by drinking a lot of Jaegermeister and tore a bunch of wood out of the staircase to burn in the fireplace. That sucked, big time. I have a picture from that week of me trying unsuccessfully to split a log in the driveway wearing a UT teddy bear sweatshirt, a Micky Mouse watch, my girlfriend’s sweat pants which were way too small, white socks and penny loafers. She was off in the Bahamas and there I was, out in front of God and everybody, drunk out of my mind and trying to pick a splinter out of my hand, all the while looking like I dressed in the dark in somebody else’s closet.

Yes, I have pictures and no, I ain’t showing them. I almost froze, my ferret almost froze and my water pipes did freeze. It was one heck of a suck week, but hey….plenty of snow on the ground! Again, I think I should probably blame the liquor, not the snow.

I almost forgot! I tried to get out and go to the store that week after about five days cooped up in the cold, for the best reason I could muster - that being that I was dead out of cigarettes and dangerously low on beer. I had a 280 ZX Turbo at the time and it just so happened that it needed tires in some kind of a bad way. If you can find a car that’s worse in the snow I’d like to know about it but, long story short, I sideswiped a tree not a 1/2 mile from home and nearly totaled the car. No insurance, of course. Drunks don’t need no stinking insurance, do they? Judge me all you like but if it counts for anything, I quit drinking years ago and haven’t been arrested even once, since.

There was also that time some creep stole my gloves and I rode a Yamaha 350 from Brainerd out to the far end of Snow Hill Rd, barehanded and, again, in the snow. And, also again, drunk. I thawed eventually, but I hope that God punished the glove thief with explosive diarrhea on his/her honeymoon and a lifetime of pimples in the worst places you can get them.

I guess too much liquor or a danged thief can ruin anything and I shouldn’t equate these bad experiences with the snow itself. I’ve had some great times in the stuff and look to have more today. I’m not going to build an anatomically correct snowman, name it Rick after a local serial rapist and shoot it in the bratwurst repeatedly with my Red Ryder bb gun I got for Christmas, because I did that last time it snowed and I’m out of BBs. I am, however, going out to ride around in this stuff for a bit and see what’s what. I might even take along a cooler full of snowballs and throw them indiscriminately at whoever is in range.

I don’t have an MG to go sliding around in with the top down and heater blasting like I did back in high school but I have a car with heated leather seats and a sunroof to throw stuff out of and thus, a nearly perfect vehicle with which to commit a foul weather felonious assault. Somebody out there is just begging to get whomped a good one and I’m thinking maybe hookers down off of Willow Ave.

Before you get to judging me, let me say in my defense that getting hit in the ear with a snowball is nowhere close to the worst thing that could happen to them while they’re at work.

And at least I’m not casting any stones, either.

C. Fentress

PS Helpful Hint: If you’re going to throw snowballs at whores, take an off-duty cop with you.

I’m learning. Slowly, but I’m learning.

PPS Hot water and bright colors, right?

...Over the last several weeks, I have shared some of my woeful misadventures with local banking institutions and the dastardly effect they have had on my sanity and stomach lining. This time I’m going to name names... including my own. I’m Mark. Northern. And Bedford. Styles has outed me about twice a year on talk radio, so I might as well come clean...

...The identity theft thing that happened with my First Tennessee account finally got resolved to our mutual satisfaction. I am confident that the bank has fixed its security hole and would like to thank Carter and Matt for all of their help....

...While I was still feuding with FirstTN over the identity theft thing, I opened an account with Northwest Georgia Bank. I know several people on their management team and they have branches that are convenient to where I live and work. Unfortunately, they can’t always remember their checking account routing number. My first deposit to my new NWGB account... never made it to that account. My then-employer’s accounting system couldn’t figure out the erroneous routing number, so it defaulted to the only account it had used before — the compromised FirstTN account...

...Two weeks passed. I was pissed. Couldn’t do anything about it. NWGB got the correct routing numbers to my now-former employer. But the controller for my former company wrote the numbers down wrong and then went off on vacation. A second paycheck never made it into my new account, but instead went into the screwed-up FirstTN account...

...Northwest Georgia Bank is in the process of making things right with me. The controller at my former employer cut me a check for the damage caused by my misrouted paycheck. I have opened a new account with SunTrust and I am hoping for the best. It’s really scary to not know who has access to your money... to not know what your bank balance really is... and to have your paychecks disappear like snowflakes on a warm windshield. I’m seriously thinking about burying my cash in the back yard... once the ice thaws...

- Mark Northern

Super Storm 2011, the “New Passat” and the shootings in Arizona all have made this one of those weeks where I hardly know what to write about.

Should I draw straws to see where to focus or waste words on asking the above question? Straws it is.

Dummy me, I didn't use scissors to cut them up, they are all the same length so here we go with all three.

As of today the real “Super Storm” of '93 is the only one that can wear the tights and a cape but a “White Christmas” followed by a week off school following Winter Holiday is enough to make kids everywhere celebrate and The Legendary Luther dance naked in his Broad Street parking lot.

As for the VW event that some complained was rammed down our throats by local television, good for them. Some have complained but I am not one of them.

I feel everyone should not only care what kind of car is being built here by VW, but cheer for its success in the U.S. market.

If this is a wildly successful model, Chattanooga will benefit greatly for decades. However, should it fall flat then the area will suffer as VW will after the huge investment both have put into this venture.

Anyone who really has a vested interest in this area and its people would understand this and instead of bellyaching over missing another national news story would understand
that this, too, is a national story.

Anytime a city that was down as ours was at one time rises as we have, it should be celebrated not only by the citizens of Chattanooga, but by all Americans who are hopeful for a brighter future.

In these times good news is hard to come by and tonight we were given just one more reason to celebrate being Chattanoogans.

I gathered my kids in front of the television and told them how most of my friends left our city upon graduating high school and never returned. They left because the future prospects for the area were not bright. I stayed and at times I struggled, but out of love for the city and our great people I remained.

I explained to them that they should remember this night as one that should they choose to stay here made their future prospects much greater.

So there is the answer. Yes, many of us care about "what kind of car will be produced here." Not only do we care, but some of us actually cheered.

Speaking of children, my heart is breaking at the news that the nine year-old girl shot to death in the Arizona shootings was born on 9-11. On top of that she shared her name with my own daughter and while my little one is only five, she like the lost child out west is very interested in world happenings. I try my best to protect my family with the determination deserving of the most important things in my life however how can we protect against crazy people shooting folks at a local grocery?

I have no brilliant line to follow this nor do I have a punch line or outrageous diatribe. That's it. A great little girl is dead and two thousand miles away I have a tear in my eye thinking about the pain her parents must be feeling. I am hurting with them as I am sure many other Americans are.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass “Also the Father of a Little Christina”.

...The Buckhead Ritz looks just as stylish as ever. The marble foyer and bar. The classy wood paneling. Employees continue to parrot out the Ritz-Carlton’s once-famous “my pleasure” reply to guests, co-workers, and statuary. The staff are quick to point out that the hotel “is just like it always has been.” And indeed it looks that way... until you bite into the candy coating and taste the poo...

...This year was my fourth annual father-daughter shopping trip. It’s my chance to spend some time with my amazing Grace. I put her up in a nice hotel room and take her to Lenox Mall to spend the money she gets for Christmas. Last year, we had a great time with her friend Ava. We stayed at the Embassy Suites in Buckhead and rode the hotel shuttle back and forth to Lenox. It was great. But I wanted to crank it up a notch this year. I decided we needed to stay at the Buckhead Ritz-Carlton...

...My first experience with this elegant structure came in the early 90s. Johnny Wilkins, whose company provided cut and sew services for Chattanooga’s Jensen-Smith jeanswear company, invited a group of us up to the “club level” for a meeting. They had free beer and sandwiches. And a great view. I was impressed...

...Over the years, I have spent a lot of time on the road. I have stayed in scores of hotels. And I always considered the Ritz-Carlton to be one of the top international hotel chains. I’ve stayed on the club level at the downtown Atlanta and New Orleans Ritzes. Despite the chain’s acquisition by Marriott, I thought they were staying close to the guiding principles of the original Ritz. The name Ritz-Carlton dates back to the Hotel Ritz Paris and the Carlton Hotel in London, both operated by the legendary hotelier Cesar Ritz. The Ritz-Carlton chain won the Malcolm Baldridge award for quality... back in the day...
...Based on my experience at the Buckhead Ritz this past weekend, I think they should reflag the property as a Marriott hotel or a Ritz-Marriott. They should also give back the Baldridge award. The quality standards that the Ritz-Carlton once so easily met are being ignored at the Buckhead Ritz...

...When we tried to check in at the hotel on Saturday afternoon, I was told that the hotel couldn’t take my personal check because it was a “starter” check. My former bank’s inability to secure my funds or get my payroll deposits into the right account made me go back to SunTrust. I didn’t have my debit card or printed checks yet, but the bank routing number and account number should have been enough to verify my funds. Apparently not) ) I had planned on paying for the room with a combo of cash and a check. This would not have been an issue at the pre-Marriott Ritz. But the front desk manager that day was a stickler for the rules. I had to borrow some of my daughter’s Christmas money to check in. I told her I would pay her back as soon as I could. Deflated and embarrassed, we made our way up to a small but nice room with a great view of Buckhead...

...After coughing up $367 in cash, including $37 from Grace’s Christmas money (tax and valet parking added to the $329 rate), I went down to try to rescue the situation. The front desk nazi was having none of it. He wanted another $100 as a deposit... even though I said we could do without “incidentals.” I talked to several other staff members who were equally insistent that I needed to ante up another c-note. At the pre-Marriott Ritz-Carlton, each employee was empowered to make any decision to make a guest happy if it was under $2000. The employees at the Buckhead Ritz are barely empowered to tie their own shoes. Maybe they were nervous about the big Russian mob wedding that was taking up much of the hotel...

...We finally gave up. I had spent several hours trying to figure the mess out... with no help from the “Manager on Duty.” The hotel GM was off that day. My daughter, her best friend, Hunter, and I repacked our stuff, got a $367 refund and went down the street to the Embassy Suite. It was great. The people were friendly. The hot tub was hot. There were no Russian mobsters. And it was $125 plus a $25 deposit and tax. There are a lot of great hotels in Buckhead. The Intercontinental is fantastic. The Westin is good. The Hyatt and Hyatt place are both nice. But I will never stay at the Buckhead Ritz-Carlton... or any other Ritz-Carlton... again. Life is too short to bite into M&M’s that you know will taste like poo...

— Mark Northern

…Chattanooga doesn’t react well to cold weather. They will close schools just because there is “snow in the higher elevations.” A dusting on Lookout Mountain, in other words. This year’s white Christmas has this town in a tizzy. As Noogans of all ilks are prepping for their New Years’ parties, we’re all freezing our asses off. As a downtown resident, I’ve got smooth sailing to my key destinations. I can get to the Rush, Hair of the Dog, Hill City ‘za, and Tremont Tavern with ease. Those of you who live in more rural parts of our burg have it a bit tougher…

…So I stopped at the Southern Restaurant on my way to Rush Fitness. Delish. As always. Had a great convo with young Mr. Ray and the somewhat more elder Mr. Washington. Interesting guys…

…I’ve been in this town for 34 years now. I know who’s who and what’s up. I know where the bodies are buried. Sometimes…literally. Anyone who spent some time on the force does. They just let sleeping dogs lie. Some dirt naps were meant to be taken…

…This New Year’s celebration will be mostly casual for me. Gen and I might play some sober pool. We might drink a little bubbly and dance. The chick can dance. Lawd…

…I’ll probably wind up at Jim Franklin’s big bash at the Con Center. Chattanooga’s party attorney has upscaled his hoedown this year. Again. “Wild in the Winter” will be epic. Count on it…

…I like really big places or really intimate gatherings for New Year’s Eve. Anything in between is dangerous. Little holes in the wall like Sing It, Wing It, Fling It or Bring It can get a bit dramatic. Everyone watches reality television these days… especially the young punks. They all have to yell shit and puff up their chests. Throw eclectic ownership into the mix and you’ve got a recipe for dangerous drama…

…Ricardo Pistolero y los Stratoblasteros will be cranking it up at The Chattanoogan. I’ll prolly slip back and forth betwixt the Marriott and the Noogan this year. Will either get a room or stay sober. NYE is amateur night. I try to stay off of the roads so the drunks will have a better chance of missing me…

…Tremont Tavern is tiny but cool. The Honest Pint is new, huge, trendy, and worth a visit. Dustin, Matt and Pete all have a habit of opening and sustaining successful clubs and bars. So does Jim Bob Striker. The roster of their cumulative tavern/club experience is impressive, Hair of the Dog. Tremont Tavern. The Terminal. The Bay. RAW. Northshore Grille. Hill City Pizza, home of great pool, dandy darts, killer pies and sweet southern belles. Caitlin. Amanda. Mindy. Et al. Ad infinitum…

…Cops and clubbers know what’s up in a town. Most CPD officers of a certain age know who killed Wadie Suttles. Some know how shadily some Federal funds are gathered and spent. It’s the same in every naked city. Baby, this town can rip the bones from your back. It’s a death trap. It’s a suicide rap. It’s a rapper’s delite. Especially at night…

- Rocky Montagne

First off, I never wanted to be lying on my deathbed and look back and say “Damn I wish I had bagged Miss Brazil”.

That was never on my list but now in my attempt at humor I am suddenly wondering how that was not at least a Top 10 contender, back to my point. The list to me was a way of saying “I lived my life fully and have few regrets”.

Secondly, and my main purpose for a bucket list was to have memories that could with stand time and be a comfort in my Golden Years or even on my death bed. (Miss Brazil could definitely make that transition smoother). I fear if I continue to mention her my wife might hasten my need for such comfort so back to my point.

I always believed that from my bucket list of adventures I would find the perfect memory for sitting in my rocker or as a final memory on that day that I leave this world.

It would almost assuredly involve standing on the wing of a plane, floating above the Tennessee Mountains on a glider or surfing till sunset. If not then it would have to include a naked adventure involving a lovely lady or even two or maybe standing in front of a crowd of tens of thousands mic in hand and owning them one and all.

I always felt certain that my greatest memory would be one worthy of the movies and I was right.

I am not dying any faster today than I was last week, at least not to my knowledge and I have a lot of years left if I am counting right, however I am sure that I lived the best day of my life last Saturday.

First off somehow I always knew that the “Kahunaman’s Best Day Ever” would without a doubt have to be on a Saturday since that is the day when memories are made but I never dreamed it would be before noon.

Dateline Saturday December 25th 2010, the best day of my life.

Christmas morning with an 11, 5 and two year-old is sure to be special for a proud father so no real surprise there.

When you find yourself in a movie moment straight out of some Hallmark Special, it is surreal.

This was the first year my oldest son really admitted to Santa’s Secret so I was a bit concerned some magic could be lost. I was wrong, he embraced being a holder of the secret and it seemed to only make sharing the event with his siblings that much more special.

My five-year-old daughter was so giddy she was almost floating and my soon to be three year old boy holds the new world record for opening gifts. He approaches gift opening with the enthusiasm of a man in hell stumbling upon ice water.

My wife was glowing with all the holiday spirit of a young girl, wait she is a young girl. No wonder I am so damned happy. This was all any man could have ever have wanted but Saturday the dream from all the songs came to pass, a “White Christmas”.

Christmas morning started with hot mini cinnamon rolls and then outside to embrace history, a White Christmas in Chattanooga. Not just snow waiting for us to play in but beautiful flakes falling softly as my kids tried to catch them on their tongues.

We broke out my steel and wood Western Flyer sled from when I was 11 and quickly learned that my son’s fiberglass and plastic model worked much better than my memory filled dinosaur.

Snow Angels and snowballs, big splash falls and snowmen were everywhere on this day.

But at one point I looked up and the flakes slowed down as if time almost stopped, it was amazing. I watched each member of my family as they played and laughed in the snow, my mind making snap shots of each in their happiest pose. I realized at that moment that what I was experiencing was out of some movie, a movie of my life and this was the best scene in it. My family, not Miss Brazil were the stars and I couldn’t be happier to have them.

It was perfect!

I will not stop trying to create new memories for me and them and I am hopeful there will be many more just as great. But somehow I know that when I look back at the greatest days of my life, Saturday, December 25th 2010 will be at the top of that list.

It is today and if “that is as good as it gets” then I am ready for a rocker or an urn because THAT WAS AWESOME!

I hope your Christmas was too, Happy New Year!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Twas the week before Christmas
Twas the week before Christmas, at the house down the street.
My neighbor had put up decorations and his yard looked real sweet
On the roof Santa was hangin by the chimney with care,
Jolly ole St Nic and about six of those reindeer.
He had Candy Canes lining the fence by the road About 500,000 lights every color ever sold A Merry Go Round, Mickey and about two dozen lighted elves
He even had a workshop he had built for himself
He had traditional trees, snowmen and logs. But my neighbor is cool, he even had a Santa Snoop Dawg.
And up front in the middle so everyone could see a realistic manger scene and a beautiful Baby.
The neighbors would all slow down, as we drove by and the kids would all scream and the moms would all sigh
Never in our area had there been a display quite like this. My kids were quite sure, our street Santa could not miss.
So the season moved along until one fateful night I found myself in a Christmas Spirit fight

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
With their video games and iPods laying next to their heads.
And mamma in her Vickies Secret and me in my drawers
Stretching my hamstrings while sitting in the floor.

When just down the street there arose such a clatter,
I nearly ripped my Achilles as I sprung to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew giving momma a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a four wheel drive truck and 4 guys drinking beer

With a little punk driver, who was moving lively and quick,
I knew in a moment those bastards were stealing St Nick.
More rapid than crack heads they were loading my neighbors stuff all but one guy who was smoking weed and eating Cheese Puffs.

So I threw on my Jordans, no time to grab pants, flew out of my house in my best Ray Lewis Prance!

I hit the driver, blind side with a thud and both of us landed in the half frozen mud
By then ole Cheese Puff was losing his buzz and heard him holler “grab Baby Jesus Cous”.
The driver up and ran as I was climbing to my knees and I just grinned as he screamed “Where the hell are the keys” So me in my boxers, wet all the way through, knew exactly what I had to do
But before I could act and truly go off the wall, I looked up and saw Santa kick Cheese Puff in the balls. My Jolly ole neighbor wearing his red Santa suit was serious as hell as screamed “put your dukes”.

“My Dasher! My Dancer! My Prancer and Vixen!
My Comet! My Cupid, My Donner and MY Blitzen!
From behind the manger my neighbor had came and the four little pricks soon knew Santa was playing no games.
He smacked the driver in the month with an Elf, and made the other guy pee on himself.
Next thing you know other neighbors did appear and beat down the last one, with plastic reindeer.

They tried to dash away! Dash away all!” But the neighbors had made about twenty, 9-11 calls.
I gave the cops a statement while freezing in my shorts and got a pat on the back from my other cohorts.

But the best reward I received on that night was knowing that no one can steal our Christmas without us putting up a fight.
And as Cheese Puff was loaded and the cops drove out of sight I flashed him my frozen butt-cheeks and told him GOOD NIGHT!

Merry Christmas Everyone
Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Ashlee the Christmas Slut

Here it is Christmas, again, for the fiftieth time since my parents had a momentary lapse in lucid thought, probably due to an overly stout batch of egg nog, a conveniently placed bit of mistletoe, or both, once the three other moodkilling rugrats that preceeded me had been safely tucked away in their respective cribs or bunkbeds, whichever might apply. They weren’t newlyweds at this point, Mom and Dad, but they undoubtedly remembered a thing or two about honeymooning that could be put to good use on a cold, winter’s night.

Next thing you know, some doctor (One who probably still made house calls wherein he might readily administer powerful narcotics to small children, even, for any ailment more threatening than a runny nose.) was telling my badly drugged mother “Congratulations, it’s a boy… I think.”

Points for prudence on the part of the good doctor are in order, here. Malpractice – even in those ancient times – wasn’t entirely unheard of. The larger and more immediately threatening danger, of course, was that of being labeled a “Quack”. There was still an air of pseudo-respectability about the medical profession, then. I know people who remember it.  

It was 1960. And back when pill pushers pretty much all had a license to do it and carried black leather bags containing stethoscopes and, well…pills... to your house in the middle of the night, if need be, I had my first Christmas in a tiny little house that I mostly only remember good things about. At three months old, you usually don’t recollect getting a bunch of crummy hand-me-down clothes from your two older brothers, no matter how pretty they might have been wrapped.

A brand new rattle would have been nice, is all I’m saying.

I know it sounds like I’m whining like a little girl, here (Maybe Dr. What’s-his-ass was right, in reference to his previously mentioned, noncommittal opinion as to the gender of Yours Truly) but give me a break, already. Did the Magi bring to the newborn Messiah a handful of teeth knocked out of a rappers mouth, a half-burnt stick of something used to cover up the smell of their own feet so they could get some sleep at night or a jar of store brand, imitation myrrh picked from the bottom shelf of the local Winn-Dixie?  Of course they didn’t…they were putting the best they had out there, because that’s what they were supposed to be doing!!!

And they didn’t UPS their stuff either, apparently not wanting it to arrive mashed to hell and busted, if at all. They didn’t call them “Wise Men” for nothing, apparently.

My point is this: The giving of a gift, or gifts, should involve a little common sense and maybe even some selfless true generosity, if possible. Clearly, I rejected these proper ideas entirely the other night when I walked into a local den of iniquity and was subjected to a surprise, full-frontal mashing into none other than Ashlee, The Christmas Slut.

I knew right then what I wanted for Christmas and shame on you for judging me. The next time some smoking hot girl in an elf get-up with boobs the size of volleyballs squishes her whole self up tight against you (guys) and screams about how she misses you, there’s really only one thing to be done. Surrender, and return the sentiment.

Miss Manners and Mother Nature would insist!

The real truth, here, is that this particular Christmas Slut, who was making a fine living that night sitting on the laps of (mostly) men in a festive mood and thirsty for Jager Bombs - they don’t sell a lot of egg nog in bars these days- used to work with me a couple of years ago. She was unreliable, defiant and drove me to the brink of insanity more than a couple of times in more than a couple of ways but she could flat sell the hell out of Jager Bombs and beers.

A busy Saturday night would have her wall-eyed drunk at the end, but crowing about two thousand dollars in sales, or damn near it.  When she would toss her poor old service bartender a hundred dollar bill and an invitation to kiss her ass for being such a (something unprintable) the whole night and demand her shift drink, pronto, the (something unprintable) would generally crow a little too, but usually to himself.

Lesson #1 in the bar business: Don’t let the babes know how great they are or they get the Big Head.  Can’t do nothin’ with them, at that point, sadly.

I slipped up with this one pretty badly, though, and things got a little too friendly between us, not in the way that you might think. She asked me one day to name a treasured personal possession (my choice) after her and, in a moment of something I’d rather not think about, I agreed. She gave me a week to decide - I had a lot of stuff, then - and eventually, the biggest and scariest of my thirteen chainsaws had a new name.

I wrote an article on it and, tough shit for me, my last great female mistake read it and construed a little something from it that didn’t quite work in my favor. Something about how much trouble can be gotten into if the lady of the house finds an Ashlee hiding behind the couch, I think it was. Resorting to logic in these types of circumstances means nothing, I found out. Calling attention to the fact that there was indeed a sizeable piece of logging equipment hidden down between the couch and a fine example of an early Japanese classic motorcycle - a fine addition to the décor in any home - was pointless.

Did you know that any old creep that would sneak a chainsaw into the house will most certainly go out and do naked things with younger, prettier women? This was a fact that I was blissfully unaware of, if you can believe it. Men are stupid, sometimes, and we need to be taught various things about ourselves for the general good of all concerned.

After a mess of pointed accusations as to my suspected infidelity and generally low-life character, I didn’t have to worry about having too much stuff anymore. Most of my favorite things, including a few Christmas gifts from years past, and the very couch that I’d been so bold as to hide something I shouldn’t have behind went away, along with the house on the lake that it sits in, thanks to the evil, conclusion-jumping-to woman who still lives there.

Wah! Somebody give the baby a rattle, will you? Preferrably, a new one.

I still have Ashlee the chainsaw, though, and Ashlee the Other reminded me the other night that it’s not always the material things in life that are important but the people in it, even if they happen to be dressed up in elf costumes, shaking their boobs and pushing the closest legal thing to a shot of heroin they can lay their hands on to any and everyone in sight. She was an irreplaceable part of one of the best times of my life and she sure was something.  

She was an absolute treasure to a thirty year veteran bar guy who’s done his time and been put out to pasture. And even if she might, arguably, have stepped down from the absolute Zenith of Badass Bar Ho status that she once stood supremely atop, Ashlee the Christmas Slut gave me something the other night worth having and I, being the kind of selfish jackass that will try and slide a power tool past somebody, want more.

I left there wishing for something most men wouldn’t while she was busy doing her thing. I know the days of slinging drinks and beers to a regimen of shot queens like Ashlee and her ilk are past history now and it makes me kind of sad when I think about it. There’s nothing quite like that first minute’s break at the end of a Saturday night when the last tab has been collected, the night’s empty bottles are falling from trash cans filled past capacity, the register is stuffed so full it won’t close all the way and the barbacks look like they’ve just been hit by a bus. When you sit for a moment, wiping the sweat from yourself and sometimes - if it’s been a really good night- the blood, and wonder just how many more times you can do this bullshit.

 I remember those moments all too well

Those days are history, no doubt, but there’s something I still want from a certain big breasted bar chick that she, and only she, can do for me. And I’m not talking about getting liquored up under the mistletoe and then crawling into a bunk bed, either.

Just one more danged time I’d love to see her stroll past me on her way out the door for the night, toss a handful of crumpled up bills in my direction and say “There you go, douche bag. I’m done with you for the night”.

(short pause) “And by the way, you kick ass.”

So do you, chick. So do you.

C. Fentress

PS For Christmas, I want you to call me the absolute best worst thing you can think of, just for old time’s sake. Second best won’t do. I’ll give you a week to come up with something. Knowing you, it will be the best thing I’ve gotten in fifty freaking years!

PPS I can’t believe I’m saying this but button up your top.      

Nurses Smoking Camels (And Other Stuff)

I love talking about politics. This won’t surprise frequent readers of my mostly weekly drivel. I also love Rembrandt’s… and the whole Bluff View Art District, for that matter. That part of town and I have a history. My good friend David Fitch used to work at the Morris-Dashler ad agency, located kind of where Rembrandt’s is now. Former Enigma photographer Len Ledford used to live in an apartment above Stanrich Studios…where Renaissance Commons is now. My sports-hating former spouse and I spent the night in the bed and breakfast room above Tony’s. You get my drift…

…My friend Tara and I were discussing politics at Rembrandt’s recently. Tara is a sharp cookie. Schoolteacher. Language arts. Sharp cookie. We both made several observations about the current state of our country and the world. She is a world traveler, for sure. Her father is Iranian and her adventures in his homeland were amazing. In any event… we came to the conclusion that our politicians and our pundits are all meeting in the middle somewhere. Our government works best in times of crisis. When we batten down the national hatches to weather a storm, we somehow manage to set aside most of our differences and just work shit out. That is happening today. Despite the polarizing effect of Barack Obama, our congressfolk and our Senators are getting along… for the most part. Nancy Pelosi won’t be winning this year’s Miss Congeniality award, but our government is mostly humming along nicely…

…You probably think I’m crazy. (And you’re probably right.) But I think our government works best when it has serious work to do. Guess what… there is some serious work to do. The economy is still flat. We are at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. The North Koreans are building atomic mines. There is the ongoing threat of global terrorism. Serious work…

…Back to the whole “meeting in the middle” thing. Obama’s election and the aforementioned national agenda items have given both parties an immense sense of focus. The Democrats are focusing on getting as much legislation, pork and publicity out of this presidency as they possibly can. Conversely, the Republicans will sell their souls to get Obama out of the White House. Pelosi is the spawn of Satan to the right fringe. But both fringes are fringier than ever. Our multiple national crises are taking up most of our legislators’ time. Thank God. The idle hands of Congress have been known to waste tons of time and money on frivolous laws and silly projects…

…I spend a lot of time in doctors’ offices and hospitals. Not because I am chronically ill. In my “real job,” I try to sell stuff to the medical industry. No matter how many times I walk into a big hospital, I am still stunned to see nurses occupying the “smokeholes.” Good Lord. If anyone should be immune to the lure of demon tobacco… it should be our nurses. Or so one would think. I walked by one of those smokeholes a month or two ago… and saw a Camel butt. (The ass end of one of the cigarettes, not the actual posterior of the desert-crossing beast.) Good Lord. I couldn’t tell for sure if that particular butt had once touched the lips of a nurse… but… it probably did. Camels are reallllly strong. Nurses. Smoking Camels. Good Lord…

- Mark Bedford

Okra is leaving ABC!

After 25 years of being a part of American’s daily lives she is leaving and with a well-deserved parade of on air events and memories.

The entire audience for the 25th and final season premiere of "The Oprah Winfrey Show" was treated to an all-expenses-paid eight-day trip to Australia.

Can you imagine that?

I go to Chicago a good bit and have often thought “Hey, I wonder what Oprahs doing”?

I might have won a car on one of her favorite things shows or some high dollar sheets to sleep and play on.

Remember what they say; “1200 threads make you King of the bed”.

If I paid $345.00 for some bed sheets I would sleep with my head on a towel so as not to slobber on them and I sure as heck wouldn’t want to make mad-monkey-love on sheets costing as much as the last suit I bought. I know Oprah introduces us all to “new experiences” but damn.

Besides, I am pretty sure we all have “experienced” paying off credit cards loaded with the average Joe version of $345.00 sheets. You know, a vibrating recliner, a Fra-gi-le Leg Lamp or a Deluxe Honeymoon Suite in Gatlinburg complete with rotating heart shaped bed and hot tub. So what can she really teach us?  

No doubt Australia would be a great trip if it were free but knowing my luck that would include riding behind Oprah on one of those Banana Rafts with her wearing a thong.

So what can fans expect to see from Lady Day Time? "I plan on going back to Forsyth County [in Georgia]. That's the town where there were no black people allowed and a guy was using the N-word with me," she says.

Now that’s creating memories, sounds like that guy could really use some high dollar bed sheets……….to wear.

"I'm also going to go back to Williamson, West Virginia, where the town wouldn't allow a young man who had AIDS in the grocery store."

So as if the economy isn’t bad enough in Williamson seeing how AIDS infected people have to travel to another state “to spend their cash money” now Oprah is going to ruin the tourism business and no one will want to see the beautiful “Tug Fork River”.

Oprah also plans to have her very first guests return, but -- if you can believe it, she is actually having a hard time tracking them down.

"Our record-keeping wasn't as solid then as it is now” she said.  Those were the days when I would go out on the street and ask people to come in: 'Come in! It's air-conditioned.'"

Now its Come in come in I might buy you a car.

Sure, I can cry to Doctor Phil for a car, make mine a Hybrid.

It's also rumored that the series finale will be filmed at Chicago's Soldier Field.

That should work better, Cubs fans have had a lot of practice crying.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

PS… Congrats to Oprah, a long ride, deserving of props. I think I may cry.

Identity Thieves

The first time, it began… at least my knowledge of it… with a phone call from American Express. This time, it began with a letter from my bank. The first time, some guy in Knoxville who shares my name decided to share my social security number as well. From there, he decided to apply for credit cards using my name and SSN. Hence the call from American Express. I stopped the other Mark Bedford from getting an Amex card that day. He later got busted for fraud and did some Federal time. I hear he’s out and reporting to a probation officer in Cleveland. I always wanted to visit him in jail… just to look him in the eye…

…The letter from my bank went unnoticed for a while. It came in the mail with a new bank credit/debit card.  I didn’t bother to activate the card, because my bank just sometimes sends me new cards. So I didn’t read the letter… until the night that the bank card that I was using… just didn’t work. I dialed the toll-free number on the back of my card and the voice on the other end of the phone told me that my card number was one of several that had been “compromised” and that I needed to activate the one they had sent in the mail. I asked how and when this “compromising” had occurred. He said that my card was one of several that had been “compromised” in the Memphis area in July of 2009. I was pissed. It was my own fault for not reading the letter that came with the card, but it was a frustrating drive home to get the new one. I did it, though. And I was able to take my daughter out for the Thursday night oyster special at Easy Bistro…

…The next morning, I started pondering The Compromising in Memphis. How had my bank card been “compromised”? Who had done it? Had they taken any money out of my account? I read the letter that had come with the replacement card. In it, some bank official insisted that the compromising had been the fault of some mysterious “third party” and made sure I knew it couldn’t possibly have been the bank’s fault. I can’t really mention the bank by name… because I might sue them… and they might sue me right back… so let’s call them… Third Volunteer State Bank…

…I started looking at my account transaction record going back to July of 2009. I found some “anomalies.” Several $5 cash withdrawals from another bank’s ATM. Third Vol doesn’t even have $5 transactions. Why would I make a bunch of $5 withdrawals from some other bank’s ATM when I know where ever TVSB ATM in the city is located? The answer is… I wouldn’t… and I didn’t. I pointed all of this... and some other "anomalies"... out the one nice I person I deal with from my now-former bank. He tried to help. But he ran into a corporate buzzsaw…

…Third Vol couldn’t really admit that their crappy old magnetic stripe technology allowed identity thieves to steal PIN numbers off of their customers’ cards. They preferred to stonewall and deny… rather than admit to the huge security loophole in their system. They arrogantly denied their culpability… right down to the end. They vehemently “shut down” my account… two weeks after I told them to. I will never do business with them again and I am pondering legal recourse…

…These are dangerous times. You never really know who your friends are. Identity thievery is rampant. You never really know who to trust. Be careful out there… and make sure your bank isn’t using a crappy old mag stripe on your debit and credit cards…

-- Mark Bedford

“Basketball doesn't build character. It reveals it”.

I believe the above statement is true of most sports and that is why you hear so many endeavors of the “real” world compared to athletic competition.

Yes I am an old jock, a product of the years when sports figures were depicted as role models and their accomplishments on the field of play used as metaphors for the challenges of life.

Time has shown us sports figures are only occasionally worthy of being heroes and role models. With closer scrutiny many of those show that they are flawed like all humans.

Hollywood has made great and uplifting movies about sports like Hoosiers and Rudy. My son’s JV coach just suggested that the team watch the story about the Hickory Huskers and their road to the Indiana High School Basketball title. We watched it together and despite the predictability of the film it still holds up to young ones like my son.

The liberal side of the movie industry has enjoyed making those who are wrapped up in sport seem a bit goofy and self-serving like the jaded jock who believes all he is revolves around his sport. Movies also seem to enjoy crucifying the too pushy dad and the win at all cost coach. I always thought those characters were the book worm’s revenge against the ones they wanted to be in school.

Honestly, I don’t want my son to be either, I am hopeful he will become a hybrid version, part jock, part nerd all heart.

Whether you are a sports person or not there is no denying that participating in athletic competition can build discipline and character and that the lessons learned from it can assist throughout ones days as an adult no matter the road you may travel. That is why so many people draw comparisons between sport and life’s challenges. However many never move past those days enough to apply the lessons learned.

So who should balance those lessons?

First off the parents should always be the first to point out and explain to our kids how experiences can affect them one way or another. However too many kids don’t always have that kind of parental guidance and for the ones who do not it is often the coach that will be the teacher of such lessons.

Look at the kid from Auburn, whether he knew about money or not the adults in his life should have stepped up and protected him from the kind of mistakes that will follow and sully his image forever.

Coaching is a tough job when done properly.

Coaching is much more than x’s and o’s and recruiting and wins and loses, coaching is teaching. Teaching the game, its lessons, it’s fathering for the ones who do it right and will taint a young mind and heart when done wrong. Coaching is mentoring, lecturing, disciplining and in the very rarest of cases loving your minions. Coaching also means laying it out there for the world to see and today because of the electronic nature of all things it is out there for the world to see and for the world to criticize.

Ask yourself, what would you do if your job was at the mercy of a bunch of kids 18-22 year olds?

What if many of those kids didn’t have the guidance at home that they need to excel in all facets of life?

What if you looked around and saw a world filled with other people in your same profession who are more concerned with winning today themselves than in a way that is best for their player’s future in life?

That is what it is to coach.

Making decisions between winning on the court and winning in life, your job in the balance.

 In the perfect world they would always be the same but in the real world it is rarely so easy.

I am celebrating 25 seasons as the Moc Maniac at UTC. For 25 seasons I have observed from up close what it is to be a D-1 Basketball Coach. I have watched the coaches from not only UTC but at many other schools as they conduct their business. Most seem to have good intentions, some it is easy to see have made the decision to take care of number one first and let the players figure out life lessons on their own.

Chattanooga is blessed with not one but two basketball coaches who deeply care about their players and our community.

Wes Moore would be a legend in women’s basketball if not for the fact that the greatest of all women’s coaches resides an hour and ten minutes up the road in Knoxville. Even so he recently decided that there is no place like Chattanooga and will stay here with us as an ambassador to basketball and our city.

Chattanooga’s men’s coach John Shulman doesn’t yet have Coach Moore’s record, few people ever will. However he does share Coach Moore’s love for his players and our city.

Shulman is a passionate guy, a perpetual ball of energy and nerves yet somehow he like Wes finds a way to slow down and be more than just a hoop instructor. He is truly a coach, he shows passion for his players in ways not measured by just what happens on the court. John is more than “the standard reply”, more than “Coach Speak”, he like Wes Moore is a real person. Not robots but real guys with real families and real feelings for their players, the fans and this city. For this I salute you guys and you are just another reason why I am very proud to wear “Chattanooga” across my chest and to call her home.

If you would like to see what “Chattanooga’s Teams” are all about, load up your family and become part of “Our Family”, at “Our House”.

Chattanooga Basketball is real people working towards real goals and learning real lessons. It is also a lot of fun!

Come check them out, you might learn something.

Go Mocs!

Kahunaman AKA Moc Maniac

Learn more at gomocs.com    

…I had camped at Unicoi before, but never alone… well… almost alone. For last weekend’s trip, I packed my untested REI one-man backpacking tent, an extra sleeping bag for the predicted cold snap and my adorable dog, Lucky. Temps got down near the south side of freezing during my weekend in the woods, but having two sleeping bags and a warm Jack Russell terrier in my fairly small tent was a huge plus…

…Helen was an absolute blast. Instead of the usual “Black Friday” experience, I enjoyed the small White County town’s German-themed Christmas fair. Lucky was one of dozens of leashed canines who were out taking their humans for a walk. Helen has several little alleyways full of small retail shops, candy cookeries, and assorted other tourist traps. I was in one of them when I almost literally stumbled into a hole in the wall beer bar with an adjoining restaurant. It was “dog friendly” as well. Tara and Sarah turned out to be great bierfrauleins and excellent dog watchers…

…I later wandered over to the Old Heidelberg restaurant and the King Ludwig Bier Garten. I was reminded of the major difference between high-grav imported German beer and domestic brew. Lawd. I had some soft pretzels, some bratwurst, some hot potato salad and several delectable dark German lagers, alts, and kolschs. It was a great afternoon…

…If you like Gatlinburg… well, I think you’re crazy and you can keep it and keep Pigeon Freaking Forge too. But if you’d like to get briefly transported to a small German village with Southern hospitality, you should visit Helen. The German beer is cold… the Georgian hospitality is warm… and the combination adds up to a place I’m looking forward to visiting again…

— Mark Bedford

I have always been grateful for my work because I have been blessed to work mostly for myself and even when I work for someone else I take ownership in the job at hand. When my work no longer leaves me feeling fulfilled I have learned that the next challenge s just around the corner. But be careful what you wish for.

Work gives me purpose, only being a Father has ever came close to being as rewarding.

I have on several occasions mentioned in my many Enigma moments that I have studied the practice of Zen.

Zen like thinking has at times in my life been necessary to offset my “very” Type A Personality.

Zen teaching says that work is an integral part of our spiritual practice. Work and its benefits surround us like the air that we breathe, it is essential to our existence.

Everything from our homes to great boob jobs to the food that we eat is a result of someone’s work. No matter what our job title, no matter what our pay, we can choose to approach our work with dignity and care. In such a way a pauper can earn more respect than a President.

The Japeneese say “Inoru yori kasege”, “Toil rather than pray”.

Not saying my good Baptist friends out there that I can work my way to heaven but I believe that it means that prayer without work is not nearly as effective as a quick prayer and a hard day’s effort when you need to dig out of a bad spot.

So if work is up lifting and brings self worth to most of us then Chattanooga should soon begin to fill much better as a whole.

Volkswagen and now Amazon both deciding that our town will become their town is sure to bring a renewed spirit to “our” area and its people. This is an answer to prayers in itself.

As for me, I am beginning to see that I may never be able to just do a job and that is a problem for my long-term blood pressure since passion just comes natural to me. However if my Zen brothers are correct and I do believe that they are then I am hopeful that the benefits from all my years of giving my all to things will be that at the end of the road I will be able to say “Damn I am sleepy but I feel good about myself”.

Give thanks today for Volkswagen and Amazon, we should all be honored by their presence.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Yes, ferrets (All of them. No exceptions) will steal your stuff and yes, they will also snore. This one worse than most, on both counts.

What else they will do is hide their ill-gotten swag in the very farthest corner of their completely unappreciated, two hundred dollar Ferret Condo (that’s what it said on the box), poop on it, and then leave to go find a pair of your favorite Levis to sleep in, completely ignoring both of said condo’s tiny hammocks that had been such a rotten pain in the ass to hang. Many’s the time that yesterday’s jeans, left in an undignified, rumpled heap on the floor as bachelor/slob clothes are prone to be, would sound off each breath of the hard-won repose of an accomplished, professional thief, her work for the day done and over.

Missing your wallet that mysteriously disappeared from the back pocket of those jeans where you left it, come time for work? Check in the back corner of the cage first, if you don’t have any time to waste, and bring some paper towels. You’ll be needing them. And gripe all you want to the furry little devil responsible for it all, it’s a waste of time. Trust me. She’ll just stare at you like you’re crazy and then lick you because that’s what she does.

The moment you slip your stinking wallet into the pocket of tomorrow’s ferret hotel and head out the door, grumbling, any hunchbacked weasel’s cousin worthy of the name is going to yawn, steal something else you need or like, crap on it (Optional. Sometimes they just chew it to bits.) then head back into the preferred dark tunnel of a dirty pants leg, there to take up where they left off. The rude awakening and unceremonious dumping out into the floor for the gazillionth time some thick-headed idiot failed to secure an easily pilfered billfold quickly forgotten, and the indignity of it all quickly forgiven, this particular little thief would be sawing logs again in no time. You could hear her from twenty feet away, I swear it.

I can’t prove it any more because she died three days ago, but you can take my word for it. There are some things people just don’t lie about.

Here’s something else you can take to the bank:

There is nothing…absolutely nothing I own that I wouldn’t give to have her back. Material things are just that. They are replaceable with hard work. Not so easily restored are things along the lines of family, friends, love and trust once they are lost. And I’ve squandered, or had taken, all of those things. She was about all I had left. Sometimes I just can’t stand it and this is one of those times.

It came time, suddenly, to leave the place where Lucy the Evil Ferret had terrorized me and bitten my toes and ankles at every opportunity for the last six months, the day after she died. It was a hellhole of a place to try and conduct a life from but I’d known that when I moved in and I was relieved that it was time to go, truth be told. But somehow, taking down that cage - the place where she would hide car keys, reading glasses or your last bag of M&Ms indiscriminately- was the last damned thing in the world I wanted to do. There was a finality to it that brought up an overpowering sadness and a sickening doubt that the losses of the last years were ever going to be okay and for a moment, I balked.

It was time to go and I knew it but that didn’t make things any easier. The rest of my things were already gone and there was just this one last step to take. How hard did it really have to be?

I took a last look around at the room that had been a wretched excuse for a home to me for the last half a year, knowing what needed to be done and preparing for it as best I could but some things don’t come as easy as I’d like. With one final, stubborn piece of plastic all that stood between a complete waste of time as a shelter to a pigmentally deficient ferret - one that demanded to be free to roam at will- and its inevitable collapse, I wondered briefly why it was that it had taken on a meaning so powerful that I couldn’t explain it. It was just a goddam cage, wasn’t it?

It was. But it was also the place where she hid her treasures and kept her secrets and if she just so happened to miss the paper at the bottom of it on occasion when nature called, what of it? It was a fortress of sorts to her, the safest place to keep a stolen french fry that she could think of, and it was her cage!

As such, it was a shrine. No wonder it was so hard to bring down.

She was a birthday gift, believe it or not; the best I can think of right at the moment. She was pure white, with beady red eyes and she was absolutely beautiful if you ask me but I’m partial to my own, so what do I know? She kept me company through the worst times I’ve ever had and provoked me back into life when I desperately needed it and I hope she knew how much she meant to me.

Her name was Lucifer (Lucy, for short) and never once did she fail to bite my ankle if I happened to be dumb enough to leave it within reach and exposed. It’s not just people who show affection in the most baffling and damnedest of ways, obviously.

She took suddenly ill the other night and I can’t describe the fear or the hopelessness that welled up in me when she dropped off into that catatonic state I’ve seen just a time or two too many, if you ask me, before something or someone I loved left for good. She died alone in an emergency clinic two hours away that I drove like a mad man to get to and thought, like an idiot who can’t even protect his wallet, that I ought to leave so as to be at work on time the next morning. I may never forgive myself for that one.

I’m no quitter these days but there are times, just like for everyone else, when I need a reason to keep at the war that life can become when you need or want it the least. She was always, always that reason.

Staring in blind misery at the last place she’d ever snored or stolen in, and at the scattered remnants of the other plastic ties that had cut away so easily and now lay like so many spent and fallen soldiers, I laid my knife to the side of one steadfast, resilient holdout and took a last tortured breath.

With a quick, sharp pull and not a sound of any kind, the last tie was severed and the walls of a fortress fit for Hell’s own child, an angel, or both came crashing down.

I feel like I’m going to die, myself.

C. Fentress

Downtown at Night

I'm sitting at Greenlife on the north shore, enjoying a coffee gelato and hoping that the rain has passed. I know we "need" it and all, but cold rainy weather wreaks havoc on my knee and shoulder joints. Greenlife has become a sort of a town square for north Chattanoogans, downtown worker bees and slumming mountainistas. Frankly, I'm a big fan. Reasonably priced healthy food, great sushi, great pizza, beer (on tap and in cans and bottles), and a cool atmosphere largely populated by really attractive, athletic health nuts and foodies. What's not to like? I've always been a north of the river/downtown guy. And there's more to do in downtown 'nooga than ever before...

...My friend, Dick (not his real name... I have several friends named "Dick," but I am not writing about them at this particular time) is one of those people whose glass is always half empty... or three-quarters of the way empty. Dick moved off to Chicago about 15 years ago and has recently moved back. I caught him one night at Tremont Tavern, going off on one of his rants about how there is nothing to do in Chattanooga. Well, the population in the Windy City's SMSA is about 2.8 million people. Chattanooga has about 225,000. Of course there is more to do in the Second City. Duh...

...But there is more to do in downtown Chatt (and the north shore) than ever before. I've recently moved from a job where I traveled statewide and regionally every week to a job where all of my travel is within a 100-mile radius of here. I've been in town a lot more during the week... and I've explored the music and entertainment offerings in Chattanooga. Dick is a dumbass. On Halloween night, I saw Filter play its killer version of "Trip Like I Do" at Rhythm n Brews. Mike Dougher does an awesome job of bringing top shelf talent into the venue. Within the last months, I've seen Colour Revolt and How I Became the Bomb (two of my new favorite bands) at JJ's Bohemia. I also saw the Bohannons play some cuts from their killer new CD. I've seen cool local bands play the downstairs stage at Raw. There are some cool things going on in downtown Chattanooga. Some people just don't know Dick about it...

...It would be hard to mention the downtown night scene without giving mad props to Sing It or Wing It. The karaoke/wing bar is carving out a big niche for itself with. TV shows like "American Idol” and "America's Got Talent" have made karaoke much more popular. There are some very talented singers at SIWI, but the bad singers are more fun to watch. The DJ runs a tight ship, but everyone who wants to take the stage gets a chance to... and the end result is entertaining...

...Raw's upstairs dance floor is sardine-can tight with dancers on a Friday or Saturday night. When things slow down at Sing It or Wing It, the crowd crosses over to Raw... and vice versa. The result is a migrating herd of dancers and prancers that cycles around numerous times before last call...

...I consider UT-Chattanooga athletics to be part of our city's entertainment package. Coach Russ Huesman has turned the football program around. The Mocs' mens' basketball team is close to becoming a true contender... while Wes Moore's Lady Mocs are frequent visitors to the NCAA hoops post-season tournament...

...Chattanooga is a true contender when it comes to having a vibrant night life... and getting better every day...

-- Mark Northern

Men are from Mars. Women are just batshit crazy. I say this as a guy who generally adores women. I’m a straight guy. Very straight. I have no problem with gay people of either gender… or straight or gay people in any stage of transgenderification. I’m just establishing my heterosexuality to give you some contex for the above statement about batshit craziness…

…Women are just more complicated than men… physically, emotionally, intellectually, and everyotherwhichwayically. We boys are noted for our simpleness. Chicks like to talk about how we think with our “little head.” I plead guilty to doing that upon occasion. There have been witnesses…

…I once heard it said that men want to know what you think, while women want to know what you feel. I think there’s some truth to that. Women certainly are more emotional than men… in general, I mean…

…Women are often more prone to make dramatic gestures. I once worked with an attractive and smart woman named Ann. We all did what you would call “telemarketing.” When a phone call didn’t go Ann’s way, she would slam her phone down with great vigor. We called it the "Ann Slam."..

...I was at Rembrandt’s (in the Bluff View Art District) a week or two ago when I was seated next to the four loudest women in the known universe. Jerry Seinfeld would definitely have called them “loud talkers.” They each found their individual voice so fascinating that they would interrupt each other constantly… at great volume. They all went to GPS (huge surprise) and amused themselves with dialogue on such life-altering topics as their respective trips to Europe, their remodeling projects, their fascinating and gorgeous children and their workout routines. The resulting cacophony left one speechless. When the four deafening shrews finally left the premises, the sighs of relief were audible…

…Women are seldom on time… for anything. They like to make belated, divaesque entrances. The only women I know who are on time for anything are the ones who spent time in the military. I know a Marine’s daughter who is more chronologically courteous than most, but she still shows up 30 minutes tardy now and then…

…Women are usually worth the royal pain in your ass. They have those amazing curvy places. They smell incredible. Theirs lips are… just like Echo and the Bunnymen said… like sugar. Sugar kisses. They are more entertaining than basic cable. Just watch the femmes on those reality shows. Lawd…

…Finally… for the women out there who know me… and are reading this… here is the usual disclaimer: “Any resemblance to persons living or dead, etc.” I am not referring to any one particular female in any of the above allegory. If you resemble any of the aforementioned characters… it’s your own damned fault…

… Mark Bedford

“I think therefore I share my thoughts, whether you like it or not”.

Back in my television days I published a monthly entertainment paper called “Chattanooga Live Extra” and each month I wrote Horoscopes as, “The Kahunaman”.

I also did “live” call in shows where I would wear my turban and people would call and ask “The Kahunaman” questions and I would give them my most philosophical answers, or I would just baffle them with bullshit.

Same Thing!

It has been a while since I channeled these special traits however this week I thought I would take a first step towards rediscovery, towards enlightenment, towards “The Kahunaman Philosophy”.

I give you:

Kahunaman Sez:

A collection of not so thought out facts, statements, questions and crap.

• Democrats are but a mistress to the American people, they will always come back home.

• I do not belong to any party, I am the party!

• To think is good, to know is better.

• If your Papa Was A Rolling Stone, your ass is rich!

• If Sir Isaac Newton were alive today would he Bungee-Jump?

• If a tree falls in the forest and no one hugs it, does it mean pot wasn’t legalized?

• Have you noticed how our Vice President makes George W. seem smart?

• To be or not to be? To be a woman? To be black? To be illegal? To be English speaking? To be President? To be at church for twenty years and never hear a sermon on hate? To be ready day one but not know where your husband is sleeping? To be too old? To be too liberal? To be, too conservative? To straddle the fence? To be? To be just me?  Sorry the polls say that just won’t do!

• I once knew a man from Nantucket, I believe his last name was Kennedy?

• They say reality is absurd, I say reality is just wildly strange.

• Why would automakers fear Chinese automobiles when Americans don’t even trust their toys?

• Don’t Worry Be Happy! High speed porn is only a click away.

• Lions and Tigers and Bears, and Tea Party people, Oh My!

• Don’t ask. Don’t tell? I’ll tell you what I would do. Knowing Radical Islam is very homophobic, I say put together an all gay “Special Ops” crew and make them the best soldiers in the world. Send them in to kick butt and decorate leaving a note saying “don’t make us send in the straight ones”.

• 3 Gumballs that twirl round and round….seventy five cents. 3 tickets on the carousel at the Park six dollars. Force feeding Americans a health care plan they don’t want, that’s BULLSHIT!

• Independent voters wonder why their vote for Obama was a mistake? See above.

• If Wal-Mart makes Health Insurance affordable to all Americans can we get rid of the Democrats completely next time?

• After the Dems are gone can we loose the Red Party also?

• Don’t let the meaning of life escape you. I know what it is and it is my favorite defense to most all things life throws my way….. In Latin it is “Hoc Ergo Proctor Hoc”, or afterwards therefore because of.

• Rambo said it best “They drew “First Blood”.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Vroom, Vroom: Wide Open, Part 3

If you’re the type who might sit in a darkened garage and make “vroom, vroom” noises astride a motorcycle – any motorcycle at all, be it the first starter trail bike of your youth or an obscenely fast and dangerous race bike whose sole purpose is to silence the unruly demons of a mid-life crisis by any means necessary (terror works when nothing else will), here’s a helpful hint:

Do it quietly.

Do it quietly, or invite the ridicule of people who have no idea how therapeutic it might be to set a couple of wheels spinning towards a distant horizon or a close-by finish line, even if they might be only imagined. If you’re twelve, and your father happens to catch you in the middle of an imaginary trip through the mountains of the great northwest on your brother’s new Honda Trail 70 when he sends the dog out for a last trip around the yard before turning in for the night, it’s one thing. Maybe he’ll look at you funny and shake his head just a little in the obvious disappointment that any parent with high hopes for well-adjusted, successful children might, but there probably won’t be any real backlash. Let him catch you in a retard’s attempt at duplicating motorcycle noises, though, and it’s a whole ‘nother ball game, in more ways than one. Spend too much time in an imaginary world where you can just ride away from things like school yard bullies and before you know it, your Dad might decide to “make a man out of you” and sign you up to play little league football at the local orphanage, otherwise known as the home of the worst of the school yard bullies.

You’d almost think I’d be making this stuff up, wouldn’t you?

“Take that, rich boy with parents”! Sam B., a malevolent twelve-year old bastard once spit in my ear after a late hit from behind that knocked my helmet clean off and  left my face smeared into the muddy grass of the practice field at the Bonny Oaks Home For Future Axe Murderers. I think it was uncalled for but what do I know? If I had to fight off a couple dozen other maladjusted kids every night to see who got to use the toilet paper first, I might have anger issues too. And I suppose having a sober coach who might call somebody down for making a dirty play was a little too much to ask, come to think of it.

A lot of character got built out there on that field they tell me but I’m not really sure where it went. I suppose I must have lost it out on a Sunday afternoon trail ride in the nearby woods, riding wheelies out of eroded gullies, rocketing down overgrown rows of pines from an overgrown tree farm long untended or sliding sideways on a grassy oval in an out of control attempt to mimic what the great flat track racers of the day were doing in far away places. Places that kids with dreams and a subscription to Cycle World in Chattanooga, Tn. could only imagine.

All except David Downey. David was crazy.

He did things on those trails with big street bikes that I still don’t believe and I was there to see it. Once, he came flying past me on a high-speed run down a firebreak on an old Honda 750 with one of the neighborhood girls on the back seat. He was going 70 mph at the very least and he came past me like I was standing still, the tortured wails of bike and passenger alike pounding my eardrums and curdling my blood and I was utterly fascinated. He hit something just about then; I don’t know what, exactly. It was a root or rock in the trail or maybe just a loose patch of sandy soil, I don’t know, but in a flash, his bike was sideways and wobbling in what threatened to be a disaster I’d be seeing in my nightmares until my last days.

In a cloud of dust and dried up weeds that obscured my view of what had to be one of the greatest saves in the history of two-wheeled sport, David The Crazy Person quite obviously said to himself “Screw the brakes, you only live once!” and twisted the throttle on that big sucker open in the fearless way that great men, and men who some day might be, do. 

I don’t know how he pulled it off, but I know I won’t forget the wail of that motor, screaming at its redline, or the wail of the bimbo on the backseat, screaming in terrified unison as bike, rider and fourteen year old passenger, now sporting her first grey hairs and in sudden need for clean underpants, emerged victorious and upright from the clutches of Death Disappointed. 

I won’t forget standing there, stupefied at what I’d just seen and I won’t forget what David the Crazy Person said to me, following this milestone event, either.

“Man, I just hit the gas, you know?”

Words to live by.

“Screw playing football with people who just want to maim you”, I thought. Running from hostile orphans who want to kill you, not because you’re carrying the ball, but because you’re carrying their ball, was stupid and I gave it up, pronto. I figured on being a motocross star or a roadracer or such and promptly sought to outrun, by simply riding away from, any trace of a memory of the bullshit that had been my introduction to the world of organized contact sports.

Dad wasn’t too happy and wasn’t all that quiet about it, either. “”Quitter” I think he said.  “Vroom, vroom” I thought silently to myself, in reply. No need to push my luck by actually opening my mouth, I rightly reasoned.

In the days to come, I upped the risk-taking in my daily riding substantially, knowing as I now did, that the worst of things, even a near certain death, could sometimes be outrun by simply jumping hard on the gas. Often in the company of David The Crazy Person’s little brother Paul (another mad man who once, at the ripe old age of thirteen, drove an electric car so hard it caught on fire and burned to the ground), I would wring the guts out of that old Trail 70, at times with spectacularly bad results.

Once, when flying down the trail in hot pursuit of The Crazy Person’s little brother on his Yamaha, I found myself in over my head and skidding crazily through a fresh pile of pony droppings and straight toward a menacing white pine (A common hazard in these woods - Beck’s horse farm down the road boarded these wretched animals for all the spoiled little princess girls nearby and we had kind of an ongoing turf war, Hooves vs. Knobbies).   

With no more than a long, slow motion second between me and a potential mangling, the learned words of a lunatic grabbed me and shook me like the rag doll I could surely be if I hit that stupid tree at anywhere near my current velocity, so I did what the guy in second place is always supposed to do, right?  I hit the damned gas, yes I did.

Then I hit the damned tree, yes I did.

I lay there squirming in a tangled heap of trailbike, pine needles and punk - the smell of burning horse shit that my front tire had slung all over me and a red hot exhaust adding insult to injury- and the crushing thought occurred to me then and there that I might not really have what it takes to go handlebar to handlebar with the true speed demons of the world, or even my little corner of it.

The sudden thought that it was actually riding talent and not just a blind willingness to gas it and pray that had delivered David and the bimbo unscathed from the incident described earlier wormed its way into my now throbbing head, there to keep company with the agony of abiding self doubt and the fear that my brother would beat what was left of me to a bloody pulp for smashing up his favorite thing in the world. If you’re going to ride off into trees for no reason other than sliding through turd piles, there’s a price to be paid, sometimes in the form of an asskicking from a deeply ashamed older brother.

Better he, for the reason described, than a horde of low-life orphans is my opinion.

Those old Hondas were tough, I tell you. After painfully dragging myself and the bike upright and brushing away the tell-tale pine needles stuck every which where (me and the bike) I found, incredibly enough after a quick once-over, that the damage was minimal. One slightly bent handlebar, a mirror and a tooth knocked loose and that was it, if you don’t count bruised ego or ripped pants. Heck, my mom was going to be madder than my brother and she would only hit you with wooden cooking spoon if you really deserved it. I was safe, all except for Paul laughing at me and telling everybody we knew and a few people we didn’t that I rode like a pony-loving girl.

Thanks for nothing, Paul. On second thought, I take that back. Listening to, or riding with, those Downey boys could get you killed but I wouldn’t have traded it (Little League, my eye) for anything. At least they weren’t trying to beat me up.

I thought about all this as I snuck down into the garage at girlfriend’s house the other night about two in the morning, wide awake for some stupid reason or maybe, no reason at all. There’s a perfectly good Honda 70 sitting there ready to evoke a memory or inspire a story at a moment’s notice, so I went to pay it a visit just to see what it was up to.  Easing my way down a creaky flight of stairs and into the shadows of a dimly lit garage, I made my way silently and carefully to the bike of my childhood dreams and swung a leg over, just for the hell of it. 

For an all-too-brief interlude, I was back in the magic of days gone by, memories of old friends and forgotten riding places playing through my head like a favorite old song that you haven’t heard in ages. Sometimes those old memories are better than you ever thought they could be and need to be replayed, again and again.

I was down there for a while. I might not have been taking the checkered flag at Elsinore, but I was having one hell of a ride.

I didn’t want to wake anybody up though, so this time I was whispering.

“vroom, vroom”.

Kahunaman Sez

Election night 2010

The night started good for the conservatives when Bristol Palin survived another week on Dancing With The Stars and Obama look alike Rick Fox was voted off the show.

It seems all things Democrat are being targeted this election night including rumors that Lookouts mascot Blooie was being dyed Red.

With that said, it’s also funny as hell, where was Oprah?

Come on Ms O., you should be poll side with a different kind of tear in your eyes tonight. Note to America, don’t drink the Kool-Ade, these guys suck too. Oh that’s right the media will start telling you that first thing in the morning.

Okay for some fun I once again cruised Craig’s List “Missed Connections” and here is some more crazy stuff that was there.

Let’s start with this story of love and larceny.

Tuesday night around 11:30 on Rossville Blvd. You came out of Taco Bell and I followed you. You looked over your shoulder, saw me and started walking faster. I ran up, grabbed your arm, took your purse and ran away. I heard you yelling for help but let's be honest, this is Rossville Blvd. The only way people would come running is if you yelled "Free Weed!"

 
I've done many a snatch-and-grab but no one has ever stuck in my mind like you. There was a quick moment when our eyes met that I felt something strong. I think you felt it too. If I wasn't so shy (or so committing a crime) I would have asked your name. I, of course, later got your name from your driver’s license. So Jennifer if you'd like to get together for a drink sometime get back to me.

Oh, and I can give you back your purse. Your credit cards are still there but I spent the cash (sorry). And my roommate took your tampons. I don't know what he does with them but he always takes the tampons. If it works out between us I'll totally buy you some new ones ;-)

Probably nothing more than a sick joke but if not may I suggest Jennifer set up a meeting and make eye contact as she snatch and grabs his family jewels and runs to awaiting police.

Next up:

Going on a tour of the cave leading down to Ruby Falls.. I was with.... ..... (fill in the blank if you respond so I know it's really you).. you were in front of me with your family..I think your Mom and Dad and some younger lady and a little girl? You didn't seem to be 'with' her, maybe she's your sister? You were SOOOO sexy, you kept checking me out, smiled my way a couple of times..? You were wearing a hat, and I think a white shirt with something on the front? Omg..I just want you to know that I have thought about you since I first saw you look at me.. you are so hott. Anyways..just thought I would share that with you..no need for a reply but if you feel the urge..be my guest... I would love to know what you thought about me? What made you keep looking?

Could it possibly be the attached torso photo showing a slim chick with huge hooters?

Another good one:

Looking for the beautiful Melissa at taco bell on shallowford road . I think that was your name . I was there Thursday around 4 to 430 pm . You waited on me and I want to know more about you . You are so very beautiful and so sweet . You touched my heart and I can't stop thinking about you . . I told you how beautiful you are. I would like to hear from you and see you again . I hope you remember me. Write me and let me kmow if you remember my visit . I hope to hear from you soon. Hugs

“You touched my heart”? No she didn’t, it was the freakin food clogging your arteries dumb ass.

And finally, being the smartass Republican that I am, I thought I would have a little fun on this election night so I posted this on the Missed Connections page myself.

Two years ago I felt a connection as strong as any blazing love affair in the history of romance.

You looked at me with quivering lips and tears of joy and hung on my every word as if I were that “Most Interesting Man In The World” character from those beer commercials.

You, your families, friends and even people you made up using those phony ACORN ballots loved me with a passion that on TV at least seemed eternal. But tonight I am shattered like the Federal Budget as you have betrayed me and all of my liberal cupids on Capital Hill.

Tonight I have once again had to hear Joe Biden over a live microphone say “This is a big F-n- Deal, we may have to move again in two years”.

Please help me to relive my greatness by you blindly kissing my ass one last time thus making my wife feel proud of her country again for the first time.

Love Barack 

Two more years! Two more years! Two more years!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Goodbye, Monkey

Jimmy Hodge threw the best passes I ever caught. The former Clinton, Tennessee high school phenom was on my fraternity’s intramural football team. In case you weren’t aware, my fraternity is Sigma Chi. At our formals, we sing “The Sweetheart of Sigma Chi”... which was “Top of the Pops” back in the 1930s. Like all frats, we count numerous celebrities among our members. Famous Sigs include David Letterman, John Wayne, Andy Rooney, Tom Selleck, Boz Scaggs, Merlin Olsen… and many more…

…Jimmy was quarterback at Clinton High School when Tennessee standout split end Larry Seivers was there. Seivers was an incredible receiver and a consensus All-America in 1975 and 1976. He led the team in receiving in 1974-76. His career totals were 117 catches for 1924 yard and a 16.4 yards per catch average. Impressive. “Himmy Hodge” was recruited to UT-Chattanooga as a dropback passer. When Coach Morrison moved the team to a veer offense, Hodge’s collegiate quarterbacking days were numbered. Tony Merendino and Dennis Berkery shared the signal-calling responsibilities in Joe Moe’s veer. Jimmy traded his helmet for a frat pin…

…I caught many passes from Jimmy in the side street next to 901 Oak Street. A fire took the old building, so the Sigma Chis relocated to a new structure across from CSAS. I always enjoy visiting the young brothers. But… back to Hodge…

…The end of Jimmy’s playing career heralded the beginning of his years as a highly vocal Mocs football fan. I saw Brother Hodge make dozens of incredible passes. He could drill it into your chest from 40 yards or lob it over an unsuspecting cornerback. I say all that to say this: My most vivid memory of Jimmy Hodge involves him standing (barely) in the stands at Chamberlain Field and shoutins “F*** Furman. Furman was Chattanooga’s arch nemesis back when I was in school. Jimmy was right to expletivize the Paladins…

…I had the opportunity to speak with Mocs Coach Russ Huesman Tuesday morning. We concurred that Chattanooga really doesn’t have a football rival any more. All that is about to change. Huesman’s lads are making waves in the Southern conference. Last weekend, they ended a 15-game losing streak to Furman by spoiling the Paladins’ homecoming, 36-28…

…Former McCallie quarterback and state of Tennessee “Mr. Football” B.J. Coleman passed for 432 yards and two touchdowns to key a 26-point fourth quarter comeback. Coleman is the real deal. I expect to see him playing on Sundays.  There are a few other Mocs who will get a chance to show their stuff in the NFL. Impressive. Russ Huesman has restored the glory at his alma mater. Now we’ll learn if they can sustain it…

 - Mark Bedford

Boo!

Ah, fall. The leaves are turning brown and all over town it is beginning to feel a lot like Halloween.

It is once again time for the freak in me to come out and I am not talking about the return of Wild Wednesday, but Haunted Carnival. I think I will use this week as an advertisement for my Halloween production at Sir Goonys.

Vampire Nation is almost as scary as election day for a Democrat!

A couple of funny stories that have come from my 14 years of producing 24 haunted attractions.

Safety is the “word” at Haunted Carnival but in our first year we did have an accident. The fact that no one got hurt makes this a funny story. We had recreated the Jamanji room where you “roll the dice and play the game”. The first year our show was at the old Eastgate Theatre and the slanted floors and a push would send our 11 foot Rhino flying through the wall, stopping just short of our startled guests. One night one group got the surprise of their lives when the bungy cord that stopped the monster gave way. I had just stepped into the room when I see this giant Rhino, slam through the wall, then the rail and crash horn first into the back wall as the group went flying. One little teenage guy stood against the wall with the Rhinos horn and glowing eyes only inches from his head.

I was petrified, but before I could say anything the kid goes…”WOW, that was intense, can you do it again”? The group applauded and moved on.

I had to sit down for a few minutes.

Over the years I have scared tens of thousands of people. Some flinch, some do nothing. Some scream and hit the floor. I have had people drop to their knees and some will just run to their cars and drive away. Some draw back while some will cover up and I have even induced flatulence on occasion.

This past weekend I was flashed by an attractive young lady whose boyfriend confessed “I thought it would be fun to get the girls all liquored up and go to the scary house”. He seemed a bit confused as his little freak showed her “Haunted Hooters” to every actor in the show.

Not the first time that has happened however in my business the ultimate story of “GotCHA” is the ever illusive “urination”.

Now I am a pretty good Fear Engineer. I spend over an hour in makeup each night to get the look that can withstand an up close encounter. I work hard stalking my victims and like any good hunter I show patience, waiting for just the right moment to get the perfect scare. However I had to my knowledge never caused anyone to wet themselves. To me urination was the Haunted Carnival equivalent to an “Urban Legend”. Most cast members have a story about it and I would entertain the story, laugh and think “If this happens why don’t I ever see people leaving with wet spots?

Now I can say, I have!

While traveling through one of our many scary passages one young lady found herself face to face with something she didn’t know was there, ME! A flash of light and an evil growl later and her friend says “Oh my, Carrie just pee-ed herself”. Then she said “Carrie it’s splashing on my sandals, stop”! I was trying not to laugh while in character as I walked away in victory.

FINALLY, I had reached the mountain top!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

chattanoogasbesthauntedhouse.com

“….I believe what we have here, is a Tyrant…”    B.M. Schiere

Years ago, I was wheeling my way rapidly out into a vast, blinding expanse of solid white with no real borders of any kind visible for the moment. On three sides, there hovered ghostly, wavering outlines of a distant mountain range, but the late morning heat and light that rebounds so fiercely off the surface of the Bonneville Salt Flats can leave plenty of room for doubt as to whether what you’re seeing at any given moment is reality, a distorted shred of it or the distant rippling of an outright mirage. Even with a freshly guzzled quart of Gatorade and the best protective shades and desert sun gear available doing all they can to insulate mind and body from an uncompromising, other-worldly environment where what you see, hear and feel defies description or comparison, distinction between reality and hallucination is sometimes pointless.

With the broadest gap in the distant string of mountain peaks to the left as a target, I had, as quietly and inconspicuously as possible, eased out and away from the folks that had  gathered in this place, as always, in search of ever greater velocities, be they rider, driver or spectator. On a bike that would hopefully trip the radar gun close to 220mph later and establish a new class record, I eased out and away, at no more than ¼ throttle, shifting up into each higher gear before the beast of a motor could even clear its throat, all the while knowing that I was badly out of place behind these handlebars and seriously pushing my luck.

The motor in this bike, a product of hundreds of hours of meticulous preparation and thousands of somebody else’s hard-earned dollars, had sailed through its dynamometer run the week prior at better than 40 hp up from the mark it had posted prior to officially entering the East Coast 200mph Club a year earlier. 

It was ready.

And so was its official rider who was flying in the next day to ride his way into the record books of Land Speed Racing, if all went well. A little extra easy run-in time on that brand new motor couldn’t hurt, I’d falsely reasoned, even though it had punched its way to a stratospheric redline with a vicious shriek that left everyone nearby shaking in their shoes just days earlier. It had held together just fine, thank you very much and Brad, the mechanical genius (Translation: Asshole) who had masterminded the entire project and built the motor wasn’t surprised in the least. With his bones still rattling, and the sparse, crazy tufts of growth atop his scalp he liked to think of as hair still blown every which way from the fast moving exhaust he’d stood just a hair too close to, he’d read the dyno printout, and hadn’t yet even so much as blinked. He stood motionless for a short moment, every inch the mad scientist hovering proudly over his newest creation, before running a hand through the genetic insult he’d be way better off just shaving already, and announcing in an awestruck, reverent tone…”Gentlemen, I believe what we have here, is a Tyrant. In fact, I’m sure of it”.

And now, without a doubt, I was sure of it as I guided this monster of a motorcycle out into its intended element. With the center of activity in this ritualistic orgy of sound and speed receding quickly into the distance, I touched an easy 100mph, the bike all but yawning; taunting me even, for daring to ease it along, so. 

“I thought we were going for a ride, Mama’s Boy” I thought I heard it sneer at me (It was hard to say really…the motor of this thing made one hell of a racket, even loafing along as it was, and the tires slapping across the shallow ripples of the ungraded salt would have probably drowned out anything else) but it was probably just my imagination.

In my mind I replayed an incident involving the drilling and tapping of new holes into a custom, lengthened aluminum swing arm and the annoyingly slow process of funneling fifty lbs of lead shot into same without actually using a funnel. Ditto for the lower boxed sections of the frame, all in the name of lowering the center of gravity for stability at high speed in potentially vicious cross-winds. It was a tedious pain in the ass and I’d done some swearing, believe it or not.

I’d talked to various pieces of this bike quite a few times over the course of the last several weeks, usually in the vein of “C’mon, you sonofabitch, C’MON!!” when custom fabricated parts or very expensive aftermarket ones were reluctant to go together smoothly, if at all, and now I was thinking it was playing the tape back to me.

Nobody likes taking that kind of crap from a machine, especially one that they’ve skinned a knuckle or two on and lost sleep worrying over, and I’m a bit less tolerant than some people I could name. The very, very bad idea that I could wring this bike out…bounce it off the rev limiter and make it scream occurred to me suddenly and I have to tell you that, like thousands of bad ideas I’d had prior to it, I liked it a lot.

I tightened my grip, ducked my head just a tiny bit further down behind the windscreen and gritted my teeth in preparation for cranking open that throttle and birthing a nightmare.

Right about then, wouldn’t you know it, my testicles started shouting at me…

A scant two hours earlier, in one of life’s days of boundless magic, I stood, a first-time visitor to the Holy Land of wheeled speed that stretches far across a remote corner of Utah, in a pointless struggle to absorb all that was happening around me. Even the smallest detail that might have meant nothing, or next to it, to everyone else in my general vicinity, I was mentally filing away, best that I could, for whatever future use might present itself.

On my immediate left, a multi-time World Champion tuner and racer and a gang of filthy rich guys, many of them British, were hashing out details of the morrow’s attempt at toppling the existing World Record for a V-twin powered vehicle in a modern two-wheeled streamliner. One propelled by an ancient, although heavily modified, Vincent motor. These fellows - serious guys, no doubt - had come from the far corners of the earth to see a Vincent finally reclaim a rightful preeminence in the world of two-wheeled speed, cost be damned!

Rudely interrupting this bit of history in the making every few minutes, some form of vehicle, purposefully built or modified with nothing in mind but top speed would come roaring past, a short enough distance out to pick up the faintest smell of the fumes they spewed out in a blistering, frenzied effort for one, two, or sometimes even just a fraction of a mile per hour more.

And when the Nish Motorsports streamliner came flying by at a stupendous, record-smashing velocity I couldn’t have imagined had I not been there, even the Multi-time World Champion -the late, great Don Vesco himself- was all eyes and ears. I’d only known him a few short months by then, but I’d bet my last nickel he was wishing he was the one at the wheel.

The two of us, at least, were completely absorbed in the goings on of these hundreds of people and their vehicles, all completely obsessed with a common purpose: the fastest attainable speed down two long stretches of salt, one out and one back.

Too bad. Otherwise, I might have noticed a certain, horrific oversight in my earlier sunscreen application ritual. An extra, heaping helping of 50 SPF gook is an absolute, chiseled-in-stone requirement when “going commando” in a pair of baggy shorts at Bonneville - the largest, bright reflective surface on the face of the earth, and I had  blatantly overlooked this. Before I knew it I had a situation on my hands that could not be ignored; one that called loudly for drastic measures.

Ouch, my balls! A blowtorch could have burnt them sooner, I suppose, but more thoroughly is doubtful. That’s some evil salt out there, let me tell you. 

Now in a growing panic, but knowing that a prompt application of something very cold could minimize the severity of this most unpleasant situation, I stepped quickly away from the hub of noisy activity in search of something - anything- that would get the job done. I didn’t have to look too far to find an unattended ice chest in the back of an old green pickup, thankfully, and I’m sure I will someday be forgiven for swiping some unsuspecting victims’ tub of Cool Whip.

Better that, than to have just borrowed it, briefly, and leave somebody wondering about the strange imprints later, right?

I sure hope nobody was eating dessert while reading this. Strawberry shortcake may never look the same again but, hey….a story’s a story. Regardless, I found myself limping along back to the bike trailer and, locking myself in on arrival, proceeded to put the Cool Whip to a questionable, though badly needed use.

Special Note: This is not a good time to pause or close your eyes. Read on, quickly.

A short while later, I was much better, but  still in no shape to go walking out onto the salt again, what with all the potential swishing and rubbing to be dealt with. I sat instead, staring out onto a stark but tempting horizon for a few minutes, wondering “What next?” I could come back tomorrow sporting a fresh pair of protective boxers and a can of Solarcaine (I would) and jump right back into the swing of things, but for now, what was there to do? It would be hours before it was time to call it a day and head back to the hotel, and I wasn’t doing the driving.  I decided that I could kill time and maybe just roll the bike out and start it up, or something. Maybe I should just check over everything one more (the millionth) time, just to be safe, you know?  At least that’s what I told myself.

After that, of course, it was just a short, temporary insanity-due-to- scorched balls step to taking a quick check out ride…again, just to be on the safe side. I wouldn’t be moving around much, I reasoned, thinking that “my boys” really ought to thank me for that, and heck…somebody has to make sure this thing is going to run like it should, right? As half the pit crew, I figured I should probably be as thorough as possible in preparation for somebody else’s attempt at a record run, shouldn’t I?

Of course I should, and for the second time in less than an hour, I lay my hands on something I’ve got no permission to. I will return this helmet, though, minus any new imprints if I’m lucky.

And so, here I am. With dangly parts as red as a boiled lobster (which would put even Gandhi in an aggressive mood), just enough sun exposure to be crazed enough to think that I’m being disrespected by a talking Suzuki and the memory of the fastest thing I’ve ever seen on wheels fresh on my mind, I am headed towards a row of mountains shimmering in the distance, at the end of one of the greatest wide open places on earth. They are miles and miles away but accessible in no time, if I’ll simply twist my wrist a bit further.

I’m over 150 mph now, faster than I’ve ever been. So far, there have been no cross winds to speak of and this bike has so very much more to go.  

On the one hand, there’s no traffic out here…nothing to crash into, except a mountain range, far off in the distance, and it’s not like you can’t see it coming in plenty of time. There are no police, no speeding tickets. On paper, anyway, this bike should be steady as a rock at ridiculous speeds, so basically it comes down to just holding on really tight and not falling off. Sure it’s going to be scary but really, how hard can it be? Vesco would be all over this in a second, and deeply shamed to keep my company if I don’t, and he’s a personal hero, after all.

On the other hand, my testicles are tossing their two cent’s worth into the deal and not being terribly subtle about it at all. “Man, you don’t have the balls for this!” they’re screaming. “We know. We’re the balls!!”

When a man’s special parts start to talk to him, he really ought to listen. This is a known truth. Sometimes, though, they can be drowned out by a larger, fiercer, more commanding voice.

One not muffled by tasty dessert topping or a pair of baggy pants. One that will make itself heard, unmistakably, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

“GAS IT ALREADY, NANCY !!” roared the Tyrant.

I suppose it could be argued that I actually had a choice.

To be continued.

C. Fentress

Webster’s definition of “PRIDE”: the quality or state of being proud; reasonable or justifiable self-respect; delight or elation arising from some act, possession, or relationship.

Kahunaman’s definition of” PRIDE”: Being a father;, being a professional in all things one does; Living in the Chattanooga area!

I feel strongly that pride is an important part of living a meaningful life. Too many people seem to confuse pride with arrogance or conceit, they are not even close.

Pride is a must have if you want to be a success, not a product of success.

Self-respect is a byproduct of pride and self respect is a building block of happiness. In my book happiness is a very good measuring stick towards the true success of a person for without happiness all other accomplishments are meaningless.

At this point I have reread these opening statements only to realize that some of my proper English students and teachers may be saying it depends on the tense and whether were talking noun or transitive verb etc. etc.

After all my years of writing in Enigma you guys who read my articles understand that I may be a wordsmith on occasion but I am capable of throwing a shoe at any time. With that said my point is simple.

Pride is a must have for those who want to lead a full and happy life.  

Young people who bully others are not being “prideful” they are being mean. They actually seem to be searching for self worth by degrading and stripping others of their own. When I was younger I always felt that bullies were the most pathetic of all of God’s creatures. Now that I am wiser I realize that they could probably just use a hug, some love or a boot in their ass. Growing up at my parent’s house those were closely connected depending on careful parental diagnoses.

Pride in ones craft makes for many a sleepless night for many however the buzz that comes from meeting ones own prideful expectations is better than anything they are selling in head shops in California or Michigan. Speaking of pride and Michigan FOX News followed a group of over a dozen employees from the Jeep factory that makes the new Jeep Cherokee. Everyday during their 30 minute lunch these guys and gals would shoot straight to the package store for some beer and rolling papers. For two months FOX watched these people drink and smoke weed before going back to their jobs building cars that would eventually carry families. Michigan has fallen greatly during the collapse of the American Auto Industry and you would think they would learn about pride and responsibility while making $25 an hour… guess not.

Here is a challenge to all my area brothers and sisters.

Lay off the booze and weed while building at the new VW plant. Those cars mark what can be a bright new future for the Chattanooga area. However, if they rattle, don’t seal solidly and smell of pot, Chattanooga’s Fahfegnugen will be relatively short-lived.

Remember auto unions and generations of attitudes up north believed twenty five bucks an hour was given not earned and today once proud Detroit is a shadow of herself. 

Let’s show some community pride as we usher in what could be Chattanooga’s golden age.

The pride of a parent is a relatively new feeling to the Kahunaman and one that I can see I will never grow tired of. It can be intoxicating itself whether it is brought on by a 4.0 report card, a stellar showing in the sporting arena or a simple act of kindness or respect. Children can feed some parents ego but for me I find myself in aw of each and every small step my kids take towards being better than myself. That is my goal for them that they become better people than their old man. I know your thinking, we’ll that shouldn’t be hard and you are probably right but for me that is a great start in their journey towards happiness and one that will make their father a very happy man.

Hopefully we can all take more pride in every area of our lives.

I know I have, do and will always be a very proud American. Even with dope smoking autoworkers, crooked brokers and attorneys we stand head and shoulders above most of the world and I am proud to say that Chattanooga stands head and shoulders above most of America.

Nice choice VW, glad to have you.

Willkommen!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Years from now, the 17,000+ football fans who were at Finley Stadium last Saturday night will remember it well. The second-largest crowd in UT-Chattanooga football history watched the Mocs turn the proverbial corner. The scoreboard was tilted 35-27 in the home team’s favor when the clock wound down, but it was one of those games where the score didn’t begin to tell the story…

…It took a “perfect storm” of circumstances for Chattanooga to upset 18th-ranked Georgia Southern. If anyone other than Lane Kiffin had been hired to replace Phil Fulmer at Tennessee, former McCallie school star B.J. Coleman would probably have been calling the signals behind the Vols’ sadly inexperienced offensive line this season. If the game hadn’t been scheduled for a Saturday when UT had an off week, the crowd would have been substantially smaller. If former Moc John Murphy and several of his former teammates hadn’t fought hard to get Russ Huesman hired to replace Rodney Allison at the Chattanooga football helm, I wouldn’t have this dead certain feeling that more big wins are ahead for a program that has struggled for respectability since the late nineties…

…Coleman was masterful against the Eagles. His passing numbers were decent enough – 159 yards and two touchdowns after completing 11-of-22. No interceptions. He also ran for an 11-yard TD after a key “roughing the holder” call against GSU. But it was Coleman’s poise, clock management and overall field generalship that were most impressive. The Mocs let a big one get away earlier this year. They had perennial FCS powerhouse Appalachian State on the ropes earlier this season, but let them back in the game. A win over the three-time national champions would have been huge. But coach Jerry Moore’s Mountaineers rallied for a 42-41 win at Finley. Every Chattanooga fan, player and coach had that heartbreaking loss on their mind on Saturday night. But the Mocs held fast this time. That big roughing call and Coleman’s clutch scamper into the end zone helped give Huesman his biggest win as a collegiate head coach…

…I was lucky enough to see most of the game from the comfortable confines of the stadium suite belonging to Murphy and his wife, Renee Haugerud. It would be an overstatement to say that this dynamic duo have been responsible for the resurgence of Chattanooga football. And neither of them would allow you to make such a statement. But it is safe to say that their financial gifts and enthusiasm have made a huge impact on Mocs football and the university as a whole…

…Murph’s box was a blue and gold rainbow coalition last Saturday night. White folks. Black folks. Straight folks. Gay folks. I saw so many former Chattanooga athletic greats that I lost count. Former Minnesota Viking Curtis “Boo Boo” Rouse was there, smiling and cheerful despite being in a wheelchair. I remember when he could dunk a basketball from a standing start. I had a long conversation with Mike Smith, who teamed with Gwain Durden to give UTC its best running back tandem… ever. Former Mocs point guard Edsel Brooks was there. So was the best point guard I ever saw in real life… former Lady Moc All-American Karen Mills, now a hilarious standup comedian. The list goes on. Sam Hudson. Malcolm Carson. Joe Petosa. Russ Ehrenfeld. Steve Kurtz. I am leaving some great people out… but there were so many great people there… not all of them former Chattanooga athletes. Murph’s mom, Florence, is an absolute hoot…

…John and Renee are at the center of the perfect storm that has resurrected the Mocs football program. They also contributed $1.5 million to develop the Renee Haugerud and John H. Murphy Global Finance Center in the university’s College of Business. This power couple could live anywhere in the world… and they have. Haugerud is the founder and Chief Investment Officer of Galtere International, a $2 billion commodities hedge fund. The former University of Montana forestry major and the former Moc football player make smart investments for a living. And they are damned good at it. Their investment of their capital, time and talents will reap long-term rewards for the athletic and academic efforts of our hometown university…

…I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the huge contributions of UT-Chattanooga Chancellor Roger Brown and athletic director Rick Hart. Their leadership and smart decisions are another part of the aforementioned perfect storm. Both men found their way to “Murph’s box” after they had finished their more official post-game obligations…

…On a personal note, I was blessed to reconnect with numerous college friends and fraternity brothers at the best Chattanooga homecoming ever. It would have been a great day, even if the Mocs had lost. But I had a feeling it was going to be a blue and gold night. There was something about the intensity in the eyes of so many Chattanooga players as they walked through the pavilion crowd collecting hand slaps and fist bumps before the game. The Mocs are now 4-2 overall and 3-1 in Southern conference play. And they have definitely turned the corner…

-- Mark Bedford

There’s nothing quite like the intense, piercing sunlight of a cloudless, late Saturday morning at Summer’s end to rouse an overpowering desire- a need, even- for some quality two-wheeled time on a lengthy stretch of scenic, twisty tarmac. It is a powerful temptation indeed, with the grunge and grime of a week’s commute and a dozen or so bugs who’d clearly run out of luck, scrubbed and rinsed to ignoble defeat and into the driveway runoff equivalent of the River Styx, to think “Lawn, shmawn… I’ll mow it tomorrow while everyone else is in church.” and just go ride, already.

With the thermometer needle edging its way towards the nineties, a day’s postponement of the brutal decapitation of innocent grasshoppers and dandelions alike, until early on the coming Sabbath, is not an entirely unforgivable course of action, is it?  I’m hoping not, but maybe I ought to be praying.

Regardless, I’m going riding.

And I’m trying my best to shake the image of a scowling, now departed father from my head, the fescue stretching its insidious, relentless way towards an altitude that would have deeply shamed the man who unfailingly cut his grass down to crew-cut level every Saturday morning.  From the last scattered frost of spring until the first- fallen of a new autumn, come high water, hell or locust swarm, the lawn at 3970 Webb Rd would be very nearly scalped, neatly trimmed and the driveway swept dutifully clear of any wayward clippings long before noon rolled around on the day before Sunday, you could bet your last nickel.  The neighbors were watching, after all, and you know how people will talk.

“Did you see how long that grass has gotten over at the Fentress place?” they would ask, once a year when we were on vacation. “Why, I bet that lazy so-and-so is drinking beer and watching a ball game!” they were probably snickering back and forth, as telephones across the neighborhood and into the next county began to ring off the hook, the shameful news spreading like an out-of-control wildfire. And that was just the tip of the iceberg that my father probably imagined. Once a man’s grass reaches four inches in length or better, rumors of adultery or failing to pay the paperboy in a timely fashion can’t be far behind.

Maybe you’ve never seen a man cut row after row of grass at night, in the moth-filled luminescence of a car’s headlights following an 800 mile drive home after a week’s absence, and maybe I haven’t either. I’ll let you decide.

But now, forty years after a late evening mowing that probably never happened, I’m counting on not suffering any dire consequences in the near term by leaving a crummy old mower to sit idle for another couple of sweeps of the clock’s little hand as I draw a long, guilt-ridden breath and swing a leg over my current ride. It’s a well-worn Harley that’s getting a little roughed up around the edges but still usually gets me where I’m going. Usually, with at least some hint of a smile and, more often than not, with a bug or two that was somewhat lacking in basic, evasive maneuvering skills plastered across my face as a grisly reminder that my selfish pleasures aren’t necessarily always a hoot for all concerned. Any further reminder on the subject that I might need is amply met as the crazy lady with the crazy Chihuahua who lives next door stares her silent Death Daggers at me from her driveway, the very moment I hit the starter button. 

This bike is a little bit loud, I admit. It was that way when I bought it, and it’s not as noisy as a lot of them out there, but you can hear it, for sure. I’m not one of those asshole bikers that sits and revs his bike up, long and repeatedly, to insure that everyone within half a mile will be forced to notice them (like it or not) either, but the bike isn’t whisper quiet. It draws attention. And every time I start it up, Chihuahua Lady looks at me like I am something stuck on the bottom of her shoe that probably dropped out of a Chihuahua.

Today, though, that’s her problem, and I don’t really care so very much. I’m going for a ride and the world will have to make do. The obligatory warm-up ritual underway, I let the disapproval of the neighborhood dogs and two other entities, one disembodied and the other not, slip quietly past me and away as I sit in my own perfectly acceptable company, ignoring the rest. Let the old bat stare all she wants.

With an open palm lightly pressed against the steadily warming cooling fins of the forward cylinder, there comes, as it usually does, the familiar anticipation of long, sweeping curves and the local mountain scenery that quickly puts at ease even the mind of someone as tightly wound as your faithful scribe. Invariably, this is closely coupled with a ghost of a resentment at the thought of wind-burned knuckles and a possible flare-up of the old “Shifter Toe” malady. I am grumpy at times, I am told, and it’s good to have an excuse or two handy, isn’t it?

“Shifter Toe” incidentally, is also a great excuse not to push a mower, not that I’m looking for one.

After a minute or so, I cut the choke back to almost nothing, the bike settling into a low, booming idle, and I savor every bit of the shake and rumble it’s throwing my way while I sit, mesmerized, and just listen to that big dude rap……

When I was five years old I once stood, wide-eyed and thrilled, on the sidewalk outside our home in a small town in New Jersey, enveloped in a noxious, cloying cloud of two-stroke exhaust fumes that had swirled, then settled around me as Mr. Sullivan from down the street had roared by, throttle pegged, on his old Lambretta scooter. I couldn’t help but notice that he was grinning from ear to ear, carrying the look of a fellow that, later in life, I would equate to one having found a $100 bill at the circus beer tent with the sword-swallowing woman a day away from payday and ready to get on a bad one. Whatever it might have looked like, I know that somebody was having a better time than I was likely ever to in my sad-by-comparison, “kindergarten sucks” kind of existence.

I was consumed with an overpowering wonder and envy as the acrid, stinging smell and blue-ish white haze of the castor based smoke took what seemed an eternity to disperse into the stifling heat of an early August evening.  I was totally entranced and frozen in place, eyes watering frightfully and gasping for air, courting both a future bad case of lung cancer and a love affair with bikes that hasn’t ever wavered, even minutely.

I was hooked, and I knew it.

Over the next seven years, I nurtured a growing fascination with all things motorized and two-wheeled, slogging through the pedal-powered existence of the young and unprivileged and yearning for the day when my Western Auto Buzz Bike would finally give way to something more substantial and self powered. Something that would make its own “vroom, vroom” noises and fill up the garage with the heavenly smell of gasoline fumes at night, its chrome bits barely reflecting the light filtering out through the parted curtains of the window in the door to the kitchen.

At least that’s how I imagined it.

I had dreams about motorcycles back then, and some I still remember in vivid detail. In one of them (I think it might have been the first. I know it was before I’d ever actually ridden one) my brother Dale, who also had a thing for motorcycles, and I were sitting in our driveway astride two shining new examples of Honda’s early Scrambler models. They had silver gas tanks and high chrome pipes back then- Metallic red or blue, depending on the specific model, and they were absolutely gorgeous. To this day, I can’t imagine a more desirable bike than a red CL 72 250 Scrambler.

And in this unforgettable dream, we drop our bikes into gear, ease out the clutch levers and head slowly out and away from a freshly mown lawn and through the forked intersection we lived at, clearly mindful of the possibility of being squished all to Hell by some careless driver in a speeding Cadillac.

Once more or less safely past the threat of any fool with a driver’s license that might choose to ignore a Yield sign, we continue on down the street for a bit, past the Kelly’s, the Bryant’s and the Greene’s houses and finally, left onto Kingsbridge.

We’d dreamed, the both of us, for years about this. And now, on a bright summer’s day, cruising our way past familiar things we’ve walked or pedaled by a thousand times before, it’s all somehow completely different. The world has a way of showing you a vastly more tempting, more exciting side of itself when viewed from behind a set of chrome handlebars on the move, an anxious motor beneath you, rumbling and ready.   

It may have been just some stupid kid’s dream but I remember this ride as well as any I’ve ever had. With my brother mere inches ahead of me and just off to my right, and the road ahead completely clear, we lock eyes for not much more than a second before we   acknowledge in unison, with a barely perceptible nod, that we’ve reached a common, defining moment.

What else could we have done, really, but yank the throttles wide open?

To be continued…

C.Fentress

Instant Internet Gratification

I found myself awake in the wee hours after getting back from my third multi-day trip to Duluth, Georgia, in four weeks. Home, sweet home. But my sleep patterns were messed up after waking up at 4 a.m. with sinus issues. I was surfing the web, bored, when a song popped into my head. A song I hadn’t thought about in a long time. “Queen Bee,” by Grand Funk Railroad. I had actually forgotten that Grand Funk did that song. It was featured in the excellent animated movie, “Heavy Metal” and the subsequent soundtrack album…

…I say “subsequent” because the release of the soundtrack album was delayed for years. Apparently due to copyright challenges between the record label and the numerous recording artists and groups featured in the movie. In any event… I just looked for “Queen Bee” on YouTube. Bingo. There’s Mark Farner cranking it out. I met Mark when he played the Kidney Foundation’s River Roast Event many years ago. Regardless, I recommend both the movie and the soundtrack album. Holy crap! I was just pondering the “Heavy Metal” soundtrack and another of its songs popped into my head. “Veteran of the Psychic Wars,” by Blue Oyster Cult. Awesome song. YouTube time again…

…We live in a world of instant internet gratification. And we take it for granted. Those of you old enough to remember a time before email… or even before cell phones… or faxes… have a better perspective on how different this world is from the one of your youth. This thing we call “the internet” is probably one of the most radical inventions in human history. We are all now used to being able to find any information we want… any time we want… really quickly…

…"The internet” is actually a combination of technologies. Faster telecommunications infrastructure than could have been imagined five years ago. Fatter bandwidth “pipes.” Screaming fast wireless network data rates. Highly advanced video compression algorithms. Massive server farms for “cloud computing.” Cell phones with exponentially more processing power than the computer systems used on NASA’s moon missions. Better graphics cards. Better audio cards. Better monitors. Ubiquitous connectivity. Or… almost…

…And we take it all for granted. I know I do. If I want to hear “Don’t Fear the Reaper” in the wee hours, I just do it. If I want to pay my cable bill while I’m drinking coffee in my boxer shorts, I do it. If I need a roast lamb recipe, I can find it. Hotel reservations. Christmas shopping. And I can do it from almost anywhere in the civilized parts of this great nation...

…Here’s the best part. Technology is racing so fast that we have no idea where it will be in five years. Better? Faster? No doubt. How much better? How much faster? No idea. But it’s going to be a fun ride…

--  Mark Bedford

Money Pit oh Money Pit. How I love thee.

Last week I completely forgot my article deadline after another incredible stroke of good fortune hit my house. While the family and I were out enjoying the awesome Sunday afternoon weather my main gas line under my home, as in underground, decided to completely burst. One minute it’s one of those family commitment commercials that religious organizations run about being good parents and the next thing I know it’s a Chilean Mine Drill. Luckily there was no explosion. However the only thing pouring out faster than the gas was the cash from my wallet to fix the blame thing. Note to all considering home ownership, when you have no heat and no hot water on the coldest night of the season, you pay whatever they are asking. It’s like a hooker deserted on an island with Charlie Sheen, the client list may not be long but business will be good. So enough belly aching, time to go to work, I have to be doubly good this week since I blew it last week. So here we go.

Kahunaman’s  Annual  Halloween Costume Idea List or costume concepts for parties where everyone passes out.

6.  Dress like the deranged Britney. Shave your head, wear a short shirt and in place of underwear duct tape a shaved stuffed kitty cat.

5. Dress like a telemarketer from India. Paint a dot on your forehead, wear a white robe, a telephone headset and a nametag that says “Hello my name id Bob”.

4. With the film The Social Network in theaters, I’m thinking Facebook so why not dress in white, blow up an outline of that generic default profile image and us it as a mask. Or go as a currently fat former Homecoming Queen or Football Star and use a 1980’s photo as your current profile photo.

3. Speaking of fat people and according to the networks America is just that, fat. Why not honor America by dressing not like Apple Pie but fast food. Carry around some quarters and a hammer. When someone asks you what you are, hit a coin with your tool and say a “Quarter Pounder”. Hey it’s better than carrying around a egg beater and some meat.

2. Gift wrap a large box and cut holes in the top and sides for your head and arms. Add a gift tag that says "To: Women" and "From: God." Suddenly you are “God’s Gift To Women”. Or dress as a Radical Islamic Virgin and go as a “Broken Promise”.

1. And finally since we are on a religious role here, dress as Jesus and carry a Judgment Day sign and a Bill Maher doll and wahla you are “I Told You So”. (Maher is not only an agnostic but says anyone else who believes is a stupid asshole).

And finally Kahunaman’s flashback club scene costume contest winner.

Works for “Hot” girls or hairy men.

Go topless as in no shirt.

Wear a white piece of cardboard over your ample girl parts or hairy moobs. Stenciled on the cardboard, “CENSORED”!  WahLa You are a “Girl Gone Wild”.

Boo!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

So, here I am back in Duluth, Georgia. I have slept in Marriott hotel beds more than my own over the last month. I’m here getting learned up on stuff to help me do my “real” job mo’ better. Regular readers might recall that I had some “Tea Party” conversations with folks down here a couple of weeks ago. (You irregular readers need to eat more greens.) Today one of my fellow classmates was Mike, a Louisiana State University grad. So… conversation inevitably turned to college football… and the bizarre and dramatic finish of last Saturday’s Tennessee loss at LSU’s vaunted “Death Valley.” I’ve never seen anything quite like it… and I have watched a lot of college football games…

…In case you missed it… The Volunteers seemed to have won the game after the Tigers mismanaged the game clock, misplayed the shotgun snap, and looked totally clueless as the game wound down. The Vols ran off the field in raucous celebration, thinking they had just upset a ranked opponent on their very hostile home field. But it wasn’t to be. A flag was thrown. The replay showed that UT had 13 defensive players on the play. In case you’re not a football fan (and heaven knows why you would have read this far if you’re not), that is two too many. (And two too few for a rugby side… but I digress.) LSU scored the game-winning touchdown with zero seconds on the clock. First-year Tennessee coach Derek Dooley tossed his headset to the ground in disgust. LSU coach Les Miles dodged a bullet…

…The Tigers gained 434 yards in total offense, compared to the Vols’ 212. UT stayed in the game largely because it picked off three passed and recovered an LSU fumble. “I didn’t think we had a chance of winning with four big turnovers,” said Mike. “It was a crazy finish.” What an understatement…

…Tennessee is on its third head coach in three years. I remain convinced that Derek Dooley was picked because of his pedigree, not his record. His dad, legendary Georgia coach Vince Dooley, was and is the epitome of class. An old-school football coach. Derek’s predecessor at UT was the polar opposite of Vince. Lane Kiffin was (and is) brash and fundamentally classless. Tennessee athletic director Mike Hamilton, the UT Board of Trustees, and the deep-pocketed donors didn’t want anyone remotely like Kiffin at the helm after the Lane Train headed west to Southern Cal…

…I’m still not sure if Dooley will rise to the occasion at UT. I think he has a shot, though. He kept Jim Chaney, Kiffin’s offensive coordinator. Chaney coached Saints quarterback Drew Brees at Purdue and also spent some time coaching the offensive line for the St. Louis Rams. New defensive coordinator Justin Wilcox did an amazing job at Boise State. The problem with the Vols isn’t in their schemes, it’s in their personnel. They’re talented, but very young and inexperienced…

…And that’s where one part of the Tennessee coaching picture becomes retroactively crystal clear. Kiffin might have been an ill-advised hire, but it was definitely time for Phil Fulmer to be replaced. Fulmer was a standout offensive lineman as a Vol player. He used to be able to recruit O-linemen. The offensive line that gave up five sacks to LSU last Saturday frequently featured three freshmen. Phil left the cupboard bare in the position he allegedly knew the most about. It was time for him to go…

…Tennessee faces Georgia in Athens this Saturday… about 40 minutes from where I’m sitting as I type this. Bulldog coach Mark Richt is on the hot seat, thanks to his team’s 1-4 start. The Vols, at 2-3, could make a statement with a win between the hedges. Richt could be history with another loss. It should make for an interesting afternoon. And the game surely won’t end like the UT-LSU game. Surely…

--  Mark Bedford

Well, here we go on our swing around the SEC.

Worst first: Tie Tennessee and Georgia.

In Knoxville, Derek Dooley has enrolled his entire defensive staff in remedial math following the most gut-wrenching loss I have ever seen, and I have seen some gut wrenchers, believe me.

In Athens, people are disappearing from home following the Dawgs’ loss to Colorado (who?).  One lady who lives with a Dog fan says she has not seen her roommate in like three weeks. “I sure hope Georgia wins a game soon,” she told a reporter.  “I need some help with taking out the trash and stuff, and he may not come home for another week.”

In one area Georgia fans and Florida fans agree wholeheartedly. Both fan bases are clamoring for the immediate dismissal of their respective offensive coordinators.

Both Mike Bobo at Georgia and Steve Adazzio at Florida have been getting mail from moving companies along with their hate mail from the fan base.

The similarity between what is going on at Georgia, with the fan base, and what went on at Tennessee before Phil Fulmer, who could count, was fired are alarmingly similar.   Phil, who could count, fired Randy Sanders, a UT grad who was Phil’s offensive coordinator the year before he, his own self, was fired and replaced with Lane Kiffin, then Derek Dooley.

Ok, I am not going to poke fun at Derek any more; it was a horrible finish to a great game by Tennessee.  I promise not to mention that both Phil Fulmer and Chief Chavis, who was also fired by UT then hired by LSU could both count…at least to 11.

Nobody expected much from UT this season, they are short of both players and experience for the players they have.  Only 60 bodies made the trip to Baton Rouge.  (Unfortunately most of the were on the field during the final seconds of the game….I take that back.)

My neighbor ran out into the yard waving his big, ugly, orange Tennessee flag only to have his wife and daughters screaming at him from the front door…I almost walked over and hugged him…

In Athens, one bar owner thinks God is mad at Mark Richt.  (The counterpoint of a bar owner talking about God could only happen in the South.)

Maybe the publican is right.

Tennessee’s lack of success was more or less predicted and predictable.  But Georgia’s 1-4 record coming in to the Tennessee game was never even hinted at.

I think Mark Richt may very well be the best coach Georgia could ever expect to have, but no football coach can survive a season like this one portends, not in the SEC.

So if Mark Richt likes his life in Athens, and there are no indications he does not like his life in Athens, then as the bar owner suggests, Richt better get into some serious face time with God.   Today.

Richt’s football team is the most snakebit, unlucky, football team I have ever seen. If it is true you have to suffer to sing the blues, the Dawgs must soon be ready to relegate B.B. King to the dustbin.

It seems very hard to believe either one of these teams can find a way to win Saturday in Athens.

On to the Good:

In Tuscaloosa, Ala-by God-Bama, there is some joy, but really no surprise at the way Vladimir Saban’s troops eradicated Florida from the ranks of the unbeaten on Saturday.

The Florida offense had shown signs of life against Kentucky the week before…that however was against Kentucky.

News flash: There is, apparently, no truth to the intertube rumor Florida coach Urban Meyer checked himself into a re-hab facility in Gainesville early Sunday morning.  Reports indicated Meyer had been seen wandering the streets muttering to himself, and just happened to stop to rest his legs outside a battered wife shelter in south Gainesville.

And to top off the game, the story got out that Vladimir (The Boss) had once turned over interviewing Meyer for a job back in the day to his wife, cause The Boss, was too busy implementing The Process at Toledo to talk to him.  The Boss then forgot to call Meyer back.   The Boss was gracious enough to say his non-contact with Meyer back in the day was a mistake…before the game.

The Bama re-education camp moves to the friendly confines of Williams Brice Stadium in Columbia, SC this weekend.

Steve Spurrier, as far as we know, never applied to The Boss for a job.

There is no reason to believe the outcome of the game will be much different than the outcome of the Florida game.  Bama appears to be so much better than any team, not only in the SEC, but also in the country, that even if the Tide arrives in Columbia a little less excited than they were Saturday for Florida, the outcome won’t be much different.

The Process is in full flower in Tuscaloosa.

 - Scorpio Jones III

Tea-Flavored Political Gumbo

I continue to ponder the “Tea Party.” Last week, I mentioned the real estate guy from somewhere near Duluth, Georgia, who was insisting that his group was a “movement,” not a political party. The distinction goes beyond mere semantics in this case. I admire the passion of those who hold strong political beliefs in this era of abject apathy…even when I find their logic faulty and their intentions a bit more dubious than they let on…

…Of course the Tea Partiers think of themselves as a “movement.” They haven’t really accomplished much yet… other than putting former witch Christine O’Donnell in the general election for Joe Biden’s old Delaware seat. Okay, they have also helped Sarah Palin milk the spotlight and thrown a mighty scare into the Republican king makers and shape shifters. Let the Tea Party “movement” put a few people on Capital Hill… and watch how quickly their “grass roots” movement morphs into a typical political party. Their only current power comes from holding the GOP powers-that-be by their collective cojones and squeezing tightly. Granted, that is a good bit of power. The TPers must enjoy having Karl Rove’s fascist testicles in their scrawny grips… but they haven’t tasted real power…yet…

…If Christina the Teenaged Witch and a few more of those Tea Party faithful get elected, their most immediate priority will become…getting re-elected. Just like all the other party hacks. And once the TP has some tea peeps in the Senate and the House, it will be more difficult for them to carp about “taxation without representation.” When a group starts protesting about TWR, it means one or more of several things. It usually means that not enough of their people got elected in the last cycle. It can often mean that they have only a surface knowledge of American history and its contexts. It can also mean that they don’t fully grasp the concept of representative government. We currently have the government that the Boston protesters tossed tea to inspire. It often falls short of my hopes and expectations. Sometimes the House and Senate are monopolized by a party I disagree with. Tough crap. It’s still representative government and you Tea Party animals are not being taxed without the due process of that government. Does that suck sometimes? Oh, hell yes. Fix it at the polls… next time. Or the time after that…

…I recently had the pleasure of connecting with my new friend and business associate, Ivor. Ivor’s family is originally from India. Then they lived in Malaysia. He attended college in Liverpool, England, home of the Fab Four and near his beloved Everton FC. He currently lives and works in Hawaii, while much of his family remains in Seattle. Ivor has seen much of the world. And he loves America like few others do. He is passionate about this country. Coming to the United States was a huge goal for young Ivor. Now he’s here and he’s a great American. He’s a freaking network genius, a retired rugby player, and an asset to this country. Meeting him has helped me realize that our admittedly flawed government has still provided us with a quality of life that is genuinely unsurpassed…

…Comedy Central caper kings Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert have set October 30 as the date for their “Rally to Restore Sanity.” They’ll share the stage at Washington DC’s National Mall in a left-handed counterpunch to Glenn Beck’s “Restoring Honor” rally (held back on August 28). Stewart dubbed the event a "clarion call for rationality." "A million moderate march,” Stewart continued. “Where we take to the streets to send a message to our leaders and our national media that says, 'We are here! We ... are only here until 6 though, because we have a sitter.” It should be hilarious. Stewart is dead-on with some of his rants… and Colbert is still reeling a bit after the strong negative reactions to his snarky testimony before Congress…

…We live in a country where our comedians sometimes have a better handle on our public policy than the policymakers do. We live in a country where a right-wing activist fringe party picks a former witch as a senatorial candidate. And we live in a country where smart guys from other countries… guys like Ivor… come to realize their dreams… America... hell yeah...

-- Mark Bedford

 Come Back, Sunday

I attended the 50th anniversary of the home church of my childhood yesterday, wondering why it was, precisely, that I had somehow felt the need. It’s not like the church itself had really missed me any.

Oh, I’d been a member in fair standing for a while, ranging up into my early twenties, even though my attendance was getting kind of “iffy” once I’d had a taste of late weekend nights and the things that some of the adults had all been breaking a sweat praying about, come Sunday morning. And, hey… I’d even stood in the pulpit and delivered the sermon one morning, if you can believe such a thing!

If you can’t, nobody in their right mind could ever blame you, but apparently just any old fool who volunteers can find his way into the hot seat at your run-of-the-mill Presbyterian house of worship, come “Youth Sunday” and that, my friends, is just plain wrong.

I’d have to say that anybody who heard me that morning would most likely agree, but if they don’t, they’re nuts and nobody’s going to listen to them, anyway.

That being said, here I was, an apprehensive early arrival in an eerily unfamiliar sanctuary, nearly thirty years past my last visit to a back row pew that had once had my ass print so perfectly formed into its cushion. And it wasn’t the fact that this small church’s budget had somehow found room for new and more comfortable seating for its congregants that had me feeling so badly out of sorts in a place that had once at least tried to be a home away from home. I’m not much one for change just for the sake of change, but the fact that those familiar old pews’ upstart new and velvety buttsavers had so unnecessarily supplanted the spine-coddling cushions of my youth was only a vague and hazy part of my unease.

No, there was something besides the hideous new burnt orange/rust colored cushions that had quietly snuck in while I wasn’t looking, sometime during the last six or seven presidential terms, to herald the passing of the vastly superior old dark red, Jesus-approved ones… the ones that had endured the endless squirming and fidgeting of my spiritual formative years, and whatever that something was, I knew I didn’t like it.

Seconds later, it hit me like a quick slap to the back of the head by one Mr. Robert W. Fentress, Jr., for squirming and fidgeting to excess during the sermon…. that some scoundrels  had  stolen the organ!!!

That I hadn’t noticed it immediately should come as no surprise, really. I once had my car stolen out of my driveway and didn’t realize it for nearly three days. I don’t drink anymore, though, and haven’t for a while, so I’m a little bit embarrassed that I didn’t notice it sooner.

Okay, so maybe I’m just a little bit something else, too.

“Stupid” comes to mind.

Unobservant as I am, said scoundrels could probably have just walked in and made off with that old organ while I was obsessing over something that nobody else probably gave any kind of a crap about, but the very worst part of it all was what I just so happened to notice next. The organ thieves- obviously, evil music-haters whose mothers probably never washed their underpants- had coldly left, in place of that wonderful old Hammond that had variously hummed, softly and serenely, or bellowed its eardrum rupturing volley of joyful noise at the whim of the arthritic old woman at its helm…a freaking xylophone.

You read that right, but I’ll say it again. Xylophone.

My sister once walked down that aisle to meet a man who would slip a ring on her finger, and she did it to that song they always play at weddings (Here Comes The Bride, or some such, they call it) on a danged organ, just as The Good Lord intended. I was a little choked up, I must confess. I can’t imagine saying as much to the same scenario, its musical accompaniment delivered on the same instrument you hear in the background of every Kung Fu episode, just before David Carradine kicks some loudmouthed idiot in the neck for shoving an old Indian lady. It just wouldn’t be right.

Now slightly ill, I made my way (I think I might have stomped, sort of) out the front doors and into the drizzle that was just starting outside and cast my eyes upward, to check out the clouds. I almost couldn’t help noticing the steeple at that point. That would be the steeple with the treacherous footing once afforded a twelve year old and his brother with crappy little brushes and gallon cans of white paint because nobody else wanted to screw with it.

Apparently, saving money by painting the church ourselves had seemed like a pretty good idea to the congregation as a whole and my Dad, the accountant, who was treasurer at the time, and a bunch of people pitched in and swung brushes and rollers one weekend to get it all done. Most of that bunch had done so from ground level or a few steps up a ladder, but the Fentress monkeys were assigned hazardous steeple duty, based primarily on the fact that there were so many of them floating around. 

We survived it all, happily, and the steeple actually looked quite presentable once we finished, if you happened to be on ground level. Nobody climbed up to closely check the quality of our work firsthand, as I recall.

With more and more folks arriving and the drizzle starting to pick up, I made my way into the fellowship hall, looking around for, and promptly finding, the reason why I’d needed to come, all along, that being the people.

So many that I had known and shared an earlier life with, that I hadn’t seen or even thought of in so long it was nothing, if not shameful. And if old friends, teachers, adolescent crushes and a Scoutmaster who’d taken you to the emergency room for stitches three times in one summer because you were hopelessly inept with edged tools weren’t reason enough to want to be there, then there was something else that more than filled the bill.

Pictures.

Glossy, papered bits of history that were intensely personal to many of us and inspired an appreciation and possibly a vague longing for another day and time. There were albums and albums of pictures of these people and others, many long since gone, that spanned a half century and I confess, again, that I got a little choked up over some of them. There were church camp pictures of people having what looked like the time of their lives and church directory family pictures of people that might have been standing in front of a firing squad, if you didn’t know better.

One of those pictures was dated 1966, and in it, a serious looking guy who could have been an accountant and his pretty red-haired wife stood surrounded by five much smaller people. They were dressed in atrocious getups that today would be considered child abuse but back then were the norm, if you were the 60’s equivalent of a geek.

To this day, I still shudder when I see plaid. And better, by far, to be bald then to sport the ridiculous haircut of the smallest non-girl type in that picture, which works out pretty well for me, considering. I know for a fact, though, that there were creases ironed into those geeky little britches sharp enough to hurt you and that the tall, serious-looking fellow had unfailingly shined his shoes to a stunning, eye-popping finish the night before. Eventually, he would buff the dye clean off the leather on them and it also wouldn’t be long before the paint on his car was waxed off as well, but 1966 was a good year for a spit-shine, even to the face of some stupid kid with egg yolk still on his face because he hadn’t washed up after breakfast, like he was supposed to.

And if noticed, and the ever present handkerchief had to be pulled out and put to exactly such a use in the first little room to the right as you came in the church side door, then who’s to say that some frustrated parent of a slovenly embarrassment to his father’s good name might have rubbed with a bit more force than necessary?

Lesson learned, I’d come without breakfast this day, but I’d have given anything for another harsh scolding and a cheek that looked like it might have been caught in a vise, if only to see the tall, serious looking fellow just one more time. Ditto, for the oldest of the five smaller people surrounding him in his solemn, Sunday picture mode.

The rest of the morning was something of a blur. I attended the service, of course, seated as you might expect, as close to the back as I could get. I was in good company, if you ask me, and I tried my best to focus on the message being shared by the church’s new pastor but it came across as contrived and uninspired and I quickly lost any interest I might have been able to try and fake. The notion that I might try and return on some regular basis and become an active member of this church that held so much in the way of history for me was quickly abandoned, once the first musical number, sans organ, got underway and some guy with a tambourine (!) stood up and made a fool out of himself so badly, I just wanted to curl up and die of embarrassment for him.

No personal spiritual quest, no history, however treasured, could be worth enduring such a debacle and, predictably, I began to squirm and fidget, my mother apparently failing to notice, despite the fact that she was sitting right beside me. At least she wasn’t smacking me for not sitting still, but I don’t think I would have minded if she had. I was looking for something…anything… that I could focus on to try and pull back some shred of familiarity and comfort with the sanctuary of my youth, and that just might have done the trick. 

The large wooden cross hanging over the choir loft eventually would have had me, I’m guessing. I’ve always thought it the best and most beautiful part of the place and I’ve sat and stared at it, totally transfixed, numerous times in the past. This could have been one of those days. Beautifully finished and utterly simple, I can’t think of a single thing I’ve ever seen that has had a greater impact on me, speaking silently as it has for as long as I can recall, of an infinite, perfect love.

It’s good to be reminded, on occasion, that such a thing exists.

I barely even noticed that the sermon was over until the collection plate was passed. With the organ that once sat below and to the left of a spectacular wooden cross, now nothing more than a memory, a heavy wooden plate, filling quickly with the tithes and offerings of the faithful, made its silent, steady way towards the back and a man who sat aghast at the music it moved to.

A piece called “Fluffy Ruffles”, played on the xylophone. I’m not making this up.

And sitting next to me, on the side my mother was not, a friend looked over, wide-eyed, and said:

“It’s….cartoon music!!”

I nearly died right there on the spot, and both our mothers at least considered belting us, I’m sure.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for enlarging my spiritual life and I’m always on the lookout for ways to do it. And I don’t necessarily think that it has to be done inside a church, even though I’d love nothing better than to return to the days when the tall, solemn guy used to cart us all down the road, Sundays, to a place where good, upstanding folks did their best to find their way in the world in a manner consistent with their beliefs. And, God, how I’ve missed some of those people.

But when you make your most profound connections with a Supreme Being alone, out in deserts and dry lake beds, crossing rivers or wooded mountain passes, then maybe it just has to be that the velvety red cushions and organ music of the past have to be surrendered, given over to those who need the communal nature of the church congregation for their own spiritual connection. To each his own.

But, xylophone music?

Man, that’s just messed up.

C. Fentress      

So tonight I see Jimi Heselden, CEO of Segway was involved in a tragic accident. Apparently, he was riding his Segway motorized vehicle alongside a cliff in northern England. As cliché as it sounds, the 62-year-old CEO fell off of the cliff to his death while riding his Segway……

Not as tragic but equally ironic, I look on my Facebook page and see an array of comments that make me wonder what in the hell is happening to us all?

I have made my living talking on stage, TV and radio as well as writing about crazy off the wall everyday yank it out of the blue BS. Now the whole world is doing the same everyday, all day.

Social Networking they call it. Why is that? Networking is connecting and I understand that but people have lost their damn minds and they are sharing it to a point that it is pissing me off. Crazy off the wall conversation has always been my domain and now because of Facebook I ironically feel my gig slipping away.

I feel really damned normal these days and for a guy with more monikers than money that is not cool.

I opened a Facebook account over two years ago to research an article. Six months later my wife found it and thought I was networking “wink wink” behind her back. She saw that my account had no history and started replying to friend requests and now it is “our” page complete with photos of my kids for the pervs to peruse, communications from long lost friends and family updates so out of state family can keep up.

Tonight I looked closer to see that I am a fan of Dancing with The Stars, Treasure Isle, Zoo World, Ellen, Hoarders, Redbook and Farmville even though I don’t have the time to nor have I ever read or played any of those.

 No I am not gay.

I know when people are having fun and sharing their day and being cute and creative it is their contribution to the web world but I get paid to make you go hummmmmm, I think these folks are serious.

Back in the day the only place like this was the writings on the bathroom walls at Pickle Barrel.

Here is a sample of random comments from today:

I called 911 about the flashing lights in the vacant house across the street. Cops arrived searched house and said after searching house, "Nobody there, maybe it's haunted. We'll call the Electric power company." We both laughed, then the lights flashed again. He did say there was lots of evidence of a rodent infestation. Probably just rats chewing on the wiring.

Think it’s going to be hard to go to sleep after a half bag of candy corn! Oh well guess that's what Ambien is for.

Dear Monday, I've had better. I'm so over you and will now be hooking up with your friend Tuesday.

Tired, and needing a clean place to sleep - yes, the cats and the bed again! Looks like another few hours in the car to get some quality sleep - better than sleeping in a litter box!

Sometimes your knight in shining armor is a redneck in duck tape

"The only way to get 4 Fundamentalist Preachers in One Accord is to put them in a Honda."

first pot of Chili tonight....loving this weather

just want to update my stalker... I'm at longitude 345789.24 & latitude 578754.70 and I'm cleaning my gun.

Lindsay Lohan, 24, is all over the news because she's a celebrity drug addict. While Justin Allen 23, Brett Linley 29, Matthew Weikert 29, Justus Bartett 27,Dave Santos 21, Chase Stanley 21, Jesse Reed 26, Matthew Johnson 21, Zachary Fisher 24, Brandon King 23, Christopher Goeke 23, ......and Sheldon Tate 27 are all Marines that gave their lives this week, no media mention. Honor THEM by reposting

"Have you ever seen a grown man naked?"

Do you like gladiator movies?

I wear a greasy ball cap I like my shirt untucked I spend Saturdays working on my truck I don't like to fight But I ain't scared to bleed Most don't mess with a guy like me Cause guys like me drink too many beers on Friday Our best blue jeans have skoal rings We wear our boots to church.

Am I the only person I know that only poops once a week?

Mom, I know you won’t answer my calls so read this, the garage is on fire.

I once knew a man from Hixson, who pretty much was dead but they said he stayed alive because he wasn’t ready to die until after they told him he was sick.

UT Football games used to be a great reason to drink. Come to think of it they still are.

I got a raise last week and laid off today. What exactly does that mean? Is that like saying “on second thought”?

Seriously folks if anyone knows of anyone willing to pay me $19.50 an hour to show up late, not work very hard and to seldom get it right let me know. My boss seems to be getting tired of me.

The 4 levels of insanity 1 Talking to ones self 2 Arguing with ones self 3 losing argument with ones self 4 is no longer speaking to ones self.

And to add to this final one, 5, spending too much time on the Facebook.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

So… on the first day of week two of my two weeks in scenic Duluth, Georgia… I wound up sitting at the hotel bar (huge surprise?) next to some real estate guy from a nearby town. Somehow we started talking about politics (huge surprise?). It turns out he’s a Tea Party guy. Oh, boy. I tell him that I think his group is the first serious third party I can recall since I’ve been old enough to vote… even though their primary mission (so far) is to take over the GOP. He “corrects” me. “It’s not a party,” he explains. “It’s a movement.” Believe it or not, I try to be polite in such conversations. But it was all I could do not to get loud and argumentative. If you’re going to insist that your group is a “movement,” why the hell do you call it the Tea PARTY? I know. They like to call it the “Tea Party movement.” To me, that’s just indecisive. A third party makes more sense than a third movement. The latter sounds like part of a symphony… or a bodily function…

…Anyone who has read my recent political rants will know that I think it’s time for a major shakeup in our political system. The traditional two-party arrangement has been letting Americans down for generations. It’s kind of hard to pin down what each party really stands for anymore. Republicans used to believe in less government and personal freedom. But George W. Bush used 9/11 as an excuse to create the Department of Homeland Security instead of reforming and redefining the existing agencies that should have done a much better job. DHS has built a $3 billion wall on the Mexican border than has more holes in it than the emergency underwear I hang onto in case I can’t do laundry for a couple of weeks. As for “personal freedom,” the GOP got into the business of trying to legislate morality back in Newt Gingrich’s “Contract With America” days…

…I used to think the Democrats were a little better. I’m not so sure anymore. I used to belittle John McCain for not vetting (or even meeting) Sarah Palin before picking her as his running mate. Now I’m convinced that the Dems did a pretty crappy job of vetting Barack Obama. Since his election, Obama has revealed himself to be a left-fringed idealogue with misplaced priorities. Speaker Nancy Pelosi is worse. She’s a power-hungry shrew who has alienated most of her own party. Absolute power corrupts absolutely… and the Dems are really abusing their monopoly. It’s hard not to imagine them not getting their asses handed to them in the upcoming midterm elections…

…But… back to the Tea Party. Christine O’Donnell’s surprise victory in Delaware’s GOP primary has rocked the pachyderm power structure to its core. Not to oversimplify things, but theTea Party’s key core value is bringing conservatism back to the forefront in the GOP. This would seem to make Ms. O’Donnell’s confession that she has “dabbled in witchcraft” somewhat problematic. The TPers don’t care. They are caught up in the moment and enjoying their newfound power. Meanwhile, the sphincters of Karl Rove and the other Republican power brokers are so tight you couldn’t slip a toothpick in there…

…In the 2008 presidential election, 56.8 percent of voting-age Americans actually voted. That is the highest percentage since 1968’s 60.8. So… 43.2 percent of voting-age citizens didn’t bother to vote in the last presidential race. Midterm elections have hovered in the 30.something percent turnout range for the last several election cycles. So… traditionally… less than 40 percent of potential voters bother to participate. It doesn’t take much to win over four out of 10 Americans… you’d think. But no one knows which four out of 10 Americans are going to actually show up at the polls. This midterm election will be fascinating…

…I’m not a big fan of the Tea Party’s “platform,” but I like how they’ve shaken up the status quo. I’d like to see a similar fringe group smack Obama and Pelosi into reality. I’d like it to happen soon…

-- Mark Bedford

There’s still plenty of stuff not to like out there, I was thinking the other day.  Here, then, is a bunch more, continued.

Sneaky state troopers working speed traps outside of New Bern, North Carolina. Lawyers in New Bern, North Carolina that charge way more than they should to get you out of speeding tickets. People who fart next to you in line at the bank. Bicycles that coincidentally stop downshifting just as soon as a vicious headwind pops up four miles from the end of a long ride. Brett Favre. Busted carwashes that rob your quarters. Hot wings from the Krystal. Hot tubs that you just know somebody has done some questionable stuff in. Trying to get a muzzle on a giant black crazy dog that needs to be shaved when the giant black crazy dog disagrees. Arby-Q sandwiches. Disruptions in internet service and the grumpy assholes whose job it is to rectify the problem. Crapped out AC compressors on oddball foreign cars. Chocolate Mousse Royale ice cream on top of the Lemon Custard in a cup instead of the other way around. Glass partitions that prevent you from licking your thumb and sticking it in twenty-nine other flavors out of spite. Rain that pours into the carburetor throat of what was once a perfectly good antique Clinton outboard motor. Oil changes coming due on four vehicles at once. Ditto for registration. Your dead father’s Sunday dress shoes that he’d had re-soled three times in forty years and shined the damned dye off of …the ones that all but glowed in the dark…thrown haphazardly into an old box along with jagged heavy objects like chainsaw sharpeners, etc. and left in an old shed full of dirt dobbers for “safe keeping” by a vicious ex. The same chick deciding she really ought to keep the kickass washer that same dead father had given you when you first bought the house she kicked you out of a year ago because of….something (still not really sure what). Oprah. Labor Day weekend traffic jams. Dull razors and no backup. Creepy little guys at the parts counter of creepy little motorcycle shops that try and overcharge you for parts. Jet Skis that won’t start. Broken axles on Jet Ski trailers five hundred miles from home. The first lost wrench in a new tool kit. The smell of your house when it’s on fire. Backaches. Backaches on girlfriends. Cats that swat at things that dangle at bathroom counter top height while you try to shave. Stacks of cash that simply disappear into thin air. Lost jobs, even ones that suck. Twisted ankles. Lost gas caps. Alarms that don’t go off when you need them to because you didn’t set them like you were supposed to. Stuck windows. Nineteen different socks with no matches. Hillary Clinton. Lost car titles. Car keys that you lose and then somebody finds them and then you lose them again and somebody finds them and then you lose them again. Jesse Jackson. Winos bumming for money on the side of the road when all you have on you is $20’s. Out of tune guitars and broken guitar tuners. The way that the ducks at the dam look at you when you don’t have any bread. Water out of drinking fountains that tastes like bleach. Yamaha 1100s with bad brakes that fall on you and mash your leg when you try and roll them off a trailer on a slope. Old man ear hair (mine). TV dinners and a busted TV. Chihuahuas. Enterprise Rent-A-Car. Weeds in the lawn. The crazy mutt of a bleach-blonde Mexican lady who lived at the corner of Sportfisher Dr. and Nevada St. in Oceanside, Ca. five years ago who was always hollering her ass off about something (I called her Old Yeller, which was funny as hell until she heard me one day). Scratched CDs. Flimsy ladders. French people. A “Closed” sign outside Krispy Kreme. Christmas music from the church across the street in September. Burnt scrambled eggs. Finding your fly hanging open after a long walk around downtown. Dead bugs in your coffee. Live bugs in your coffee. Ray Liotta. Slimy cantaloupe. Small print. Cell phones in movie theatres. No more Pterodactyls.   Filthy, greasy, chickenpecker people who act like they’re your buddies and then stick it to you. Empty propane tanks when it’s time to grill. Horseflies. Martha Stewart (I know I included her in the last one but I really, really hate that bitch). Creamed spinach. WalMart. Paper cuts. Trade deficits.

The way that a tiny little white ferret looks at me every night when I don’t come back with her sister, Opus, and the way a giant crazy black dog looked at me last week when I had to leave him again, and one time too many, at someplace that wasn’t home.

And I thought the winos and ducks were bad. 

C. Fentress

Through a series of circumstances I couldn't have predicted a couple of months ago, I find myself having to spend three of the next five work weeks in Atlanta. Well, actually... in Duluth... just off of I-85 North. But even thought I'm technically not in "the ATL," I find myself reminded of the many reasons I've resisted the urge to move to the big city...

...You've got to start with the traffic... and when you talk about Atlanta traffic, you have to talk about I-285. The dreaded perimeter surrounds Atlanta with a veritable NASCAR motorspeedway. I've often suspected that traffic in Georgia's capital must be at its worst on a Monday morning after a Sunday stock car race. I get bump-drafted regularly on normal business days. I narrowly avoided trading paint on my drive down here. The Dale Jr. wanna-be's just have to be worse on Mondays. Many years ago, I came up with an expression to describe I-285 traffic. Vehicular Darwinism. Survival of the fastest. The shoulders on either side of the perimeter are littered with the vehicles of those drivers who couldn't cope with the frenetic flow...

...Atlantans eventually come to accept the chaos of 285... and all of the other delays that are part of big city driving. My friends who live here think nothing of driving 45 minutes or an hour to get to a particular dining or shopping destination. And, to be fair, Atlanta has a lot of restaurants that are worth a bit of drive. But I'd hate for such behavior to become my norm...

...Atlanta's metropolitan statistical area, or MSA, has a total estimated population of a little under 5.5 million. That makes it the ninth-largest MSA in the USA. Unscientifically speaking, that's a buttload of people. My buddy, McGruter, was offered an IT networking job down here several years ago. He turned it down. I loved his reasoning. "They have an awful lot of people down there," he explained. "Do you really think they need ME down there?" I like his logic...

...Naturally, the crime rate is another big concern down here. Atlanta was "the most dangerous city in America" back in 1994. The influx of crack cocaine hit the city hard. Violent crime has decreased significantly since then, but Atlanta is still 17th on the "most dangerous" list. (Nashville is climbing up the list as well.) Frankly, I don't care about the statistics. The odds of random, violent death are just higher in big cities. I don't need a published report to figure that out. When a friend of mind moved to Midtown Atlanta back in the 90s, she was mugged twice in a year. And Midtown is not in a "high crime" area. The most dangerous parts of Atlanta, according to the published reports, are in the neighborhoods surrounding Hartsfield Airport. This has to be reassuring to frequent fliers. The folks at the Chattanooga Metropolitan Airport are missing a natural marketing angle: "Fly out of Chattanooga... and live to talk about it." Okay... it's not that bad in south Atlanta... but you get my point...

...My last complaint is a backhanded compliment, if you choose to interpret it that way. Some people in Chattanooga love to moan that there's "nothing to do." I contend that things have never been better in our mid-sized city. There are more good restaurants, clubs and music venues than ever... with more being added all the time. In Atlanta, there is literally too much to do. It's easy to be hip in Chattanooga. It's almost impossible to be a trend surfer in the ATL...

...Don't get me wrong. I still like visiting Atlanta. I can suffer through the traffic and crime risk for limited amounts of time. I don't feel compelled to go to the latest and greatest restaurants or see the new cool band at the new hip club while I'm down here. I like to come down here, get a little dose of the big city, and head back to 'nooga. After a couple of days in Atlanta, happiness is Marietta in my rearview mirror... fading fast...

-- Mark Bedford

YO BOO!

Think I will dress up like a Democrat for Halloween.

What does a Lame Duck look like anyway?

Well, for me Halloween is right around the corner.

 Most of you out there think it’s seven weeks away but when you run a professional haunt believe me, it has been Boo-Time for a long time.

That’s the professional side of Halloween for me and it is a lot of hard work and fun however the down side is I have never been Trick or Treating with my kids because I work every Halloween. However I have lots of stories. Every year I give you Halloween costume ideas, this year I want to share some knowledge I received from callers to my TV show and my kids friends who really get jacked up about bad Trick or Treat stories.

Kahunaman’s Really Crappy Trick or Treat Items

Or my list of 10 things sure to get your house egged!

Honestly, don’t give this stuff out!

10. Apples, Oranges or any fruit

 As one kid explained “It’s Halloween, we want candy a-hole”.

9. Tooth brushes, floss or sugarless gum.

 Dentist may think its good business to give these things out to kids coming to their homes. I say, Bull-crap, its better to give out tooth rotting junk and wait for them at the office.

8. Stickers….Cool to kids except on Halloween, when they stick them to every porch in the neighborhood. Thanks a lot!

7. Homemade anything.

Sure you make great cookies but mom’s not letting the kids eat it, for all she knows you got your cookies in the cookies first. “THINK”! It’s a sick world.

6. Advice pamphlets.

You’re just asking for it from a bunch of sugared up kids who get enough of that stuff at home and school.

5. Micro-wave popcorn.

Your kidding right, kids will rip it open and pour it in before looking at it and break a tooth on the greasy kernels.

4. Raisins.

Cut the Tree- Hugger crap! Natures Candy isn’t chocolate, so save it for your grandkids.

3.  Pickles wrapped in foil.

I bet they end up in you or your cars tailpipe.

2. Caramel Apples.

Not only will the kids not eat it, it ruins all the good stuff in their bag too.

#1. Canned Food

If you run out of candy please don’t go to the pantry and grab the cranberry sauce Granny, nice thought but your better off locking the door, turning off the lights and praying your lawn ornaments survive the night.

And for a funny treat

How about Obama Suckers? They can’t cost a lot, there everywhere, I mean there has to be millions of people who jumped on the love bus two years ago that feel like suckers today. Just saying, trick or treat?

Two words Health Care!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

I really try and work this space for you guys and gals out there who take time to read it. Grandpa always said “Anything worth doing is worth doing right”. I am pretty sure he didn’t think that one up himself but it was still good advice, at least most of the time.

Tonight may be the exception.

You see I am starting my article six minutes before deadline and I have no liner notes or outlines to go by so I am typing on the fly.

It’s less than three weeks before we open the 14th annual Haunted Carnival at Sir Goonys and that means 16 hour days and lots of stress, so I might have forgotten to do my duty and I am sorry Dave.

Because of the need for speed and my excessive state of sleep need, I will attempt to give you six useful tidbits in six minutes, here we go!

• Six-pack abs are not as out of reach as you may think. Abs are among the easiest muscles to build, the problem is abs need to be lean to be seen! So loose some weight and do some crunches, then you will be beautiful and have all the sex you ever wanted.

• Chest hair used to be considered sexy. It was thought to be the sign of a man. Only little girly men had slick boyish, hairless bodies. Today hairy men are turned into girly men by a thing called waxing. However that Tik Toc Chick likes men with Taliban beards so maybe you can “Go Wookie and Still Get The Nookie”?

• ABC is doing a series on China and how they are soon to replace the USA as the world’s greatest economic power. If that happens can they take over paying for the rest of the world’s problems and if so will everyone love us and hate them for a change? On this note remember to not lick your kid’s toys.

• Once upon a time in a land far, far away is still a great way to start a kid’s story or a porn with a fairy theme.

• I have several friends who are expecting there first babies and they have been freaking out. One freaked because “I felt my baby girl move in my wife’s belly for the first time over the weekend and all I could think about is what I would do if I looked down and saw something making my privates jump? Yo Dummy! It’s called an erection and its caused by big girls moving.

• Finally, number six, 6, I did it, maybe not well but on time. Here we go with useful tidbit #6, when writing always prepare and give your self sufficient time. If not, see above.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass    

Chattanooga Organized for Action: Uniting the Haters with the Players!

A few people have come forward and criticized the Recall of Mayor Ron Littlefield for what they argue is the perceived ease by which the initiative succeeded - that it took so "few" signatures to get the mayor recalled. And they are right, the number of signatures needed, a number based off the number of votes cast in the last election, is startling.

Here is a breakdown provided by the Hamilton County Election

Commission website: (http://elect.hamiltontn.gov/archives/default.htm)

City of Chattanooga and Collegedale Municipal Elections, all races unofficial results:

Total number of registered voters: 103,747

Ballots cast: 18,773

Percent: 18.09% of eligible registered Chattanoogans voted in the last election.

City of Chattanooga Mayoral Race:

Ron Littlfield: 10,234 for 57.13% of the total 17,913 votes cast.

Half the number of 17,913 votes is 8,956 - the number necessary for a successful recall.

Why aren't people voting? I would argue it is because they don't think it matters. Most people don't think that they as an individual make a difference and that once someone gets elected to office they think that there is nothing they as an individual can do to make them uphold their campaign promises or continue to actively demonstrate the kind of exemplary leadership that we should all demand of our public servants. And ya know what, they are right.

Individually we make no difference. Individually we have no way to exert real influence on the government, to make real demands and have our voice be heard. But, by organizing together, by banding together and acting collectively to accomplish real goals, we can make history happen (which is not idealistic, but completely evident given the recall movement!).

We need to make greater demands on our government, on businesses, on communities, on each other. We can do that by coming together and talking with one another about our problems and seeking to find solutions that we can work together to implement. No more letting a small number of elites define us or our problems, no more sitting back and hoping for the best after someone gets elected, no more labels and factions and political tribes circling their wagons and sitting in their comfy camps and slinging mud and arrows at each other while a broken political system continues to churn out broken schools and broken roads.

I think that EVERYONE, from Chattanooga Organized for Action and all the other organizations, businesses and concerned citizens who actively participated in the Recall Movement, to all those who are indifferent towards, angry or upset over, and indignant or critical of the Recall Movement can all agree on this point: we need more people to vote!

So let's put down our differences over the recall and move on to making our first demand of each other: VOTE. Learn the issues, learn about the candidates and make sure to register. This is a historic election! The Recall of Mayor Ron Littlefield is the 10th recall of a mayor in the history of the United States, and the first of a mayor of a medium to large size city in the South East!

Chattanooga Organized for Action is dedicated to enabling and empowering citizens to manage their own lives, communities, districts, and city. We are energizing people to work together and mobilize for creative action that makes our neighborhoods, schools, and lives better than they were before. We are willing and wanting to work with anyone, any time, any place to take back power and improve our lives, by any means necessary. And one of the first steps to accomplishing this mission will be working hand-in-hand with the people who were critical of the Recall to not only register more voters than ever before, but to also get more voters to the polls than ever before. We are planning to do all of this in what will be the shortest mayoral race in the history of our city.

At Chattanooga Organized for Action we set the bar for our city very high because at the end of the day no task is too difficult to accomplish so long as we work to organize with one another and unlock the power inside of ourselves and our communities.

 - Chris Brooks

Senior Organizer for Chattanooga Organized for Action

www.chattaction.org

With a lemon Moonpie in one hand and a Mountain Dew that could have been a little bit colder if the world was a perfect place in the other, I sat my numb, road-weary ass and all my other parts on a battered old wooden bench the other day, on the porch of an old country general store. It was the kind of place you just don’t see anymore because the world is really starting to suck, in general, and Wal-Marts (which suck in particular) are everywhere, but if you’ve ever seen a store like it, you’ll probably never forget it. 

The first one I remember was just a couple of miles down an old country road from Heaven on Earth, an old dairy farm in a remote part of Pennsylvania that my grandparents had retired to.

Come to think of it, the store - Wheeler’s General Store -was near enough to Heaven on Earth itself, featuring, among other things, a very kind hearted old lady willing to put up with a whole herd of clumsy, adolescent headaches in the making for the dubious privilege of selling them a small bag of hard candy for next to nothing. A lousy quarter would buy fifty pieces of hard candy back in those days and Beulah Wheeler, the wrinkled old angel who owned the place, wasn’t collecting sales tax.

At least that’s how I remember it. So maybe, just maybe, Beulah the Angel was a crook.

If she was, she was one of the most benevolent crooks I’ve ever run up on, and trust me…I’ve known a few in my lifetime. Some of them I once even kept on Speed Dial but that’s a story for another day.

Regardless of questionable choices in later life, it seemed an entirely forgivable thing, in those days, to overindulge on all the two-for-a-penny root beer barrels (Yeah. It was that long ago) our meager allowances could provide, plus the couple of extra bonus gumdrops some crooked old lay might slide us “just because” so long as nobody was looking. 

My mother, who had to deal with us cranked up on all the sugar we could stand a couple of hours later, might not have been Mrs.Wheeler’s biggest fan, but we thanked her politely anyway, just like we’d been taught (Yeah. It was that long ago) and set out on our walk, the five of us, on the road back to Paradise. First, though, we made sure to promise we’d be back for another opportunity to ruin our dinner in a couple of days. And just before the wooden framed screen door on the big squeaky spring pulled shut behind us and an angel, a crook or both, broke out the home-brewed glass cleaner and a handful of tattered rags to do combat against a million fingerprints left on an old glass counter, Mrs. Beulah Wheeler did what old ladies did back then.

God bless her. Those ancient old coots that stand at the doorway to every Godforsaken Wal-Mart in the world and speak to (almost) everyone who comes and goes really don’t mean it when they thank you and ask you to come back, in case you were wondering.

Here’s a question for you. How many root beer barrels can a seven year old go through in a mile and a half’s walk?

Depends on the walk I guess, but let’s see. The first one would last until you crossed the bridge just past the Hancock’s house. The Hancock’s was one of the few places I remember that had more kids milling around than our house, but those country people didn’t always have a lot to do on Saturday night. I’m guessing they just stayed home and made babies out of sheer boredom, if nothing else. Also, you could buy everything under the sun at Wheeler’s, including beaver traps and sacks to carry beavers in but I don’t think I ever saw a condom display rack.

Stop off for a quick swim in the stream behind their house - the one where Kenny S. would dive in and holler “Dis wawtuh’s byoootifuhl” in order to sucker some poor city kids into braving its icy grip - and before you know it you’ve accidentally spit out the second one, thanks to the shivers of hypothermia. Kenny was not to be trusted but he was eleven and he smoked. We should have known better.

Wandering through an old graveyard trying to find its oldest headstone and counting all of the “Gellatt”s that had passed on in the township of Gellatt would take awhile, too. Call that one a double-barrel excursion.

Taking the time to stop off at the post office which, coincidentally, also happened to be the home of Alan, Mark and Kenny Gellatt to invite them up for a City Slickers vs. Country Boys rock fight behind the horse barn later, and you could easily find an extra cellophane candy wrapper in your pants pocket the next day. 

Continuing on to the abandoned one room church, complete with the double outhouse where the wasps lived (don’t ask), that hadn’t seen a congregation inside in decades and you’d be feeling the urge to unwrap another. On towards Barrow’s Garage with the old glass top gas pumps that had been retired from public service years ago, and one more potential cavity at your next trip to the dentist lightened the bag just a bit.

Hmm. Seems like I’m missing something, but I don’t know what it would be. Oh, wait! There was the Soden’s house, where a somewhat(!) homely, bad tempered girl named Karen kept a cute but bad tempered raccoon in a cage outside. Seems like he was always busy eating something out of an old coffee can and he would glare balefully at you if you came within twenty yards of him. I’d be glaring too, I guess, and I’ll probably never forgive myself for not sneaking over there at night and setting the poor little guy free. Throw him a root beer barrel, though, and the tally continues.

At the foot of an unmarked driveway that had no mailbox (They don’t deliver mail out there. Instead, you pick it up at Kenny’s house.) you might unwrap one last piece before making the ascent up its gravel and dirt slope - the one a ’64 Dodge Dart wagon, loaded down with seven people and a week’s worth of traveling crap, had needed a good running start at the night before- while raspberry bushes at the side of a rock walled pasture along the way might keep you from dipping back into the bag for another chance at adult onset diabetes. And, by the time you had passed the ancient apple tree that only the imagination of children and some old boards nailed across the crooks of its branches could have made a “skyscraper”, you would have reached the door where another old angel had stood earlier and smiled, long past her bedtime and the last sunset because some children who couldn’t have guessed how much they might miss her in years to come had arrived.

Just don’t tell her you’d had eight pieces of candy already and she might make you home made ice cream later.

I thought about that walk the other day, and the people it encompassed, while I took a break and made short work of stuff I’ve got no business whatsoever eating or drinking. The thing is, I was very near another one of my life’s historical landmarks after a long ride and that old Harley had me squirming around like a kid in the back of an old station wagon, nine hundred miles from home and five minutes from Nanny’s house. I saw an old country store and it promised me a chance to relive a dream. What else was I supposed to do?

I pulled off the road, stepped off the bike and walked through another old wooden framed screen door, straight into my past.

Ten minutes of gazing around at something I might never see my fill of in this life wasn’t nearly enough but would have to do, for the time being. Work boots, kerosene lamps, an old fashioned washboard, fishing poles, bibles and an old cast iron stove to keep you warm while you browse through it all in the winter months…all right there. Anything you might need and nothing you never would. And among the thousand or so other treasures that it would take a lifetime to tire of seeing, there was this:

An old lady. A really old lady, and she sold me a lemon Moonpie and a soda instead of hard candy because I’m an adult now and filthy, stinking rich compared to some kid I remember from back when my first dog and everyone I’d ever loved was still breathing. Also, there weren’t any root beer barrels.

Yes, she charged me sales tax.

I paid without protest and then ate outside on that old wooden bench that might have been a church pew in another life, lost in my head for awhile and counting the chickens and sheep wandering around in her yard across the street. It was like a trip in a time machine, and it was pure magic. Once done, and properly overdosed on sugar and daydreams, I took a final good look around and, climbing back on the motorcycle after a last bit of stretching, fired it off.

I hated the thought of leaving and just sat there, still, for a long minute, awash in nostalgia and desperately wishing that 1967 had yet to come. I had the notion, suddenly, that I should go back and talk to the woman behind the counter but what if she didn’t want to talk to me? That’s sort of a common issue I tend to face.

Think “surely not!” to yourself all you will, it is so.

I couldn’t stand it. Shutting the bike off and making my way back inside, I introduced myself and told her my name and I shouldn’t have worried myself one little bit. Old ladies who run old stores are, as a rule, quite polite. Even to scruffy looking dudes on loud motorcycles.

We talked for a good bit about a lot of things, including her story of nearly seventy years in the country general store business, its coming demise and the fact that Wal-Mart does, indeed, chomp the royal prong.

My words, not hers. I know you’re surprised.

I told her I’d try and write a story about her and her store some day, and some day I will. For now, though, I thought that I ought to at least tell some people about the place so they can go and see what the world ought to be like, before it’s too late. 

I left there with a Moonpie-to-go and a smile on my face, hoping like hell she didn’t notice the big greasy fingerprints from the first one that some oversized kid had left behind on her counter. She didn’t come chasing me down to whack me with a flyswatter or anything, so I guess I’m safe, for now.

I feel like I should thank her again, profusely, for sparking the memories of a couple of other elderly angels - one of them a scofflaw- and an old country store from an absolutely charmed earlier life, and I plan on it. I’ll be writing her a letter soon and mailing it to J.A. Kemmer & Sons in Grassy Cove, Tn.

You should see it, and her, while you have the chance.

I’ll be eternally grateful that I did.

C. Fentress

Who Cares About Tennis Anymore?

I caught myself watching a little bit of the U.S. Open tennis tournament earlier this week. But only a little bit. Lleyton Hewitt was playing someone. Don’t know who won. Was going to look it up on the internet to add some detail… but just didn’t care to. I can’t quite pinpoint when I lost interest in pro tennis, but it’s definitely gone…

…I used to be a huge tennis fan. Played in high school. Did the intramural thing in college. Played a good bit in my 20s… less in my 30s. I’ve had wooden, steel, fiberglass, composite and wood racquets. My favorite two rackets were my old Wilson T2000 and the original steel Prince Pro. I play once in the proverbial blue moon now. I have a second-hand racquet I got at Play It Again Sports. My one real tennis buddy moved to Knoxville, so I haven’t opened a new can of balls in over a year and a half…

…I’m old enough to remember some of the great personalities and rivalries of the game. Jimmy Connors. Bjorn Borg. John McEnroe. Ivan Lendl. Andre Agassi. Martina Navratilova. Chris Evert. So much of sports interest comes down to personalities. On the men’s side of the draw, we haven’t had many real personalities in a while. Roger Federer is a brilliant shotmaker and a world-class athlete. He’s also a pretty boring guy. Before him, Pete Sampras was similarly vanilla…

…I have to admit, those Williams sisters are anything but vanilla. Serena and Venus are occasional fashion nightmares, frequent trophy holders, astute marketing mavens, and always good for a giggle. They are both incredibly talented players… and their head-to-head matches are usually intense. I kind of miss the wilder days of their dad, Richard. Mr. Williams raised two tennis phenoms on the streets of Compton, so I guess he earned the right to go a little crazy in public…

…It just occurred to me that Andy Roddick isn’t that boring. He’s gutsy, charming and American. He’s just a tragic underachiever. Sad… but true…

…I’m still trying to figure out what made me lose interest in tennis. I think part of it was the fact that all of my tennis buddies moved out of town. And I guess I got busier and lazier as I got older. I always preferred singles to doubles… and singles is really only fun when it’s a competitive match. My favorite opponent was a guy who could beat me about eight out of ten times. But I raised my level a bit just to play against him… and had to play out of my mind on those two of ten occasions when I could win. Cold cold beers after tennis on a hot day are simply amazing…

…Adult beverages are great for tennis watching as well. Back in the day, Boo Boo and Earl used to throw amazing “Breakfast at Wimbledon” parties. We’d drink Bloody Marys and Pimms Cups… eat numerous fresh quiche concoctions… watch the men's final live... and start the day off with a bang…

…I’m wondering if I should give the U.S. Open one more chance. I should care more about our national Grand Slam event. I’ll give it at least a look. Just for old time’s sakes. Maybe I'll make some Bloodys...

 -- Mark Bedford

Kahunaman Sez:

A blond comes home early from work and catches her boyfriend in bed with a redhead. Overcome with emotion she runs to the closet and pulls out her boyfriend’s gun and sticks it to her head.

The boyfriend screams “Honey, please don’t do it’!

The blond screams back “Shut up, you’re next”!

Summer will soon be coming to an end

The season of love will give way to the season of cold and cuddle.

The season where if you don’t have a significant other, Mother Nature is probably calling out to you that it is time to find a partner or at least a hook up to keep you warm through the winter.

Some of you may give into the allure of a tight tanned body, while others may be looking for a heartbeat sucking on a bottle of Tequila. Today I speak to those of you who may spend some time thinking the whole thing out.

Allow me to help you.

I was never drawn to dumb chicks, at least not for long.

However, many of my friends and acquaintances found themselves with Stupid-Fever.

Like the recent outbreak of Yellow-Fever that had guys everywhere going crazy over Asian chicks, Stupid- Fever always has had guys going nuts over stupid, sometimes crazy chicks.

*If you will spend time watching Alabama Football on TV you will be able to pick out their offspring.

My point, many guys are attracted to stupid chicks because they think they are a much easier target, more likely to be sexual freaks and less demanding on the guy. Let’s face it; if you like stupid-chicks you probably have a need to feel like you are smart. Problem is guys, many of the Stupid-Chicks know all this and have perfected their stupid act from a very young age, if so, guess who the really stupid one is?

Then there is the Bad Boy Syndrome.

Hot girls, smart hot girls drawn to danger because mommy and daddy didn’t let them ride their bikes in the street. I have seen this one many times up close after one of my really wild shows. You step down off the stage and some chick says, “I would really like to get to know you and your Saint Bernard better”. And I must admit I have taken advantage of it on a few occasions at least until they realized I didn’t have my dog with me.

Back on point.

How do you choose whom to winter with?

One word, “carefully”.

Because if you don’t you could end up with Flies circling below your equator this winter or next Labor Day could be spent in a Labor Room.

Of course that is only a couple of the problems that could lay in wait for you, you could fall in love with the wrong person and then every season can be your own living hell.

Here is your glossary of possible Love Connections.

Marry a Snob and you have to deal with their snooty ass friends and family. 

Marry a Redneck and your closet will be filled with camo.

Marry a slut or man-whore and your closet will always have someone hidden in it.

Marry a virgin and go to jail for child abuse.

Marry someone too young and spend your life reliving mistakes you made twenty years ago.

Marry someone too old and your sex life consists of a candy striper costume and sponge baths.

If you’re white and marry a black person you might have to here how Granny makes her delicious Thanksgiving dressing with “Crackers”.

If your black and you marry a white person it’s a good bet your in-laws will always mispronounce your relative’s names.

Marry a genius and spend your life helping your kids with homework you don’t understand.

Marry a stupid person and it’s a good bet you will have stupid little children.

Marry a Geek and live in a big house full of Star Wars figurines.

Marry an Arab and engage in Jihad against your neighbor with the barking dog.

Marry a poser and spend your life helping them feel good about themselves while putting other people down.

Marry a skinny person and spend your life watching your weight.

Marry a heavy person and spend your life trying to not get rolled over on in bed.

And finally, marry a human being and spend your life second guessing yourself because nobody is as perfect as you are.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Happily married man with a wonderful wife, two children, great friends and equity that he loves dearly.

*This article is intended as humor and cannot be used in a court of law.

I goofed up and fell out of a tree almost forty years ago.  Some of you might be thinking “Well, that about explains it”, but I didn’t land on my head….just something I’ve been accused of having it stuck in…so, some of you would be wrong. Oh, I hit a couple of branches with my face on the way down, leaving some skin behind and drawing a little blood for good measure (Okay, now is where the smartmouthed comments are appropriate) and I think I remember wondering for a second or two, after the ground came up and clobbered me, if I might be dead.

Nope. Still breathing. Or trying to, anyway.

With my shirt torn, the wind knocked halfway out of me, a rapidly swelling and scraped up face and a tail bone that screamed its unfavorable opinion of my gymnastic prowess (in a tone that suspiciously favored a certain, cranky old Kindergarten teacher that I hope fell down and broke a hip), I laid there, writhing in pain but trying not to cry about it. 

Lewis, my friend who had stayed on the ground all along like a sissy or a person with some sense, stepped quickly over to Ground Zero and, bending over to peer fixedly at the biggest idiot he might happen across that day, asked “Man…. are you okay?” 

There’s nothing quite like a friend who will come to right where you are when times get tough and, because he’d felt the need to share my “idiot” status, I decided to reciprocate. Like any sissy worthy of the name might do, I spit out a small mouthful of blood I’d apparently been loathe to part with for some reason and began to scream bloody murder.

“Do I look okay, you stupid idiot?” I shouted between sobs as soon as I could catch enough breath to do it, and Lewis, who was two years younger and substantially smaller than I and knew that he might be inviting a thrashing if he didn’t tread lightly here, stayed silent. Ten minutes later, the squalling done but the swelling nowhere near it, I hobbled my way home, leaning heavily on a certain stupid jerk and the wondrous nature of childhood friendship and its ability to quickly forgive temper flare-ups of the recently wounded.

Thanks, Lewis. I don’t know if I ever told you that.

My mother- when I gimped my way through the door, roughed up, bloodied and smeared with pine sap- asked her usual question: “Any deep cuts or broken bones?”  Satisfied with my negative reply, she then sadly shook her head a little with that tortured sigh that had been perfected years ago. Leaving the TV and General Hospital to prattle on without her, she relieved me of a mortally wounded shirt (probably saving it for future dust-rag duty after a thorough wash and bleach job) on her way to fetch the cotton balls, rubbing alcohol and iodine.

When you are the frustrated parent of an accident-prone, semi-retarded 11-year-old, you get to where you don’t even hear the screams, they tell me.

Later that afternoon, my oldest brother Bob showed up and, after a cursory examination of my facial wounds and the rusty orange smears that covered them, asked “What this time, Little Son?” There were three boys in the family and that’s what I got tagged with…”Little Son”. I didn’t care for it all that much at the time, but I answered to it.

“Fell out of a tree, man. Making a jump and missed a branch…you know how it is.” I said, my fingers trailing down my shamefully scraped face, my tailbone still throbbing.

“I guess I should have just stuck with swinging on that vine, huh?” Bob just laughed, but I think he also might have been kind of proud. Having a monkey wannabe for a little brother, even a clumsy one, probably suited him just fine.

My brother, the world’s foremost Tarzan fan, had introduced me to a vine in the woods nearby upon which one could get a running start down a rutted slope to swing out and back over a mostly cleared depression containing an old tire. One that could be used as a target to drop down upon at the height of the upswing if it was your day to take a chance.

It was quite a plunge, as I remember it. I did it once and tweaked an ankle but damn, was it ever fun! I hope to relive it in the afterlife, but people who know me tell me I’ll probably be too busy screaming; this time for ice water and asbestos underwear.

Bob, my brother, had no worries in that direction. No worries at all. He was a scholar, an athlete and a citizen that put most folks to shame by comparison. Whole books could be written about the man, his character and accomplishments and at least one that I know of currently is. There’s no doubt it will sell him short.

As a God and Country kind of fellow that threw himself headlong into any physical or academic challenge that came his way, he stood head and shoulders above most of us average types in a way that was sometimes exasperating. His room was a shrine of trophies, ribbons and plaques but the thing that set him apart from the rest of us mere mortals was his heart and his will. The stupidest question I’ve ever been asked came from one of the smartest people I’ve ever known in the form of the following:

“Why can’t you be more like your brother, Bob?”

Why, indeed.

It was just something to say, we all knew that. We- my other siblings and I- knew it was useless to even attempt to be anything like the first-born of our brood and gave up without wasting any time trying. We were dinghies in the wake of a battleship and we knew our place well. We surrendered without a shot being fired.

We might be quitters but we’re not complete dummies.

Bob had his faults, I suppose, but nobody really knows what they were. Dandruff is about the only possible thing that comes to mind. 

He did marry a bitch, come to think of it, so it could be argued that maybe he was a little too charitable in his assessment of others. People like me will have to call that a mixed blessing but he must have seen something in her that the rest of us couldn’t. She left him before the really hard part of his life got underway, so maybe he was wrong just that one time.

He never ran from a fight that I know of - or lost one- and he had a few. …usually in defense of somebody else. Once, when I got jumped by a whole gang of white trash goons, years older than me, while digging in the sand at the Jersey shore (I think I was eight, maybe) and they slapped me around and punched me in the head until it wasn’t fun anymore, he went looking for the whole bunch of them at once. There were four of them in one family down the road a ways and he stood out in the street daring the lot of them to step outside, even for a minute.

They might have been ignorant street-trash bullies, but they apparently knew a bad time when they saw it. They stayed inside. 

He fought his last battle, though, a while back and it was something to behold. Nearly thirty years after a botched operation to fix a heart defect that might have killed him did something infinitely worse, he finally said “enough”.

A struggle that began with hours and hours of profuse bleeding, brain damage and a coma that would have been curtains for just about anybody else was only a start, and for three decades he made the most of it. He learned to walk again, sort of, and I’m sure I’ll never forget the first time he stepped across our living room assisted by my 98 lb. mother. He was blind then so he didn’t see me tearing up, but I saw him. Call us crybabies, I guess, but there are certain moments in life when it ought to be allowed and overlooked.

He was in another coma at the end, one that lasted longer than anybody could have guessed. His hospice nurse, a veteran that had seen many a soul go over to the other side, called him “Superman” in baffled amazement, but the rest of us already knew that.

We watched him laying there, tending to a business between him and his God that we couldn’t even comprehend, his body literally disintegrating into a stiffening bloodied swamp and, still, he hung on. We wished, we begged, we even tried to pray him away but he just flatly refused to go. And one night, after all the scripture reading and praying and singing of old hymns that mark the slow passing of a religious man in a religious family, something different and a little bit strange happened.

Somebody pulled out a battered, yellowed book with the cover just barely taped to it and began to read to him. It was an old favorite and he’d read it, and later had it read to him, more than a few times in the past. “Tarzan of the Apes” it was and, coma or not, I’m thinking he heard it all and knew it, word for word, as the two of us got to relive a story and share an adventure that was part of our bond one last, blessed time.

It took a few hours. And in that few hours, I’d like to think that he might have relived the simple joy of swinging out over what would have to pass for a jungle on a vine that might even still be found if one were to look hard enough for it. I know I did.

A short while later, he was gone. He might not have been a Man of Steel after all, but he had a heart of gold and an iron will and he went when he was darn well good and ready.

Thanks, Big Son. I don’t know if I ever told you that.

He would have been Fifty-four today and this, I think, is one of those certain moments that ought to be allowed and overlooked.  

Even for some crybaby monkey-boy that can’t hold onto a stupid branch.

L.S. . Fentress

I’ve always enjoyed a good argument. Anyone who knows me will verify this. I come by it honestly. My dad is an argumentative rascal. His mother was too. My son and daughter are both contrary little boogers. I have even boosted my genetically-derived arguing skills by paying attention during lectures on “classical argument” in college. I have vague recollections of disjunctive syllogisms and non sequiturs…

…I especially like to argue about politics. Or at least I used to. There was a time when I thought that the politicians I voted for were smarter and more honorable than the politicians that other folks voted for. A couple of weeks ago, I got into a bit of a debate with an argumentative academician. I don’t want to tar entire professions with one brush, but college professors, physicians and attorneys often suffer from the same syndrome. They sometimes feel that their extensive knowledge of their chosen profession makes them experts on every other thing in the known universe. In any event, this particular college prof was pontificating on his rather unique atheistic conservatism. I, not surprisingly, had an alternate opinion. After a few rounds of discourse, the PhD paid his tab and left…

…I felt surprisingly unfulfilled by the argument. I had made some good points. I had chiseled away at some of the God-denying Republican’s core arguments. But I no longer thought that the pols I voted for were any better than any other pols. I find myself seriously jaded by the way our government works (and doesn’t work) lately…

…Our “two party” political system has been letting us down for decades. The founders of our government never envisioned the current concept of career politicians. Congresspersons and Senators gain more and more clout the longer they stay in office. It’s hard for those folks to relinquish their hard-earned power. As a result, the system doesn’t change much…regardless of who happens to be occupying the White House. Incumbents are incredibly hard to beat…

…I don’t think I’m turning completely into one of those “throw ‘em all out and start over” types. Not quite yet. I’m a realist. We, as Tennesseeans, have benefited from the clout of senators like Fred Thompson and Lamar Alexander. Chattanoogan Bob Corker is still gaining street cred up on the Hill. I don’t think it’s remotely hypocritical to want government reform and still have a taste for some pork. Part of representative government is ensuring that Federal funds benefit the home district…

…But we ought to do better. We still aspire to be the “leaders of the free world.” Our economy is worse than it has been in most of our lifetimes. Our elected leaders can’t seem to keep their priorities straight. The Federal response to the BP oil spill in the gulf was terrible…

…I love a good argument. But all I have in me lately is constant complaining. These times are too tough for the current crop of leaders…and the next crop of leaders looks an awful lot like the current crop. Candidates mortgage their souls to the highest bidders just to build the war chests needed to run in the primaries. It’s time for a real change that goes beyond a campaign slogan. I wish I could tell you I think we're going to see it...

-- Mark Bedford

Some asswipe ran over and killed an emaciated stray pit bull puppy I’d been feeding for a couple of weeks last Friday night while I was working. It was off in a part of town you wouldn’t want to live in and neither did the dog, I figured, but catching a frightened stray dog isn’t always the easiest thing to do. Especially if you’re trying not to scare it. I had a good supply of chicken parts –wings and fingers – to work with as bait, and was making a little bit of headway in gaining the trust of an animal that had obviously been badly mistreated at some point when WHAM!

Along comes some nobody trying to be somebody in a ghetto cruiser SUV, driving too fast and probably not giving a rat’s ass about it, that mows down a dog that had done nothing but be born in the wrong place, forever ending any chance she might have had at a happy life.

And the son of a bitch kept right on going. 

Oh, he hit the brakes, finally, but it was only to barely negotiate a right turn a block and a half up the street without tipping over. I’ve asked myself repeatedly over the course of the last few days what I might have done if  Mr. Wipe had gone and wrapped his ride around a pole, instead… enough, say, to mangle a hood, break a windshield and spring an airbag, or something.

Would I have been in any excuse for a hurry to get to his sorry ass to help him? I’m thinking “not” and I know me better than most. No, truth is, I’d have preferred to see a total mangling of both vehicle and occupant, the tortured screams of the latter drowning out the sirens of ambulance and fire trucks alike as the fellows manning the Jaws of Life are forced off their mission by flames that can’t be quelled.

Okay, maybe that’s a little over the top.

Then again, maybe not. I believe it was Gandhi who said that a society could be judged by the treatment of its animals but if I’m mistaken, then it was at least somebody who knew what the heck they were talking about. Mistreat an animal and you’re a piece of shit, end of story. You want to argue that with me, I’m not hard to find.

There’ve been exceptions. Like the time a couple of years back when I took Woof, the Giant Black Dog and his brother Reilly to the beach for a little R&R. Woof (his given name is David but everyone knows you don’t go calling no dog David) had been in a bit of a rambunctious mood all morning, growling at Reilly for the entire ride there and threatening to kick sand in his face at the first opportunity. I’d had to threaten him in return with a bath and suspension of couch privileges, but he was just looking for an excuse to show his big, furry ass.

He didn’t have long to wait.

He was out of the car and gone before I knew it as we rolled up to the boardwalk, a motley assemblage of disturbed souls, if ever there were such. His brother Reilly, as timid and fainthearted as any dog that’s ever been beaten had a different plan altogether. Namely, hiding in the backseat under some blankets in the hopes of being overlooked for the next few hours. Who needs a sunburned nose, anyway?

Screw chasing seagulls. The beach, and its associated hazards, could wait for another day. You could see it in his eyes.

Getting him out of the car was a chore but trying to get him to cross the boardwalk under his own power was a complete waste of time. With a gang of five thuggy little creeps in their late teens looking on, I had to pick him up and carry him (65 lbs of dog or chicken, it’s up for debate) across to the sand with him stiff-legged and squalling the entire way.

How embarrassing. For both of us.

And obviously how amusing for five little punks who began to shout things like “Look dat pussy muhfuckuh” and “He be all scared and shit” before one of them, being what he was, decided to throw a Mountain Dew Code Red in our direction. It was a bad throw (or a really, really good one depending on your point of view) as it overshot the both of us and bopped the Woof Dog, who was standing by waiting on us, broadside.

He did not take kindly.

Four seconds later, as he was tearing the flesh from the leg of one of them and blood was spewing all over the sand, I was doing my utmost to drag him off his newfound chew-toy.  I’d have had better luck rubbing a lamp. About all I could do was watch. He quit when he was finished or got tired of the taste of bastard in his mouth, I’m not sure which.

He allowed himself to be dragged to the car, albeit grudgingly (Reilly was already dying to leave and hugging the car door with his tail tucked and sporting his best  “I told you this was a bad idea” look) and we piled in and got the hell out of there, quickly. Tearing away from the scene of the chomping with a bunch of wide-eyed punks now hollering a different tune, we made the forty minute trip home, the three of us, a little bit frazzled and one of us clearly trying his best to spit away an unpleasant taste. It’s a good thing dog slobber doesn’t do permanent damager to leather seats or the couch he was allowed to hang out on for the next few days as we laid low waiting on the cops to show up.

They never did. There is justice in the world sometimes, after all.

Two beaten and abused dogs, rescued from lives that out and out sucked due to some assholes that ought to be killed, just out for a day at the beach with Dad and somebody has to be a complete sack of crap and mess with them because they think they can.

Joke on you, motherfucker… how’s that leg look these days?

And to Mr. SUV Ghetto Cruiser: I hope you die of rectal cramps.

I buried my little friend the next morning, not liking it the tiniest bit. She was supposed to come live with me and her two new brothers in a place where starvation and beatings are known to be suitable treatment for shit heaps like you, not dogs or anything else with fur for that matter.

I sat beside her stroking her under her chin for a bit before sending her off and, no thanks to you, she finally knows that a human hand doesn’t have to be a source of pain or fear.

Finally.

The Woof Dog knows it, too. And he also knows that if he tears some miserable excuse for a human being like you a new asshole he gets strawberry cookies…all he can eat.

He wants to meet you.

And I damned sure want to watch.

 - C. Fentress

And then there is the one about the radio “journalist” who came to an Arkansas post-football scrimmage press conference wearing a Florida hat.

Renee Gork, it has been blogged, asked Arkansas’s current head coach, the inestimable Bobby Petrino, about the results of the scrimmage.

Petrino answered the question, then said, it is reported, told Gork “That’s the last question I will take with that hat on.”

What Petrino meant was that he would not answer any more of Gork’s questions as long as she wore her Gator hat.   (She reportedly went to Florida.)

Ms. Gork wore the Gator hat while she was representing, of all things Hog Sports Radio.

Ms. Gork’s headgear won’t be a problem in Fayetteville again, the station fired her.

(Again, all this is reported, by other folks, I am not on Renee Gork’s twitter list, so she ignored me.)

I understand Ms. Gork’s Gator pride, hell if I was a Gator fan….well I would have committed suicide before Spurrier got there, but anyway, all true fans want to show their colors.

But you gotta wonder if maybe the Florida journalism program needs a course or two in journalistic ethics.

I got an email about this deal earlier in the day, the mailer said this was typical Petrino small-minded stuff and thought it was ridiculous that Ms. Gork got the axe.

I have to disagree.   Everybody knows who is a fan of what school among the media, but its kind of an unwritten rule (The Florida course should spend a lot of time on unwritten rules.) that you keep your real feelings to yo own self and try, as best you can, to remain an impartial observer.

Or at least not be confrontational about your true allegiances.

For a reporter to wear the hat of another SEC school to an Arkansas football coach’s press conference is crossing the line, no matter how petty Bobby Petrino seems to be.

The video, which is also out there, show’s what some folks have said to be Petrino “glaring” at Ms. Gork after he answers her question….I don’t see a glare, but maybe I am used to more forceful glaring.

Having said all that, is wearing another team’s hat reason to get fired?

I guess Ms. Gork broke the “proper respect rule”.  I didn’t think that applied to Bobby Petrino anyway.

Seems like maybe Ms. Gork was unimpressed with the Razorbacks’ coach and his sordid past in the business.

When I worked in the media in a place where my school was not the home team, I did not wear my colors to press conferences at say Auburn or Alabama, I thought it would be bad manners.

Like having dinner at somebody’s house and complaining about the chicken fricassee.

But it’s a fine line….I did get remonstrated by the then sports information dude at Auburn, David Housel, for yelling for Georgia while watching the game on TV in the press box at Auburn before the Auburn game started.

“We don’t low no yellin in the press box” Housel said.  

I made it a point to note how much yelling there was in press box during the game and wrote Mr. Housel a nice note, to which he did not respond.

In one of those twists, Housel was one of the nice people who flew up to Louisville, KY to interview Bobby Petrino about the head-coaching job at Auburn when Tommy Tuberville was still the head coach.

The point is, you gotta pick your spots to show your true colors; obviously Fayetteville and Auburn are not open to being open about your allegiance to teams other than the home team.

As for Ms. Gork, well, that was a pretty dumb thing to do.

If you care enough about your school to wear the hat, you ought to realize folks at the home team probably are going to be offended by your choice of haberdashery, which is ok for a game, but not for work.

The month before the season starts gets longer every year.

 - Scorpio Jones III

More Random Observations

I spent much of the past weekend without the benefit of air conditioning. My heat pump unit had been performing erratically, but turning it off for a while had “cured” it on a previous occasion. That technique seemed to have worked again last Saturday afternoon. My darling daughter and I headed out to the mall with ambient temperatures comfortably dropping into the low seventies…

…We came back to eighty degrees and clammy. Repeated efforts to restart the cooling component of the system were met with failure. I didn’t have cold air blowing consistently until early Sunday afternoon. I will tell you this: Lack of air conditioning really makes you appreciate your AC when it’s working. My uncomfortable weekend make me wonder what it was like back in the days before air conditioning… or even before electric fans. Lawd…

…Do you have to smoke to work at a convenience store? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve pulled into a c-store parking lot while one or more of the employees were puffing up outside. They give you a slightly hateful look as they put their cigs out and skulk back into their workplace. I do know they move a lot of cigarettes in a typical convenience store. Cigs and lottery tickets…

…At long last I have tasted some decent summer tomatoes. I have consulted with fellow tomato lovers and we all concur that the flavor of this summer’s toms has been down a bit… at least compared to recent years. I picked up a couple of “locally grown” tomatoes at Bi-Lo this week… and they are the best I’ve had this summer. They look like they are about to blow up and they have that tart innate saltiness that I love…

…I’ve had some interesting conversations with football fans lately. Tennessee supporters are curious and a bit concerned as the Derek Dooley era unfolds in Knoxville. Lane Kiffin departed the program in a cloud of controversy and has proven to be a lightning rod at Southern Cal as well. But Kiffin’s Vols almost beat (and should have beaten) national champion Alabama in Tuscaloosa last year. Dooley was not UT athletic director Mike Hamilton’s first choice, but his honest and clean-cut pedigree is the polar opposite of Kiffin’s. You will never hear anyone utter a harsh word about former (national championship winning) Georgia coach Vince Dooley… and the hope is that his son will run a similarly clean program…

…My son and I recently watched the replay of the World Cup final. Dramatic. I realized that I was almost missing the sound of those incessant vuvuzelas. Almost. The South Africans rose to the occasion in hosting the world’s biggest sporting event. The Dutch and the Spaniards both deserved to be in the final… and Spain was just a tiny bit better than the Netherlands. Hats off to Arsenal’s Cesc Fabregas for setting up Andres Iniesta for Spain’s cup-winner. It was the first-ever World Cup win for Espana…

…Soccer seems to be catching on a bit here in the Colonies. ESPN is showing a few English Premier League matches and offering more EPL, La Liga, and Serie A match highlights on Sports Center. Good for them. That’s it for now. Going to watch the last few minutes of that World Cup final again…

 -  Mark Bedford

With a sagging economy and a double dip recession possible I have been searching for where I should invest?

After careful examination I decided the only thing making sense was shotguns and canned foods. But that is so “Old School”.

What I need is to be on board for “The Next Big Thing”.

So I picked up a few magazines that offer me “The Chance at Financial Independence”. These magazines are packed with more ads than articles, each one exciting yet, unbelievable. Ads that attract you with slogans like:

“Success isn’t about luck…It’s about discovering the right opportunity”.

I say, “Amen”.

Turn Spare Time into Cash”!!!

“I don’t have any spare time, but I sleep sometimes, and money is better than sleep”. 

“Program your mind for success”.

“Alrighty, let’s do it”.

“Dirty Dogs, Can Make You Rich”!

“I like dogs, even dirty ones”.

“$25,000.00 in 2 Weeks”! “Just Mail My Big Cash Flier”.

“I have some stamps, sounds good”.

There are dozens of opportunities on every page. It’s like one of those Vegas Hooker magazines, “if you can’t get laid with our magazine you’re a loser”.

If you can’t get paid with one of these magazines, you’re a bigger loser.

But like that book featuring 2000, $2,000.00 a night call-girls, where do you start?

After hours of sorting through hundreds of opportunities it was clear that windshield repair, candy vending, maid services, porn sites and on-line casinos are the best the magazines had to offer.

Oh and “the miracle growth potion that will make you the man you always wanted to be”.

Damn it people, its not my Willy that I am trying to grow here, its my wealth.

After a closer look I realized this getting rich thing might take a minute or two. Unless I created my own “Next Big Thing”, not to work it, but to sell it in one of those magazines. There were tapes on “How To”, I could do that, hell there are a lot of things I could sell in there if I would only put my mind to it.

Here are few I am working on:

A magazine featuring pictures of turds who pick a fight with police while being arrested called “Nut-Busted!”.

“Gas Bandits” Make millions by siphoning gasoline.

Our exclusive “Gas Bandit” system will show you how to steal millions of gallons of gas disguised as a Wal-Mart shopping cart. No one will ever know you were there.

“Hurricane Housing”. Our exclusive video broadcasting system beams a fake Weather Channel Tropical Storm update directly into the home television set of people trying to sell their beachside property. Its simple, choose the property, go in and start negotiating a price, click on the fake forecast and watch as the sellers drop their price in an attempt to escape the next category 5 headed their way. Sign it and seal the deal with a deposit. Then sell it “QUICK”!

Make a Killing with The Miracle Bird/Pig Flu Vaccine.

Drug companies have been doing it for decades, now you can too! Sell bogus Flu Vaccines on-line. No one really knows what will stop it once it mutates so what the hell, maybe we have gotten lucky with ours?

The media and the President are promoting your cause and will drive millions of terrified people to your site.

So no advertising is needed.

As the death count soars, so will your profits.

Remember cash only no checks please.

If you survive, you’ll be rich!

Here is your hook:

“It’s not hard to do, Fight The Flu”.

Well that’s a few of my ideas, if your interested send $10,000.00 today and you could be on your way to financial freedom.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

A Hateful, Terrible Man

My ex-wife used to do a spot on impersonation of me that was unflattering to say the least. It ended with  “…and I hate everything!” That might be a slight exaggeration but there’s plenty of stuff to hate out there. The following is a partial list…..

Politicians…all of them. Waiting in line for a long, long time at Bojangles on Hixson Pike for a biscuit that turns out not to have any cheese on it, as requested. Stepping in dog shit. Being unaware of the fact that dog shit has been stepped in before settling into the car for a two hour road trip. Having to buy a new pair of running shoes because one of my old ones got thrown out of a car window on I-75. Flat Diet Cokes in tiny little cups when I’m thirsty. Ebonics. The creeps that expect you to understand what the hell it is that they are mumbling in Ebonics.  Bugs that eat my tomato plants. Store bought tomatoes. Dead batteries on stupid motorcycles. Hot wing sauce down the front of a clean shirt. Busted washing machines. Laundromats. Running out of toilet paper at home and at work.  Lost keys to other stupid motorcycles. No French Vanilla coffee creamer at my usual morning coffee stop. Smartass clerks who cop a condescending attitude when this is brought to their attention. Bastards who owe you thousands, cry poormouth and then go to Vegas. Pimple cream that looks like toothpaste. Surprise back taxes. Picky, spoiled people who obviously think the world is their Burger King. Sore balls.  Michael Vick. Spilled milk. Dull lawnmower blades. Shower caulk that comes un-caulked. Having to miss your niece’s wedding. People standing next to you on an elevator that smell like something on the bottom of a running shoe. Judge Judy. Roughly one jillion fish, birds, turtles, etc. still covered in oil. Roughly two jillion fish, bird and turtle corpses. Expired tags. People who eat honey mustard on every damn thing they put in their mouth. Scrunched up Saran wrap. Stripped out faucet handles. Litterbugs and laws against maiming them. Turnips. Rip-off mechanics in crummy little towns that don’t even have a Dairy Queen. The fact that prostitution near a school is more illegal than regular old prostitution. Wiggers, gangstas and thugs (oh, my!). Hornets. Tree sap on car hoods. Scratchy tee shirt tags. 102 degree heat when it’s time to mow. 7:00 A.M. on Monday. Dead batteries on stupid Tasers. Telephone solicitors for the newspaper. The crazy lady next door. Dish Network. Serial rapists. The color orange on anything other than an orange. People who want me to call them by ridiculous nicknames. Busted chainsaws. Long red lights. The Middle East. Duct tape without any “stick”. Martha Stewart. Lost keys. Vampire anything. No high diving boards in public pools. The shrines of your childhood bulldozed, burned and concreted over so some dick developer can live on a golf course. Cocoa puffs and no milk because you spilled it all. Ticks. Splinters in your finger. David Hasselhoff. Dry brownies and, again, no milk. Dirty reading glasses. Missing dirty reading glasses that are probably sitting next to the car keys. Computer viruses. Applebee’s. No change for the parking meter. Rap. Misplaced firearms. Forgotten safe combinations. Sticky bar stools. Teenagers whose faces look like a tackle box that ask “What are you staring at?” Barrack What’s-his-Ass. Bruised fruit. Rush hour traffic. “Baby On Board” bumper stickers. Frogs in the garage. The fact that Stevie Ray Vaughn is no longer with us but John Tesh is alive and kicking. Parking tickets. Nutballs who post crazy shit on Facebook. Running out of Patron on a busy bar night. Cranky strippers. Floppy titties (ick) on cranky strippers. Flies. Rednecks at cock fights. Lousy little soccer players flipping me the bird from the back of an SUV. Bad directions. Dead batteries in stupid cell phones. Brown lettuce and green meat. Realtors that call themselves “superpowers” and laws against maiming them. Uppity homeless dogs that insist on chicken fingers instead of dog food. Creaky knees. Flat tires. Assholes who refuse to acknowledge that they are, indeed, assholes. Burned out light bulbs. Stale and/or mashed hot dog buns. Deadlines. Insomnia.

A malignant tumor the size of a sugar cube that spells a certain end to the life of a fuzzy little thing that staggers painfully out of bed when I get home and comes over to lick my hand.

Suddenly, all that other stuff doesn’t mean the tiniest, God-damnedest thing.

Her name is Opus. You would have loved her.

 - C. Fentress

Those of you who recall my political observations back during the Bush administration might remember that I wasn’t exactly a GWB fan. I considered him one of the least bright occupants of the Oval Office. I thought his administration was basically run by (That) Dick Cheney, a bunch of his dad’s old cronies and the oil industry. At the end of George II’s second term, during the primary races for both parties, I didn’t make much secret of the fact that I thought it was time for a Democratic president…

…So we got one. Here we are in the eighth month of the second year of the Barack Obama administration. And, ladies and gents, I’ve got a few observations. Some of which you might find a bit surprising. First and foremost, I’ve got to tell you… something really radical is going to have to happen before there’s more than an ice cube’s chance in Hell for a second Obama term. That controversial Nobel Peace Prize in October of 2009 stands sadly as Barack’s presidential highlight so far…unless you count his appearance on “The View.” The prez and his public relations team have managed to mismanage almost of all of the major news events they’ve faced…most notably the Gulf oil spill. The president’s long absence from the bubblin’ crude was a slap in the face to the gulf states. Did he learn nothing from the skewering Dubya took for his aloof mishandling of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath? Do any of his advisers have the intellect and testicular fortitude to let Obama know where he’s screwing up? So far, I think not…

...The economy is still a mess... but I'm not sure you can blame all of that on the president and his team. They inherited a mess. I'm not sure they've done much to improve things, but I'm not sure a Republican administration could have done much better. I do blame Obama and his inner circle for losing their focus on economic issues. Fixing the economy is the top priority for this nation right now. The president's intense focus on healthcare reform was a distraction from that top priority. His efforts to link his healthcare changes to economic recovery were just plain lame...

…Michelle Obama is at the center of the latest wave of presidential criticism. As you might have heard, the first lady recently traveled to Spain for a brief vacation. With the exception of the government-funded security detail, the trip is costing us taxpayers absolutely nothing. The Obamas have offered various rationalizations for the trip. And, truth be known, other first ladies have gone on exotic vacations. But it’s all about the timing. At a time when U.S. unemployment nips at the 10-percent mark and most real Americans are trimming budgets and trying to survive the worst economy in their lifetimes… do we really want to see Michelle and Sasha frolicking in Barcelona? Not really. If Barack Obama wanted to send a strong message to those real Americans, he’d join his wife and kids for a nice vacation in a deluxe condo on the Gulf of Mexico. Let him provide some economic stimulus to a region that has been devastated by the BP oil spill… and the president’s own unilateral ban on oil drilling…

,,,I still think we were due for a Democratic president. At the very least we have stopped the rightward swing in our Federal judgeships and the Supreme Court. Four years of John McCain and Sarah Palin would have given the Republicans 12 straight years of putting conservatives on the bench. The judicial branch, like the legislative and executive branches, needs new blood and new ideas… not a unilateral agenda…

…But I think Barack Obama will be one of those one-term presidents. One and done. He and his inner circle have blown a great chance to learn from their predecessors’ mistakes and simply do the right thing. They didn’t learn. And they haven’t done the right thing…

-- Mark Bedford

When I am with my kids I drink chocolate milk with a straw and then we all get the evil eye from “The Mom” for blowing bubbles.

I am struggling this week with an array of “Daddy Issues”.

My oldest starts Middle School and will soon be faced with the reality of bullies, peer pressure and the emergence of raging hormones. He is into the defensive arts, has a great heart and is very smart so I believe he is as prepared as he can be plus he has a penis and that is a relief to any dad.

My four-year–old Princess is starting Pre-K and it feels like she is moving off to college. She is bright, has the vocabulary of a Rhodes Scholar and is way too excited about expanding her universe into the shady land of little boys and advanced thinking.

I know she needs to experience organized activities and start interacting with other kids on a daily basis it is part of her learning development.

I know she will learn way more from those fine people than I have time to give her and it will be exciting to see if see is as bright as she seems to be. If so I may have to have a genetic test to determine paternity, not to see if I am the daddy but to see if perhaps our child was switched with some little alien child of superior intelligence.

She didn’t speak until 2 and then almost magically, as if a switch or hidden program was clicked on she suddenly started talking, not in words or 3 or 4 word sentences but in paragraphs and even chapters.

She hasn’t shut up since!

I know, “kids say the darndest things”. However my little girl may be the thing.

For the last several years starting with my oldest son and then with the princess we have family time. At my house we read books about half the time and the other half we reach under the pillow and pull out imaginary books customized by characters and storylines chosen by my little ones. Then “The Daddy”, that’s me, spins a tale about the lonely penguin who takes on the silly pirate while sailing in a purple VW Bug with giant sails made of butterfly wings.

Reading is important but to me imagination is equally so and so it has been until of late.  Now a days, “The Daddy”, that’s me, has lost my job as family creative director. “The Daughter” won’t allow me to tell my stories anymore. She reaches under the magic pillow, pulls out the book of her choosing, opens it and proceeds to read the story to us all. Turning the invisible pages as she goes and creating her own stories, leaving “The Daddy” with nothing to do but wonder how long before she moves in with her college professor.

Does this make me a silly father afraid to turn loose? Probably but my little girl is so independent it is scary.

For now I have Plan A.

I have her convinced that boys have cooties.

But, “The Daddy”, that’s me, I know in my heart that it is just a matter of time before my little angel comes to me declaring she has found the cure for said cooties and now boys are fair game.

I guess that is when I go to plan B, which involves me naked on a Rascal Scooter with a shotgun and a sign reading “Don’t mess with The Daddy”, that’s Me!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Happy Birthday, To…..

Here’s a question that might not get asked a lot….

Ever get hit in the face with a boat?  I saw it happen to friend of mine yesterday on her birthday and wouldn’t want to see it happen again but you never know. I’m partial to the water and things that happen in and around it and birthdays, beer and boats - admittedly fun but potentially disastrous ingredients, when mixed haphazardly- are no rare combination this time of year, so I’m not ruling it out for the foreseeable future.

Just the one time was about enough for now, I’ll say, and let me just tell you a little something about it. 

Like many a tragic voyage of yesteryear, this one started out well enough before ultimately being downgraded to Total Bullshit status. While lagging a good deal behind, say, the Titanic in the number of titties on board, the vessel in question was sporting six pretty nice ones poking out of their restraints just enough to get the attention of the three guys along for the ride and, hey….that at least put us two up on the Minnow (sorry Mrs. Howell) if my math and boob assessment skills are up to snuff, and I think that they are.

So far, so good.

Toss in an abundance of tasty, adult carbonated beverages from the likes of the Miller Brewing Co. and what was once a proud American brewery noted for its Clydesdales, its Bald Eagle logo and its superb Superbowl commercials that is now owned by a bunch of filthy Swedes and certainly there was at least some small hint of promise for a day worth remembering. The legendary, now-departed Frank Zappa did his best work in a song called Titties and Beer and Hooters is still kicking much ass, even in a down economy, so I know I’m not alone, here. Anybody who says they go to Hooters for the wings is gay, a liar or both, anyway.

Or a dyke, lest I forget.

Regardless, it’s Birthday On the Boat for one of the babes, and a good time was pretty much being had by all including the one sober old fart kicked back taking it all in. We’d done quite a bit of bouncing around on the waves out there, had parked in the cove tied up with some other boat folks and had pretty much had a day of it when it came time to head back, much as we all disliked the idea. But regrets were drowned by another round of beers and maybe a little smoke-y stuff here and there and we began our tour back to the marina at a fair rate of speed in somewhat choppy water.

Ever see a drunk woman having the time of her life, screaming her lungs out, wet poodle looking hair flying all over the place, playing rodeo babe at the nose of a porpoising boat?

Ever see the boat say “Enough, already” and buck said drunk chick up in the air, ass over tea-kettle, and launching her into an inglorious, undignified somersault?

It went trampstampboobshairtrampstampboobshairtrampstampboobshair and so on for a second that seemed like eternity and ended with the asshole of a boat giving Birthday Girl a nasty facial bashing on impact. And that’s when the hollering really got started!

You know what’s good about three chicks on a boat? At least one of them is anticipating, or actually on, their period and if you need to soak up a lot of blood, nothing works much better than a name brand Maxi-pad (tell me you saw that one coming, and I’ll call you a liar on national television!).

Another possible use for a girl’s second-best friend just might include gagging duty but it’d be a tough call to stuff one in somebody’s mouth on their birthday no matter how much fuss they might be making about a nasty gash over the eye. Stifling the crazy German chick that accounted for two of the bouncing fun bags of the day (Chauvinistic enough? I tried my best.) and was hollering just as loud about the whole mess seemed a bit more appropriate, but I like her and wouldn’t very much do such a thing.

Not with her husband there, anyway. That’s his job!

It all could have turned out a lot worse, I suppose. Birthday Girl got patched up and didn’t even wind up with a black eye to show for her trouble and the thing about boats is that they wash up pretty nice, being mostly water-resistant and all. If you consider, though, the fact that birthday spankings and cowgirl bucking and whooping were pretty much out of the question later, thanks to a really bad head/eye ache, then at least two somebodies that I know got gypped out of the best part -the end- of a big fun birthday on the lake.

That might not be quite the bummer that ramming into an iceberg and sinking to a watery grave or being stranded on a desert island with a bunch of assholes you have nothing in common with might be, but it still sucks, coming and going. Maybe not enough to be immortalized through film or television, but at least enough for some dude to write about it in hopes of amusing the few people who might actually read that part of the magazine before using it to maybe wrap a fish or gag some squalling…..oh, never mind.

I actually had a birthday, of sorts, of my own today. As of right this minute, I’ve gone twelve years without drinking and as a result, my actual birthdays have been a little tamer than they used to be. For years, I had a ritual in which I would do a shot of Jaeger for every year I was old and I’ve gotta tell you….when I turned thirty-seven, it was way rough. Seems I got drunk (duh), lost count and overshot by five that year and I’m quite sure I damned near died, but that was getting to be habitual. I wouldn’t want to do it again, I can tell you.

Last week, just for the hell of it, I hopped in the river just below the dam and swam down to Ross’s Landing and again, damned near died. I wouldn’t want to do that again anytime soon, either, but at least I didn’t get hit in the face by a barge. I probably would have if I’d have been drinking.

Just remember, Birthday Girl…bad times make for good stories, and now you have another to tell at all of your birthdays to come. I’m wishing you a bunch of them but let me let you in on a little secret. The boat wasn’t going too fast.

It was the beer.

It’s always the beer.

Do that again and I’m going to spank you myself, eye ache or not.

C. Fentress

Farewell to Favre (?)

So, as some of you already know, I typically write my rambling dissertations on Tuesday nights. Diamond Dave plugs my stuff into his page format and makes sure you can have it in your grubby little hands by Thursday afternoon. Well, on this particular Tuesday… the sports talk has all been about the apparent retirement of Minnesota (and former Green Bay) quarterback Brett Favre…

…Favre apparently text messaged several Vikes to let them know he was not coming back for this National Football League season. As of Tuesday night, Minnesota coach Brad Childress was saying that Favre never told him “directly” that he was retiring. Regardless, this time it looks like Brett is hanging up the cleats… for now. We’ve been duped by faux Favre retirements before. We are understandably skeptical…

…There are those who say that Favre has “tarnished his legacy” by staying in pro football a year or two longer than he should have. If that’s the case, he can add his tarnished legacy to those of Joe Namath and Joe Montana. Namath, the consummate New York Yet, finished his pro career as a benchwarmer for the then Los Angeles Rams. Montana closed out his career as a clipboard-carrier in Kansas City after his glory years in San Francisco. Both Joes are still in the Hall of Fame...

…Favre, you will remember, started his NFL career as an Atlanta Falcon. This was back when those crazy Smith brothers ran the Falcs. Atlanta went through a sad succession of quarterbacks after trading Brett to the Packers. It’s hard not to wonder what might have been… if Favre had developed as a Falcon the way he did in Green Bay. The 1991 Falcons were coached by Jerry Glanville. It was their last season in Fulton County Stadium. Favre attempted four passes as a Falcon, completing… none of them…

…Favre is cut from old-school cloth. He has made an NFL record 285 consecutive starts (309 including playoffs). He is the only player to win the AP Most Valuable Player three consecutive times. He has led teams to eight division championships, five NFC championship games (winning two), and two Super Bowls (winning one). He is football’s equivalent to Cal Ripken, but playing a much more violent sport. It is hard to imagine anyone beating his consecutive start record…

…I’ll agree with those who say Brett Favre could have gone out with a bit more style. He pissed off the Packers and the Vikings with his last-minute decisions. But Favre has never been about style. He’s a south Mississippi redneck who spends most of his off-field life in those blue jeans he hawks in television commercials. What seems self-absorbed to the rest of us was just Brett being Brett. He wanted to play the game as long as he could. He thought he had one more year in him… again… but his body fell short of his desire. Favrewell to you, Brett. Stay on the sidelines this time. For the good of your legacy… and the good of the game…

-- Mark Bedford

Alright, it looks like I’m going to have to go in a slightly different direction than normal with this week’s column; my apologies to those of you who might be expecting the usual trash I’ve been known to toss in the direction of the truly deserving. Folks like tittydancing stripper chicks with condescending attitudes (screw ‘em, no pun intended), punks in PT cruisers blaring their rap music loud enough to give people in the next state a headache that aren’t willing to pull off the road to take an asswhipping from some rightly offended, grouchy old dude and even the assholes working the X-ray machine and metal detector at the courthouse will all get their turn if I happen to survive tomorrow’s harebrained escapade (more on that later), but for now….

Okay, here’s the deal. A friend of mine who’s down on his luck has found himself in a pretty tight spot over the course of the last several months. Just like a whole bunch of other folks out there, he’s being stared in the face by the unblinking specter of ongoing unemployment and the resulting total depletion of his financial resources. Short of burning in Hell for eternity thanks to various poor choices, I can’t think of many things more immediately frightening than being on the streets and homeless, but if it weren’t for a certain big-hearted somebody being willing to drastically alter her lifestyle to see to it that my friend will be well and properly sheltered and cared for, that’s exactly what could have happened to him.

God knows it’s happened to plenty of good people just like him. But just because he’s gone and dodged a pretty scary bullet for now doesn’t exactly mean “problem solved”. Far from it.

Because even though my friend, who has way more yesterdays than tomorrows, is going to have a roof over his head, plenty to eat and that previously mentioned big-hearted somebody looking out for him at every turn, he’s going to be missing something.

Something big.

Alright, maybe a cat isn’t the biggest thing you can think of but if you’ve ever had one for seventeen years - from the time it was barely big enough to jump past your shoe and claw the hell out of your leg, just because -  then you know just how big a part of you one of the little suckers can claim. I’ve had pets for way less than half that long that have gone and died on me, leaving me feeling for all the world that I’d be right behind them.

Yeah, I guess I’m kind of a crybaby. What of it?

I saw a pain in my friend’s eyes yesterday when he came to the big-hearted lady’s house to borrow a pet carrier to take his friend – the one that has given him seventeen years worth of hairballs, full litter boxes and treasured memories – to the animal shelter. I’ve been accused of being a heartless sonofabitch by a couple of people here and there but I think there’s at least a ghost of a chance that they might have been wrong. Maybe it was my questionable diet causing that coincidental twinge in my chest, when he shuffled off to his car with that cage but who’s to say for sure? Maybe old guys who wouldn’t mind kicking the crap out of a couple of  obnoxious punks in a PT cruiser don’t know a damned thing about a broken heart over losing something they’ve loved for more than a minute but don’t bet on it.

Away in a kennel, in Goat’s Ass, Fl, there are two dogs waiting for me to recover from the disaster I’ve made of my own life and come rescue them. One is a morbidly obese, lazy-assed Walker Hound that hates birds at least as much as he loves eating and laying on the couch; the other a psychotic cross between a Chow and a Newfoundland that has teeth like Rambo knives and will bite the bejeezus out of an annoying punk if said punk happens to be stupid enough to throw a Mountain Dew Code Red at him.

 I know. I’ve seen him do it.

I’ve never been more proud.

And it eats away at me every day that I don’t have them with me but that time is coming soon, one way or another. It’s been nearly a year now since I had to leave them and I know how my friend feels. I also know how sorry the lady with the big heart is that some old cat with way more yesterdays than tomorrows can’t make its home with them but she has a cat that kills other cats. What else is there to do?

What, indeed. At least the cat, God bless him, had sense enough to run and hide under the bed when he saw the cage and refuses to come out. Ever try to get a cat that doesn’t want to cooperate to do anything? You’ll be needing a little luck, to put it mildly.

And maybe I’ll be needing a little luck too, but let me just try something here. If any of you folks out there, or anybody you know, might be willing to foster an unfortunate, ancient cat for a bit until an old guy who’s seen brighter days can get back on his feet, I’d sure like to know about it. I’d owe you one, for sure, and I might be a heartless sonofabitch but I’m certainly not the worst person you can have beholden to you.

If you can make a little room in your heart for an old guy who’s down and out or the furry little thing that until now has made that bearable, this could be your lucky day. Email to fentresscraig@yahoo.com if you’d like to help and maybe we can work something out. That is, if I don’t happen to get hit by a barge (refer back to the aforementioned harebrained escapade) tomorrow.

There we are back to those poor choices again. The cat, it should be noted, has chosen to stay under the bed for the time being, so at least you won’t be getting a stupid one.

Any takers?

C. Fentress

I found myself outdoors during the hottest part of this past Saturday and Sunday. On Saturday, I drove to Lafayette to watch a couple of hundred maniacs play rugby at the Pitch-A-Tent 7’s tournament. It was insane. The heat was brutal. Carbonated grain beverages went from icy to bathwater warm in about five minutes if they weren’t properly disposed of. It was a blast to watch, though. Saw a lot of old ruggers I hadn’t seen in years. Good times…

…On Sunday, my ancient self played adult league soccer. Again… the heat was brutal. This time I was participating and not spectating. Frequent hydration and frequent substitutions helped us get through it. The cervezas at Amigo were cold… and not headed toward bathwater warmth. Good times…

…Which is an odd segue into some observations about not-so-good times. Current news headlines make me recall the great Hunter S. Thompson/Raoul Duke quote: “Things are never good. Things just go from bad to weird.” Down in the Gulf of Mexico, it seems like the flow of oil has been stopped…for now. Crews are scheduled to permanently shut down BP’s once-gushing wellhead in the next few weeks...barring any unforeseen setbacks or weather issues. Unfortunately, we have no idea how long the current fix will hold… no idea how much oil has been leaked into the Gulf… no idea how far that oil will travel… and no idea what its impact will be. We do know that Tony Hayward is now the former CEO of BP… and sure to be a future case study in bad public relations strategy. Bad times… for Hayward… and our whole Gulf coast…

…Ready for some more bad news? An audit by the Special Inspector General for Iraq Reconstruction has found that the Pentagon cannot account for over 95 percent of $9.1 billion in Iraqi funds allocated toward rebuilding the war-ravaged country. The missing $8.7 BILLION was Iraqi oil money earmarked for the rebuilding effort and managed by the Pentagon… which seems to have lost it. “The breakdown in controls left the funds vulnerable to inappropriate uses and undetected loss," according to the audit. Seven years after the invasion, electricity service is spotty, fuel shortages are common and unemployment remains high. And our Defense Department “loses” $8.7 BILLION. Unbelievable. The war in Iraq had been over seven years’ worth of bad times…

…Then there’s “the economy,” which is such a mess that you can't really sum it up in just two words like that. The Federal Deposit Insurance Corp. reported 96 bank closures (year to date) as of the end of last week. At this time last year, the FDIC had recorded about 70 closures. The agency reports that 775 banks are currently classified as “problem institutions.” As of last month, 9.6 of our nation’s workforce was unemployed. So far, there is no “magic bullet” to get our economy back on track. Bad times…

…Regardless of the temperatures outside, we’re all feeling the metaphorical heat these days. The Obama administration was dealt a pretty bad hand when it took over, but they sure need to start playing their cards a lot smarter. Barack too often looks like he’s getting his PR strategy from Tony Hayward. And no one in our government (or outside of it) seems to know how to turn down the heat on any of these pressing issues…

With a little over two weeks till the start (more or less) of fall practice, and therefore football season. There is not much interesting going on unless you are into reading police reports or drooling over absurd pre-season polls.

Unless, of course you are so looney you actually watch the live feed from the SEC Media days in Birmingham so you won’t have to wait for your local rag to repeat all the politically correct language used by each school’s coach and his chosen players.

So here are a couple or three things that have been wandering around in my head for a couple of weeks.

First is the “Lebronathon” which involved the free agency of professional basketball player Lebron James and his move from Cleveland (yuck) to Miami (hmmmm South Beach).

I do want to make clear at the outset I have absolutely no interest in the afore mentioned Mr. James, or where he plays professional sports. To say I have no dog in that hunt would be acknowledging there was a hunt going on, which would mean there was something interesting, which there was not.

What was interesting to me was the huge outcry over James’ selection of Miami as his team du jour, when Cleveland, where he has been since he got out of high school, reportedly offered more money.

I find the idea of an hour of time on the World Wide Leader in Sports (WWL) used solely for James’ announcement he was hitting the beach instead of staying in Cleveland slightly crass.  I find it no worse, certainly, than high school kids going on TV on some low-production value recruiting show, putting two or three college hats on a table and picking one.

(And how in the hell are those absurd recruiting shows not some sort of an NCAA violation?)

What is really amusing about the whoopla surrounding the decision by a 25-year-old about where he is going to work in the future is all the astonishing anger from nearly all sportswriters at James.

These are the same writers who have made total careers in most professional sports meaningless if there is not at least one league championship in the record.

And, maybe you have noticed this attitude is beginning to trickle down to the college level….a national championship, great coach, no national championship…coach on hot seat.

So, Lebron, who has played his butt off in Cleveland, wants to go to a team where he may be able to meet the writers’ goals of an NBA Championship, and he thinks, or his people think this could be Miami.

What’s wrong with this? James, if he is lucky, has five more years to play. Why should he not be able to play where he wants to play for whatever reason?  A free agent is just that…free.

But the verbal loathing of Lebron was both widespread and vicious.

Sorry, just does not make sense to me.

Then there’s Mitch Albom, sportswriter, book writer, TV personality etc. who wins the Red Smith Award for being the best sports writer in the land.

The same Mitch Albom who, four or five years ago, wrote a column about a final four game with a liberal sprinkling of fiction through it.

The same Mitch Albom, who, when Jayson Blair scandalized the New York Times with made up news stories, "What he doesn't get," Albom wrote of Blair, "is that journalism is not Hollywood. It's not about closing the deal. It's not about face time. It's about — simply put — telling the truth."

The same Mitch Albom who tells, it is reported, journalism students that it is not about ego, yet has web links to all his wonderous self.

It is also the same Mitch Albom who blistered Jayson Blair, yet was suspended in 2005 after he wrote another column describing events that never happened.

His paper, the Detroit Free Press, conducted its own investigation and found no particular pattern of deceiving readers, but did find Albom lifted quotes from other writers or sources without attributing them…which is usually called plagiarism.

Hopefully Albom reminds journalism students plagiarism can get you expelled.

Lewis Grizzard is reputed to have said the secret to writing a good column is to recall with perfect clarity events that never happened….or something like that.

Unfortunately some people apparently believed him.

 - Scorpio Jones III

There’s a genre in fiction that deals with “alternative histories.” “Steampunk” novels, for example, deal with alternative realities in the Victorian (or “steam-powered” age). Alternative histories also feature prominently on the big screen, with everything from “The Terminator”…to “Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure”…to “Star Trek”…dealing with the possible future effects of altering the past…

…What if the Germans had come up with the atom bomb first? What if Thomas Dewey really had beaten Harry S. Truman in the 1948 presidential election? What if the plots to assassinate Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy had failed? You get the point…

…Lately I’ve been pondering alternative histories in terms of the last three presidential elections. Bear with me for a while as I explore some alternative history. What if Al Gore had beaten George W. Bush in the 2000 presidential election? (This is not much of a stretch for some of us. All we have to do is imagine the election taking place in a world where Bush’s brother wasn’t governor of Florida and his dad’s Supreme Court appointees didn’t have the final say on the end result.) I think any American who knows a lick about current events in the last 10 years would agree that a Gore presidency would have been a lot different from Bush II’s reign…

…The big litmus tests for my hypothetical Al Gore presidency are the terror attacks of 9/11 and the war in Iraq. Despite what the hawkish republicans would have us believe, Al knew a good bit about our nation’s defense. As a Congressman, he sat on the House Intelligence and Science and Technology committees. As a Senator, he sat on the Armed Services and Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs committees. I think Al would have been very capable of managing our nation’s response to the bombings of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. As for the war in Iraq… I don’t think there would have been one. The spurious WMD “evidence” that led us into the seemingly endless Iraquagmire would never have been fabricated…

…Fast forward to 2004. What if the Democrats had come up with a reasonable alternative to John Kerry? Kerry was a effete snob who never really connected with the donkey party’s core. Almost any southern Dem would have had a much better shot at the White House than the hubby of a wacky ketchup millionairess…

…Fast forward to the present day. Barack Obama and his administration are dealing with low approval ratings and criticism from all fronts. His obsession with healthcare reform at the expense of critical economic issues is a source of bipartisan frustration. His handling of the BP oil spill has often been a mess of its own. So… ask yourself… how would President John McCain have handled the economy and the oil spill crisis? McCain would have been in the pockets of big business and the big oil companies, just like George W. Bush. He likes to come off as a bit of a rebel, but when push comes to shove… he never bites the hand that feeds him. Big oil and the defense industry always backed him. There’s no way a President McCain would have handled this unprecedented turn of events any better than Obama has. The other big problem with the McCain presidency scenario is that it includes the Sarah Palin vice presidency scenario. The idea of having that bubblehead a heartbeat away from the Oval Office still scares the crap out of me…

-- Mark Bedford

My sister recently found a box of my old memories mixed in with some things she had pulled from my mom’s house. It had notes, love letters, photo’s and stuff from a time that I have mostly forgotten.

Like one of those time capsules that you see people leaving for aliens and future generations it did tell a story of a race of beings from long, long ago. Sort of like a story out of the Bible where you understand the story but the surroundings and people are very different. The lead character seemed familiar yet dressed like Mark Wahlberg in Boogie Nights. The language was English yet seemed a bit naïve.

Included in the mix were photos of me and my High School Sweetheart at prom. Maybe the Mexicans are flooding our borders in a mad scramble to find my old tuxedo?

A love letter reminding me to be good and faithful “snail mailed” to my hotel in Daytona Beach by said girl during my Senior Trip. It took three days to get there, much too late to prevent the debauchery that as I remember started near Valdosta Georgia at a bikini car wash on the way down I-75. I remember thinking it was a hell of a good time but the girls missed one whole side of the car.

There was also a tin filled with old silver dollars and paper money, on the front a note from a young me saying “Kids College Fund” and dated June 1979.

Funny thing is my current wife and the mother of my children was not born until August of the same year. Wow and to think it all started at a bikini car wash.

And then there was a letter I had left to my dad when I was a senior in High School.    

Dear Dad,

It is with a heavy heart that I'm writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with mom and you. I know you guys love Lisa but I've been finding real passion and even love with Moonbeam, a girl I met through a friend of mine down at the Adult Book Store.

 She is very nice even with all her piercings and tattoos and her tight tank tops. It is amazing dad, people seem to really like her even when she wears a bra.

 But it's not only the passion dad, she's pregnant and Moony,( that’s my pet name for her) she said she is almost certain the baby is mine. You probably won’t care for her because she is so much older than I am but she already owns a waterbed with mirrors on the ceiling.

And guess what? She wants to have a bunch of kids with me and says extra babies will get us more food stamps. Dad if that's her dream it is now one of my dreams too and getting her pregnant is so much better than French Kissing!

 Moony has also taught me that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone and we will be growing it and selling it to her friends! She says if times get tight she isn’t afraid to go on the streets and make us enough green to make ends meet. Like you and mom she is really committed to the idea of family first!

Don't worry Dad. Someday I'm sure we'll be back to visit so you can get to know your grandchildren. Who knows we might even need to move in for a year or two.

Until then just know that your son has finally found love and that you owe Moonbeam for saving you from that embarrassing talk about sex

Tell mom and sis I love them

You’re Son Dewayne

P. S. Dad, all of the above is a bunch of made up crap. I'm am shooting hoops down the street. I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than the “very small, almost invisible” scratch on the right quarter panel of your car.

I love you! Whistle when it is safe for me to come home.

The above letter won me a creative writing award and here I am today, still making crap up?

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Yeah, I know. The World Cup is over. Spain won on Andres Iniesta's brilliant strike in the second overtime period. Dutch striker Arjen Robben missed one seemingly easy goal-scoring attempt and was taken down by Spanish defender Carles Puyol on another. Most sophisticated observers feel the Spanish deserved to win...and the Netherlands deserved to lose. Holland's rough, defensive-minded tactics almost took the Spaniards out of their famous "tiki taka" short passing game... but not quite...

...The World Cup is over. But I'm self-indulgent enough to know that this is the last chance I'll have to write about international soccer for a while. So forgive me for milking this opportunity a bit. I've got a few more observations on the world's biggest sporting event before I resume my regularly-scheduled programming...

...For all of the worry about the Jabulani ball that Adidas came up with for the World Cup, it was a relatively low-scoring tournament. the Spanish only scored eight goals in their seven matches. But Spain is also blessed to have Iker Casillas between the posts. Casillas is one of the world's best goalkeepers and he reinforced that standing with his World Cup performance. He delivered four "clean sheets" (goaltending shutouts), including his gem against the Netherlands...

...In a tournament when most of the so-called soccer "superstars" failed to deliver for their national teams, two young players stood out. "Golden Ball" (MVP) winner Diego Forlan of Uruguay and "Golden Boot" (leading scorer) winner Thomas Muller of Germany both raised their market value with strong scoring performances on the world's biggest stage. Muller's absence in the Germans' seminfinal showdown with Holland really hurt the Deutschlanders. The list of unimpressive World Cup peformers includes England's Wayne Rooney, Portugal's Cristiano Ronaldo, France's Franck Ribery and Argentina's Lionel Messi. The latter took 30 shots on goal and never found the net...

...U.S. World Cup television viewership rose 41 percent over four years ago, with Spain's 1-0 overtime victory over the Netherlands setting a record for a men's soccer game. Sunday's game in Johannesburg was seen by 15,545,000 viewers on ABC, according to fast national ratings. The previous high was 14,863,000 viewers for the United States' 2-1 overtime loss to Ghana in the second round on June 26. That's right. More American soccer fans watched the Spain v. Netherlands match than any of the U.S. matches. Amazing...

...You have to give South Africa a lot of credit. When FIFA selected the host country for the 2010 World Cup, a lot of people didn't think South Africa could provide the facilities, infrastructure and security required for such a massive event. For the most part, everything went off without a hitch. (The 600 fans who missed the Spain v. Germany semifinal because landing preference at Durban's King Shaka Airport was given to private VIP jets...might disagree?) The terror attack in Uganda occurred during the match, but fell well outside the reasonable security perimeter of the World Cup venues...

...In 2014, the world's biggest sporting event moves to Brazil. It should be amazing. I know people who are looking into flights already. I won't get that carried away...yet...but I've always wanted to visit South America... and I would love to see some World Cup matches. Unfortunately, 2014 is four years away. The withdrawal continues...

-- Mark Bedford

“It’s too bad “God” isn’t “Cod”…that way he’d be “Doc” spelled backwards”.

*My friend, Dave aka “Doc” circa 1990 on an especially intense vodka binge.

“It’s Dick Face….” my buddy Dave, a man intimately and presently acquainted with the combined effects of too much marijuana and cheap vodka, spat out disgustedly after answering my phone for me one Sunday night that I’d rather have dreamed about than lived through. He’d done me the intended favor of reaching over my immobile, also well-acquainted and couch-ridden form to get to the phone - a pesky, damnable thing that I’d have thrown out in the yard and run over or shot at, were it not for the Domino’s call-in order that invariably came about somewhere around the halfway point of any good smoking and drinking binge – and had spilled his drink right in my face in the process.

This, ironically, caused me to have to get up anyway and wobble my impaired self towards the kitchen to fetch something besides the couch to wipe my face with.

“Hang up” I shrugged, grabbing an old shirt off of the kitchen table where I had left it, but still checking to make sure it was mine and didn’t belong to one of my room mates or one of the unholy parade of bar bimbos that had made their way to and through the place, some of them leaving stoned or drunk but most of them in a hurry once they found out about the makeshift dungeon in the basement or, worse still, the rats that lived there.

Apparently, even the kinky ones who’d once kept pet hamsters or guinea pigs couldn’t keep their cool when confronted by some buck-toothed, scaly-tailed behemoth, grown fat on leftover pizza and all the unfinished beer to wash it down with that they could knock off the end table, the one in the corner over by the life size Elvira, Mistress of the Dark cardboard cutout.

Rats in a basement is one thing but drunk rats in a basement dungeon is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish. If you want to know just how fast a stoned and/or drunk bar bimbo can run and how loud they can scream just show ‘em a big ol’ drunk rat and rip all the duct tape off ‘em.

Ah, the bachelor life!

Wonderful as that life may have been, though, neither Dave (we called him “Doc” mostly) nor I were in any mood to hear from a certain bar owner that had recently pissed us off to the point that we’d left his employ in righteous indignation, thereby prompting us to reference him as “Dick Face” (hereinafter to be referred to as D Face, for short) so just hanging up the phone when he called was a pretty good plan, we thought. We still thought it twenty seconds later when he stubbornly called right back.

“It’s D Face, again” Doc drawled, markedly unenthused at having to answer a second time as I, still not in any remote semblance of a give-a-shit mood, wiped the last of his H&H (Heaven Hill and Hawaiian Punch) out of my eyes and reinforced my prior position. “Just hang up on his ass” I mumbled, mindlessly tossing my now-fruity tee shirt back onto the table where it belonged. “What’s he going to do” I asked, popping a fresh beer, “fire us?”

“Good point” said Doc.

“Click” said the phone, and we assumed, wrong-headedly, that that would be that.

“Ring, ring” said the phone, yet again.

“Is this D Face?” asked Doc preemptively as he, yet again, answered the phone, this time knowing full well that it was, in all likelihood, our former employer but clinging to the ever present hope that it was another un-initiated bimbo (or even one of the regulars) that could be conned into stopping for Krystals and a couple packs of smokes on the way over to “watch a movie or something”.

Camcorders were just getting popular then and most of the visitors to the rumpus room didn’t know ahead of time that they might be the featured performer of the evening’s entertainment. Show a drinking woman a video camera, though, and about half of them go “movie star” on you in no time. Sadly, this opens the door to a greatly unfortunate story involving an impromptu showing of what was intended to be- and labeled as- Christmas at Grandma’s but blank tapes weren’t always handy when needed back then and that’s all I’m prepared to say.

Back to the story at hand, though, phone call #3 was indeed “D Face”, a fact that he was obviously entirely unaware of. “No. It’s not D Face” the voice on the other end of the phone boomed. “It’s (name omitted for obvious reasons). Quit hanging up on me, dammit, and put (me) on the phone, will you”?

Doc: “Okay” (pause) “Dick Face”. 

Apparently, there were still some unresolved issues.

A short while later, once I was sure I was in no immediate danger of wetting myself from laughter (We had good pot then…what can I say?) I picked up the phone, tried my best to compose myself and choked out a strangled “hello”. The conversation did not go well or smoothly but I did manage to glean a few essential points from it, those being that:

• We both desperately needed to grow up.
• We really didn’t need to ingest any more chemicals any time soon.
• Our former beloved boss was on his way to Aruba and was too busy to give an emergency ride to some babe we’d worked with whose car had broken down, and that…
• Some overly sensitive, spoil sport people don’t really care so very much for perfectly serviceable nicknames.

One hour later, thanks in part to Yellow Cab and a globe-trotting former boss that we were still a little miffed at, we had ourselves a somewhat snockered bar babe stretched out on the couch and putting the finishing touches on tomorrow’s hangover and that’s when things got a little carried away, I’m told.

Apparently point B) was totally lost on me and I wound up passed out flat on my back while the party ensued. Pictures apparently were taken at some point with bar chick, now dressed in skimpy lingerie, striking some rather immodest poses in and about my “personal space” and this, as you can well imagine, upset me greatly. Almost as much as arriving home a few days later only to find said bar chick, now sober as a judge and eaten up with common sense or remorse, ransacking my house in search of those pictures. Good thing no video was shot in the rumpus room or she’d probably have burned my house down just to be on the safe side. The pictures never turned up that I know of but at least one point of interest surfaced out of the whole danged mess and it was this:

Ever try and explain a dungeon to cops responding to a breaking and entering call? It tends to kind of shift the focus of their visit just a bit and that’s about all I have to say about that.

That was a handful of years and then some ago and recently I came back into contact with both parties, thanks (I think) to Facebook and a few mutual friends.

We’re not the same people we were back then, all of us having taken similar but separate paths away from the pointless insanity that was so much a part of our daily lives then. The results, a long time in coming, perhaps, have been measurable, if not outstanding. And even though I’d like to get my hands on those pictures, wherever they are, I can live with the fact that there may be photographic proof of my (our) sorriest days floating around out there and that some day, somebody might just see them.

For now, I’m pretty much just happy that Doc, who found me just this morning, and The Bar Chick Who Has No Name are living good lives and on my “friends “ list today and I consider them just that.

Thank Cod!

Now, if I can just run down old Dick Face…..

PS No way in hell am I signing this one.

I’ve been asking myself lately if I’m really as terrible a person as Karma seems to say that I am. I’m wondering is there really any reason why I should be getting it in the shorts from every angle, all day every day? People, even some that I’ve thought very highly of, have been wearing me out lately.

Just this morning, for instance, I was yanked out of one of my usual dreams (the one about rescuing a bunch of Cocker Spaniel puppies and a blind orphan from a burning building) by a phone call from somebody doing a fabulous impersonation of a bitch with an earache and an expired coupon for free shoes. I didn’t care much for the ‘tude she was slinging and said so, but that did me about as much good as BP has done for the tourism industry in Florida, lately. Without even a bullet to bite on, I had to endure hearing, as I drove to meet her, for the umpteenth time what a miserable schmuck I was and how I was basically unfit to associate with, before being granted the distinguished privilege of her actual physical company for eighteen minutes.  

You can sign a house over to somebody in less than thirty seconds (I did), so I’m really at kind of a loss to say just how it was that I spent those other seventeen and a half minutes of pure joy but I’m at that age where it should come as no surprise that I’m starting to forget little things here and there. Nitpicky little things like the fact that I am a miserable schmuck and unfit to be associated with, for starters.

The real truth is that I’m probably not fit to waste a good mercy bullet on, much less fit to be loaned one to bite on while being verbally gutted, but if I keep my mouth shut and don’t rock the boat, maybe she won’t try and scare up a lynch mob after me any time soon. I guess maybe l should thank my lucky stars for such but it has occurred to me recently that maybe I’m not the only one whose memory might be slipping just a wee, tiny, little bit. Hope you wanted an example, ‘cause you’re about to get one.

How, in the name of Dead Elvis, does one forget asking the near-impossible from some poor sap, being given it, and then breaking psycho about it? Tell me, please!

Shortly after setting up house together, I was informed one evening that it was my responsibility to make sure that the lady of the house was properly roused and sent on her way to school in a timely manner the next day; semester exams were starting and a solid performance was crucial to a GPA-friendly grade in such and such class.

Huh?

How’d this get to be my shitty little job, all of a sudden? Did I volunteer to be a human alarm clock without remembering it last night, thanks to a beer too many? I didn’t think so and couldn’t imagine doing it, to tell the truth. I’d seen the way she beat the hell out of that snooze alarm button before and didn’t really want to get in line for that treatment but, hey…I am nothing, if not accommodating. Like a moron, I agreed.

When the alarm went off the next morning at an unholy, middle-of-the-night 10:30, I tried my best to coax her out from under the covers and onto her feet, but to no avail. I’d have had better luck with a hibernating grizzly or one of those yak-men nobody gives a crap about that they find frozen in glaciers every now and then in places that still don’t have a Denny’s or a Jiffy Lube.

I tried once and then I tried twice, but when she started swatting at me like I was some giant, pesky mosquito, I quickly formulated an alternative strategy; one that actually had a distant chance of working, crude as it may have been.

Here’s a question. Ever wake up to a pitcher of ice water down the crack of your ass?

Neither have I, but I’ve seen first-hand that it works, and works well.

She had an awfully funny way of thanking me for it, though. You wouldn’t really think that someone so insistent on shirking personal responsibility for showing up somewhere on time would repay the gift of The Frozen Ass of Punctuality by throwing one’s treasured piece of headgear adorned with the autograph of the reigning Formula One  world champion into an oven set on “Broil”, would you?

Neither did I, but grouchy women with frozen butts are capable of dang near anything and you heard it here first. That was the start of eighteen years of irreconcilable differences but we didn’t really know it at the time. Maybe the smoke got to us, or something.

I guess we know it pretty well, now. It’s got nothing to do with love or a willingness to sacrifice or the lack of either, it has to do with something entirely different. Tragedy, addictions and plain old rotten luck couldn’t do what a lack of understanding of another person’s perspective eventually managed. She told me years ago that I was lucky I made her laugh or she’d have given me the axe a long time ago. A joke can be made about anything, can’t it?

I thought so.

I thought so, but I kind of knew different. I for sure know different, now. 

Goodbyes can be tough, can’t they?

I hope she gets along well without me man-messing up the place and bitching about her parking on the grass, among other things. I might not have done everything perfect but who does? I haven’t forgotten the hat and a whole bunch of things like it and neither should she. It was eighteen years and it wasn’t all bad and I hope she’ll remember it that way some day.

I know she can make do without me and I hope she has a happy, satisfying life. I might not be there to make her laugh but there’s always Comedy Central.

I suppose waking up in a house of your own without a cold, wet ass isn’t so terrible, after all, is it?

C. Fentress

Over the last several weeks I have been way too serious for many of you who call yourselves devoted readers. So I return to you this week in a way that should make up for my being a real person of compassion and intelligence. 

At one time I had challenged you guys to help me to compile a list of O.T.O.s (One Time Onlys). I started a list on these pages and then reached out to you sick bastedges to help me complete the list. Recently I asked for a continuation and here is the combined efforts of you all.

The response was huge and the nominees were smoking. Thanks and congrats to those who truly understood the challenge and offered both names and commentary. Now we share it with the world. A long and hard to say no to list of women we would like to know biblically…”One Time Only”!

Kahunaman and Friends Ultimate List of O.T.O.s

Megan Foxx………….Foxnhound calls her the ultimate movie screen eye candy but says she has a thumb that looks like a big toe so he could not go there more than once? Hey Jack Horner are you freakin kidding me?

Lindsey Lohan…………….….Handcuff Jim called her the Ultimate OTO because of her nickname “Fire Crotch” and the fact that she goes to every OTO filled Hollywood Party therefore allowing one to meet other deserving OTOs. She now faces a 90 day jail sentence so hit it before she is locked up and have a guilt buffer built in.

Jenny McCarthy……………A former Playboy Centerfold, MTV host and a smoking hot piece of lady humps. Plus she diddles Jim Carrey so no one has to worry about getting an ass kicking if caught. But watch out for monkeys in your butt!

Meg Ryan……….….Rick from Hooterville said Meg would be perfect because she fakes it so good his hot neighbor would think he was “The Man”!

Jessica Simpson……………Terry says she is “Too hot to say no to, too dumb to marry”. Terry, you sent me a photo of you and the original Daisy Duke, you look like Boss Hogg, if Jessica wants to marry you…..SAY YES!

Leo123 nominates Hannah Montana but will regrettably have to make her an OTO-lister because he doesn’t get serious with blondes. Hey Leo! 1 she isn’t really blonde. 2, her name is Miley Cirus and 3, she is like jailbait still and therefore you would without a doubt be one and done.

Kate Beckinsale……………..To me she would be a AMTASWLM because she is one of the hottest and most traditionally beautiful actresses around. To Kevin she is British and Kevin seems to think all British chicks are sluts. Oh yeah, AMTASWLM stands for “As many times as she would let me”!

Avril Lavigne……………..Skate Dawg says “Skater Chicks make great friends” but think too much like dudes to be good girlfriends. Exactly! OTO!

Kelli Ripa……………This one caught me off guard as much as my list with Oprah on it messed with some of my friends. I mean she is cute, she might even be considered hot MILF so sure, I guess, but still it took Bo to clear this up for me. Bo says: “Kelli has a nice body, pretty face and is really outgoing, but after four4 children he is afraid her Uterus might fall out”.

Please don’t write me about anatomy, write Bo.

Famke Janssen……………..Who?...........Lori explained that she is the chick who played Jean Grey in X-Men and that she also crushed dudes to death with her thighs in 007’s Goldeneye.

Lori like me, likes hot smart chicks and it seems Famke went to Columbia and this one makes her a freak, The University of Amsterdam. I guess to Lori OTO means Ovary to Ovary!

Lauren Graham……………………Hot Mommy Gilmore of the Gilmore Girls is who okie2theend nominated. Seems okie, like me cant quiet get over Lauren Banging Billy Bob Thornton in the hot tub in Bad Santa while screaming *##* me Santa *#*^ me! Ho! Ho! Ho! And O…T….O!

Nelly Futado……………To me she is another multiple event qualifier but to wikiwiki from Cleveland Nelly is destined to have a big butt and a mustache. Sounds a little racists there wiki ole boy or girl but again its not just my list.

Kesha is the choice of daboyfromnooga……..He says she digs guys with long beards so she must be dirty but OTO would be okay. How about the fact she once bribed Prince’s gardener, entered a side door to his mansion, rode the elevator to his living area and watched him jam with his band until being thrown out? OTO? I am thinking stalker!

Jessica Biel……………..Again to me, top shelf, to Greg from Hixson “she is just too damned proud of her butt”! He says that she brags about working out in every interview” Greg also says “that he would go there, but just once”!

Whatever Greg and after your finished do you mind if……….. I marry her? (Just kidding honey.) (Not you Greg, my wife.)

So there you have it, another list of OTOs from the emails of my readers. As you can tell only the brightest young minds read my articles and I am very thankful for all of your input. If you submitted and it didn’t make the list it is probably because of the 37 Porn Stars that were submitted. I don’t know these people and the fact that she makes funny faces when she…...you know…….gets there, is probably not the best reason to put that person on the OTO list.

Until next time, keep on dreaming!

Kahunaman AKA Dirk Diggler

Summer Sports Gumbo

I usually put away my gumbo recipe for the summer, but I’ve been craving something spicy that goes with a cold beer or several. And there are just so many delicious little nuggets of sportsness out there to stir into the pot…

…The World Cup final at 2:30 pm on Sunday will feature the Netherlands v. either Spain or Germany. (The Spain-Germany semifinal match will be played the afternoon after I have to email this to Enigma World Headquarters.) With three European nations in the semis and a guarantee of an all-Europe final, the 2010 World Cup marks the ascendance of that continent’s soccer cred…and the apparent decline of the South Americans. Surprise semifinalist Uruguay was the only bright spot for los sudamericanos. Brazil got knocked out by the Netherlands in the quarters, while Germany dispatched Argentina in the same round. At the start of the tourney, I would have picked Spain to beat the Germans rather handily. Now I expect an incredibly close match that could go either way…even though der Deutschlanders will be without surprise star Thomas Muller (thanks to a questionable yellow card in the win over Argentina). Spain is yet to play really well…which is kind of scary. David Villa has totally outclassed the alleged superstar strikers who were featured in all of those slick pre-World Cup television commercials. If I had to bet (and I have been asked to), I’d predict a Netherlands-Germany final…

…Here in the U.S. of A., speculation abounds about the future of coach Bob Bradley. Bradley accomplished his two main goals – getting through qualifying and making it into the knockout rounds – but failed to capitalize on a really favorable draw. A lot of people are questioning his decision to start Ricardo Clark against Ghana. The smart money says Bradley’s gone after his contract expires in December. If that seems a bit harsh, keep in mind that only two teams in this year’s World Cup were coached by the same guy who coached them in 2006…

…Even closer to home…and for my final footy-related gumbo ingredient, the Chattanooga Football Club is kicking some serious tail in the National Premier Soccer League. CFC clobbered FC Tulsa, 5-0, on Sunday. Over 3,400 fans were on hand to see the local club take its fourth victory of the season…

…I resent the hell out of Lebron James, Dwayne Wade and all the other NBA free agents who are making me think about professional basketball during the very brief time during the year when the Neverending Basketball Association isn’t playing. Somebody give those guys too much money and let’s be done with them until they tip-off again…

…Both Wimbledon tennis finals came and went without me seeing a second of them. There was a time when I wouldn’t miss Richard Earl’s annual “Breakfast at Wimbledon” party for anything in the world. Somewhere along the way, I lost interest in watching tennis. The rivalries just aren’t as intense as they used to be. I miss McEnroe, Borg, and Connors. I even miss Ivan Lendl. Never thought I’d say that…

…Tiger Woods began this week by playing really average pro-am golf in Ireland. Next week he'll fly back to the British Isles for the British Open. The formerly dominant Woods is going through an almost unprecedented amount of personal scrutiny and one wonders if he will ever reclaim his golfing form…

…One final thing. If you’re Jonesing for some American football, check out “Hard Knocks” on the NFL Network. It will give you some cool insights into what goes on behind the scenes in a pro football training camp. That’s it for now. Time to crack open a cold one...

-- Mark Bedford

In a driveway not far away, one early Sunday afternoon in the past, a friend of mine and I stood staring at the pitiful, steaming wreck of what had recently been a very, very nice car. A ’66 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible, WimbledonWhite it was, with red interior and a bunch of fancy stuff as options including a 2speed Cruise-O-Matic transmission. A back seat big enough to readily accommodate a case of Red, White and Blue beer and a thoroughly bloodied and bruised up drunk guy in full recline came standard but a unanimous, yet agonizing, vote to jettison the beer following a “slight” mishap that may have involved a “slightly” intoxicated driver had rendered that particular feature a non-issue.

After fleeing the scene of the stupidity in an attempt to save our sorry asses from sitting in jail for the night, we found our way to a local hospital where the worst-off of our small party (there were three of us) limped into the emergency room, laid down on one of the crummy vinyl benches available and promptly passed out. Hours later, with the sun threatening to rise at any moment, nobody had deemed fit to check on, or even seemed to have noticed, the wreck of a person laying in their lobby and leaving the scene of yet more stupidity seemed to be the order of business at hand.

Despite the paranoia, that order of business was met. Throwing common sense and good judgment to the winds (something we were obviously well practiced at) we eschewed the indicated need for medical treatment and got the hell out of Dodge (or Atlanta, whichever) without waiting around for X-rays or stitches.

Or fingerprinting. Or mug shots. On balance, a pretty okay trade-off.

Precariously free men, we limped on home to Chattanooga, stopping every so often to replenish the coolant in a ruptured radiator and to wash off the acid being spewed from a mortally wounded battery. It was quite a drive.

One of us had been free to squirm uncomfortably in that enormous back seat, spreading the bloody evidence of injury and an accursed stupidity unchecked for the eighty-plus mile ride home – the other manning the wheel while doing everything possible in order to choke down the bile of fear, remorse and prodigious consumption. At least one other case of cheap beer had met its intended destiny rather than an undignified dumping in the freeway median and was in part responsible for the abrupt and potentially lethal ejection, at fifty miles per hour or thereabouts, of the bloodied-up guy.  

’66 Galaxie convertibles may have had Cruise-O-Matic transmissions but they didn’t come with automatic door locks or seatbelts and drunk guys wouldn’t have cared enough to use them if they had. And so, hung over, bloodied and still stupid, we pulled into the driveway at noon and waited, agonizingly, for worse than Armageddon.

We didn’t wait too long. At twelve twenty-something, here came Mom and Dad, back from church. Back from church to find two hung over miscreants and the broken-nosed future wife (Not a lot of “give” to the windshields on them Galaxies. Never bounce your face off of one if you can help it) of one of them standing next to Mom’s newly restored and then freshly mangled Galaxie 500 convertible and looking precisely like the pitiful excuses for human beings that they were.

Not a lot was said. I seem to remember the lady who’d just had her car wrecked all to hell saying, disgustedly, “Oh, (insert name here)” and shaking her head resignedly before making her way inside. That was it.

The man, Dad, didn’t say a word. This was an intelligent man, an educated man with a fine command of the English language, and yet he said not a thing.

He didn’t have to. He gave a look, though.  A grim, unforgiving gaze that could dry up a river or stop a charging bull in its tracks and the two of us stood there, paralyzed, until finally he’d apparently seen as much as he could stand. We were punks, inescapably and inexcusably, and beneath his contempt and he also stepped away from us with a shake of the head that said more than we wanted to know.

I will never forget that look.

Neither will the other guy, I’m sure. We healed up, physically, but just because the Man of the House didn’t kill us where we stood, doesn’t mean that there were no consequences. Far from it. I do know that the worst of it all was the loss of esteem in the eyes of people whose opinion of you counted for something. Rebuilding the car was just the first awkward step in winning back the approval and respect of these two sterling examples of what citizens, neighbors and parents could be.

That was well over twenty years ago and one of us, the only one who counts anyway, has done just that. Shortly after smashing his Mom’s car all to hell, he took his last drink and never looked back. He’s worked his ass off, living the rarely realized best part of the American dream and given back to his community in a way that puts most people to shame. He’s taken care of his parents in their declining years, answered the call of his neighbors in need and has always been a soft touch; the kind of guy we’d all like to think that we’ll be someday. He doesn’t smoke, litter or cheat on his taxes and he hasn’t done anything to break his wife’s nose in a long, long time that I know about.

I’m lagging way behind on the Model Citizen front but he still associates with my sorry ass anyway. How’s that for loyalty? A friend indeed, he is, and one who has taken great pains to help me when I need it. And if you know me at all, you know that there is no doubt I need plenty.

We get out and ride bikes together during the evening sometimes, just two fifty-ish guys with bad hearts trying to stave off the inevitable. We’ll pedal away for awhile and then sit our old asses down, usually below Walnut Street bridge, and talk about the kinds of things that old guys talk about, sometimes.

Things like breasts and whether or not God is going to be mad at us for talking about breasts (I never said the guy was perfect), for instance. And then, after a bit, we’ll pedal back, parting ways like grown men do, even lifelong friends.

“See you next time”.

“Yeah. See you next time”. 

Last Monday we did our usual cycling routine, only this time our break took a while longer than normal. Our conversation took a more serious turn than usual, not that it’s always frivolous. The pending loss of a parent will do that. In the past, I’ve shared as best I could the pain and the helplessness of losing someone you would give your life for but it’s a hard thing to convey.

I don’t have to, now. A couple of days ago, he found out for himself. His father, a man that everyone who knew him held in high regard and the guy who once scowled mercilessly at a couple of punks with hangovers in his driveway died at home in his sleep. He was ninety-six years old and I think he went to the next life with a satisfied mind. I know without a doubt that he went with a justified and overwhelming pride in his son.

 In fact, the only thing I can think of that might have blemished that son’s record since 1982 might be the company he’s kept on occasion but like I said, the guy isn’t perfect.

I can’t tell you how lucky I am for that. I can only hope that his Dad, after twenty-some years would approve.

C. Fentress

Those of us who are fanatical soccer fans are finding ourselves treated as resident World Cup experts to our friends, family and co-workers. People are always asking me who I think is going to win the thing. Now that the U.S. and England have both been knocked out of the tournament, I'd have to say I like the winner of Friday's Brazil v. Netherlands match. Both teams play an exciting brand of footy and both have world-class headliners on their roster. Arjen Robben announced his return to the Holland side with a great goal against Slovakia. The Orangemen won, 2-1, to advance to the quarterfinals for the fifth time...but the first time since 1998. Spain, which edged Portugal 1-0 on Tuesday to earn a trip to the quarters, could also peak in time to be a potential cup-lifter...

...The U.S. loss to Ghana last Saturday was a crushing blow. The way it happened was even worse. The American back line was beaten like an African drum on both Ghanian goals. No U.S. forward scored a goal in the team's four 2010 World Cup matches. Our strength is in the midfield, with Landon Donovan, Clint Dempsey and Michael Bradley. Midfield is typically where a team would like to be strongest. But glaring weaknesses on defense and the lack of scoring power from the forwards was enough to crush the U.S. hopes of moving deeper into the tournament brackets...

...The Americans' 2-1 extra-time loss to the lone surviving African nation, was the most-watched men's World Cup game...in both households and total viewers. Saturday's heartbreaker earned an 8.2 "fast national rating." It was seen in 9,455,000 households and by 14,863,000 viewers. Only the 1999 Women's World Cup final (featuring the U.S. v. China in the Rose Bowl and a peek at Brandy Chastain's sports bra) averaged more households (11,307,000) and viewers (17,975,000) for a soccer game....

...There are several reasons why the World Cup has been immensely more popular with U.S. viewers this time around. High-definition television technology has come a long way since 2006. The camera work by the international TV crews has been spectacular. American fans are getting to see world-class soccer action up close and personal. The world's version of football can admittedly look boring from a distance...especially to the casual viewer. But close-up action of the elbowing, kicking and sheer athleticism on display makes for compelling television. The U.S. team was a lot better this year... and that helped a lot. Four years ago, several Americans played in Europe's top leagues...but they really weren't a factor on their teams. This year, Donovan, Dempsey, Bradley and goalie Tim Howard all played significant roles on their club sides...

...So why should you keep watching the World Cup now that the U.S. is out of the running? First and foremost, you should keep watching because it's the world's biggest team competition and the benchmark that the rest of the planet uses for a nation's athletic prowess. Secondly, you should watch because of the sheer drama. The list of bad refereeing decisions keeps growing. American Maurice Edu got a clean goal taken away in the 2-2 draw v. Slovenia. Brazil's Kaka picked up a second yellow card v. the Ivory Coast on a blatantly poor bit of acting by the IC's Kader Keita...and had to miss the next match. England's Frank Lampard had an obviously good goal disallowed because neither the refereee or the ref's assistant saw the ball bounce about a yard inside the line. Argentina's Carlos Tevez was awarded a goal when he was blatantly offside...

...Thrust into the middle of the controversy surrounding the horrible calls and no-calls is the Federacion Internationale de Football Association (FIFA) and Sepp Blatter, the president of soccer's governing body. Blatter has always vehemently resisted the addition of video replays to "the beautiful game," but all of the ugly refereeing decisions are forcing his hand. Blatter insists that FIFA deplores "when you see the evidence of refereeing mistakes." It would be "a nonsense" not to consider changes, he added. FIFPro, the group that represents pro players worldwide, insists that referees should get access to high-tech assistance...and soon. "The entire football world once again reacted with disbelief to FIFA's stubborn insistence that technology does not belong in football," the organization stated. "The credibility of the sport is at stake." The credibility of the sport's "top level" officials is most certainly at stake... and something needs to be done...

...Great competition. Bad refereeing. Incredible video images. Horrible audio of those noisy and annoying vuvuzelas. What other reasons to you need to keep watching the World Cup? It's the perfect way to spend the Fourth of July weekend... even if the Yankee Doodles didn't have such a dandy tournament run...

-- Mark Bedford

Kahunaman Sez                                          

“Hope while abstract can be tangible in the hands of extraordinary people”

My wife and I work with several families each month who are battling sickness and it can sometimes be challenging to not let it make you a sad even when we are there to make their lives just a little brighter. To balance the feelings I often only need to say a prayer of thanks for my healthy family and the privilege of helping others. Compassion is as much a gift to us as it is to those we serve and their strength is inspirational.

However in the last two months we have seen several individuals that are personal friends fall victim to cancer and it has worn on us both. Cancer is a very personal battle and no matter how much we want to help there is only so much we can actually do. The children are often the ones we serve most but we have adults and their families also. One of them is the wife of a former TV partner of mine and she is in round three of her fight and she is pissed to find herself challenged a third time by such a lowly opponent.

If cancer was smart it would do well to get the message that my friend will not just allow it to have its way. Cancer needs to just move its sorry ass on down the road.

Tonight I can’t really write for my readers so I write for my warrior friends. Especially Q’s mom who laughs at the disease despite hating it for the days it has interrupted but can’t have because she won’t let loose without a fight.

She fights with the love of her husband and daughter, guts and humor. How hard it must be on her yet she makes an effort to at least one time a day laugh in its face. She would punch it out if it would only stand toe to toe with her.

You Rock Girl! This is for you.

The American Cancer Society has stated that:

Although there is no scientific evidence that laughter can cure cancer or any other disease, it can reduce stress, promote health, and enhance the quality of life. Humor has physiological effects that can stimulate the circulatory system, immune system, and other systems in the body.

There is no scientific evidence that humor is effective in treating cancer or any other disease, however, laughter has many clinical benefits that include positive physiological changes and an overall sense of well being. One study found the use of humor lead to an increase in pain tolerance. It is thought laughter stimulates the release of special neurotransmitter substances in the Skin (endorphins) that help control pain. Another study demonstrated neuroendocrine and stress-related hormones decreased during episodes of laughter, which provides support for the claim that humor can relieve stress. More studies are needed to clarify the impact of laughter on health unless you are Natalie, she knows.

These are not my jokes but are for all who laugh in the face of cancer.

A man isn't feeling well, so he goes to see his doctor. The doctor examines him, and then asks to speak with his wife. The doctor tells his wife that her husband has cancer. The wife asks "can he be cured?". The doctor replies "there's a chance we can cure him with chemotherapy, but you will need to take care of him every day for the next year -- cooking all the meals, cleaning up the vomit, changing the bed pan, driving him to the hospital for daily treatments, and so on". When the wife comes out to the waiting room, the husband asks her what the doctor said. The wife answers "he said that you're going to die".

Doctor: I've got your test results and I have some bad news. You have cancer and Alzheimer's.
Patient: Boy, am I lucky! I was afraid I had cancer!

A friend said that when his father woke up from his colon cancer surgery (this was 20 years ago) he groggily asked the nurse: "Guess what I am now? A semi-colon!"

A woman went to her doctor for a follow-up visit after the doctor had prescribed testosterone (a male hormone) for her form of cancer. She was a little worried about some of the side effects she was experiencing.

"Doctor, the hormones you`ve been giving me have really helped, but I`m afraid that you`re giving me too much. I`ve started growing hair in places that I`ve never grown hair before."
The doctor reassured her. "A little hair growth is a perfectly normal side effect of testosterone. Just where has this hair appeared?"

"On my balls."

To all who are fighting against the odds and to their families.

Never Stop Believing, Never Stop Praying and Always Know That Your Fight Doesn’t Go Unnoticed.

You amaze those of us watch your spirit from the distance. 

We Love You!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

“Think God”!

I have written about God two times in two months even though I am not on his payroll. He isn’t even advertising in Enigma at this time although I am sure Brother Dave would give him one H…….eck of a deal.

Why all the God talk you ask?

Maybe you expect me to announce that I have a terminal disease or that I saw the Virgin Mary’s image while pouring water over a T-shirt?

Nope, that’s not it, I have just been thinking about God a lot lately and like that movie Oh God, I thought maybe we could all just “Think God” for a minute. What can it hurt?

The images of the oil in the Gulf and the birds and other animals suffering has impacted the old Kahuna in a way like few sites I have seen in my days. I hope God is watching and has a better plan than BP. I hope the plan doesn’t include eliminating the real problem which is we humans.

I think God anytime I look at my kids.

I usually don’t get all TGIFed since in my world weekends mean even more work.

I think God when I wake up feeling really excited about the day ahead and how great it is to just feel good naturally and not to have to lean on alcohol or drugs for a buzz.

I think God when I look at my wife and wonder “What in God’s name was she thinking marrying me”?

I think God when an early spring makes the Bradfords bloom.

I think God when my little girl sings her donut song every time we pass by Krispy Kreme and the donut light is on.

I think ohhh God when I see the video streaming in from the Gulf Coast.

I think God when I see people blowing each other up in his name.

I think God when I eat while I know others have no food at all.

I think God when I walk by the ocean and feel the peace that comes over me.

I think God when I see a father bow his head in a restaurant and lead his kids in thanks.

I think God when I see Megan Foxx in those robot movies!

I think God when in the middle of a power lunch one of my business mates says “ Lord let us honor you by bowing our heads in this place in your name”, very meaningful words. Don’t you think? 

I think God when I surf the web and realize that the world is at my fingertips and how lucky any man is who appreciates knowledge to have access to so many wonders.

I think God when I see Iraq on TV and ask him to please help our soldiers to be safe from and compassionate towards those who hate us.

I think God on a scorching day when I chug down an ice cold glass of water and pray that we humans don’t destroy this incredible gift.

And finally:

I think God when I don’t know what to think about the world we live in and then, it all makes a little more sense.

If you are having a hard time with all of this maybe you too should just slow down a little and think.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve usually managed to have my share of fun in life and sometimes a whole lot more. I’ve paid for it in ways too numerous to count, for sure, and continue to do so but amusement, by nature, doesn’t come cheap. Living rooms full of motorcycles and spur-of-the-moment road trips across three states for a pie overdose can cost you a wife or a life but it’s the long term consequences (think eternity) that can really kick your ass and make you wish you’d listened closer to all those pesky adults from your childhood.

Being relieved of the comforts of hearth and home or experiencing the nasty consequences of somewhat important blood vessels being clogged up with coconut crème stuff is nothing, they tell me, compared to spending eternity in a lake of fire without a Mello Yello Big Gulp or a pair of Nomex longjohns…a distinct possibility for Yours Truly barring any drastic change of heart and ways.

I gotta tell you, it ain’t looking too good.

The other night, for instance, I was watching a stripper in training attempting to perform a type of pole maneuver best left to seasoned professionals and chalked up a whole bunch of Go to Hell points I could really do without in a matter of seconds. This, I am told, isn’t a particularly hard thing to do in the places where “sporting women” (I got that from a Clint Eastwood movie yesterday and knew I’d just have to use it) go to, um…”sport”.

Just my luck.

I had what I keep telling myself was a perfectly legitimate reason to be where I was (working) and I wasn’t throwing my rent money or any other money, for that matter, at the Ho on the pole but “a stallion must run” as an old friend once said after suffering some dire consequences for an impure act that shouldn’t be mentioned in a respectable publication like this. If a stallion must run, as my friend so eloquently put it,  I guess you might as well just go ahead and call me Sea Biscuit.

Mother Nature has dictated that, upon the moment of sighting a shapely, scantily clad woman wrapped around a shiny pole, men should begin to think in a certain way and who am I to defy Mother Nature? Nobody, that’s who. And hanging said woman upside down on said shiny pole wasn’t helping my defiant streak any.

After entertaining a thought mandated by a power much greater than myself for a scant few seconds, though, my underlying evil nature was catered to as it rarely has been in the past - given the kind of freebie it only sees once in a blue moon.

Upside down stripper-in-training bimbo chick hit an apparent slick spot (ick) and fell headfirst off the pole, bonking her head and knocking herself damn near out.

It may have been the funniest thing I’ve seen all year. Suddenly, I was no longer even remotely thinking in that certain way despite the lewd position that scantily clad, stripper-in-training bimbo chick had awkwardly landed, and settled, into. Instead, I was fighting off the wrenching spasms of laughter that I felt to be inappropriate on the occasion of some unfortunate gutter skank trying to be sexy taking an accidental pump knot to the noggin, but the effort was nothing, if not hopeless, and I knew it. Not wanting to be terribly unkind to a not fully conscious stripper by laughing at them out loud is one thing, but not wanting to take a knifing for it later is a different matter entirely. Common sense said to stay shut the hell up and I tried, I tell you.

Somebody famous once said “You should never kill a stripper, their already dead inside.”, and I think that goes without saying. Maybe you shouldn’t really laugh at them either.

I see something that funny, though, and I have to laugh myself silly and I did, after making my way (I all but sprinted) outside and into my car. With the doors shut and safely out of earshot, I did what I had to do and laughed myself into a state of near thrombosis.

When I’d regained some semblance of control, I found my way back inside, my legs a little bit wobbly from the hysterics only to find one stripper-in-training chick a little on the wobbly side herself. I pictured her gyrating, bootyclapping and slithering up and down that shiny, icky pole in her next set, only this time wearing a badly needed crash helmet, and lost it all over again.

I figured I could go back to the kitchen and plunge my hand into the deep fryer in order to quell the hilarity of the moment, but eventually thought “why bother”? I guess, the way things are looking, I’m going to burn soon enough and I probably ought not to rush things, but this brings up a question. Which is worse, laughing at human suffering or staring at a set of boobs? I think I know the answer, for me, anyway.

Conk me in the head with a rock, already, he (or she) who is without sin. At least the next time I’m looking at a stripper, I’ll be laughing myself silly.

I’ll laugh because I will be amused and because I just plain have to.

Because I must.

I’m on the home stretch to Hell, it looks like. And the finish line is in plain sight.

 - C. Fentress

Random Observations

Maybe I'm just crazy from the heat, but I can't keep focused on one topic this week. So, lucky readers, you get treated to another non-linear rant about multiple unrelated topics. I've called these mixtures "gumbo" and "gazpacho" before, but this self-evident column title will suffice for now...

...Riverbend has come and gone. Finally. I realize that there are Chattanoogans who live and die for the Festival. Some plan their summer vacations around Riverbend. Good for them. I made it to the Stone Lion Appreciation Society gala on Strut night and went down to Ross's Landing on Thursday night. The Thursday night trip reminded me of why I don't get excited about "headliners" at the Festival. As a longtime fan of George Clinton, I was looking forward to seeing him play with Parliament/Funkadelic. I think George sang about three songs himself. Riverbend likes to sign artists from the "senior tour," with mixed results. Willie Nelson basically phoned in his set last year. George Clinton subcontracted his performance to a younger generation, including his f-bomb dropping "grandson." What a huge disappointment...

...I love iced tea in this hot weather. My late mom used to make the best iced tea in the world, even though she never drank it herself. As a Brit, the idea of tea in another form but "hot with milk and sugar" was simply horrible. But "me mum" made the best sweet tea ever. I gave up sweet tea when I couldn't keep the same level of sweetness in it when restaurant servers kept topping off my glass. I switched to artificial sweeteners for a while, then went to "unsweet with extra lemon." That's still my preference. I always love the iced tea in Asian restaurants. It usually has that little extra "oomph" to it...

...Do you have to smoke to work at a convenience store? In the last couple of weeks, I've pulled up to numerous c-stores and seen an employee catching a few puffs outside the front door. In addition to not being a healthy life choice for the store employee, it forces me to walk through a cloud of smoke to get into the store. The only thing worse is walking past one of those "smoke posts" outside big office buildings. That is just plain nasty...

...The text obsession continues. Some people seem totally unable to stop texting, regardless of where they are or what they're doing. I made a stop at Taco Bell yesterday for lunch and saw a woman with one of her two kids on her lap and another one leaning on her right shoulder. She was reaching around lap kid's head so she could continue to send text messages...and completely ignoring shoulder-leaning kid. Those kids are going to have serious issues...

...I'm still all et up with the World Cup. For a soccer nut like me, it's pure delirium to see such great televised coverage. It's been amazing so far. The French imploded. The Brits are rife with strife. The U.S. needs to win Wednesday to advance. (The game will have already happened by the time you read this. Hope they won.) Budweiser's huge sponsorship means that all of those rowdy footy fans are chugging down "the King of Beers" during the king of all team sports events. You'd think there would be a good South African beer on sale in the stands, but apparently not...

...A friend of mine is absolutely distraught over the Gulf oil spill. She can't allow herself to enjoy the normal rituals of summer. She spends almost all of her time raising money and awareness for Gulf relief efforts. I was talking to her about Riverbend last week and she said she really couldn't think about that kind of stuff while all that oil was pumping into the Gulf of Mexico. On one level, I thought she was going a bit overboard with her concern. On another level, I wonder how the rest of us can just go on with our daily lives while that broken oil well is spewing an unending stream of petroleum into the Gulf. How's that for a random observation? These are scary times. I might need more than iced tea to cope...

-- Mark Bedford

I know this will come as a huge surprise to frequent readers of my rants, but I have watched a lot of sporting events in a lot of bars. Shocking, I know. I’ve seen all manner of athletic competition while athletically lifting a few cold ones. But I saw something last Saturday afternoon that I’ve never seen (or heard) while sipping and spectating. I saw a whole bar full of people singing the national anthem…

…The World Cup watchers at Tremont Tavern were a festive bunch. The opening round showdown between the United States and England had been hyped since the tournament schedule was released. I’d estimate the mix in Tremont last Saturday at 90 percent Yanks and 10 percent Brits and Anglophiles. There were some spectacular fan costumes. They guy in nothing but a Viking hat, swim trunks, and a cape made from the 48-star version of a U.S. flag was a big hit. He walked into the already crowded bar and immediately launched a loud “U! S! A!” chant…

…As you probably know by now, the U.S. and England tied 1-1…thanks to a major goalkeeping gaffe by Brit keeper Robert Green. England took an early lead thanks to a sneaky goal by Liverpool legend Steven Gerrard. American Clint Dempsey assured the tie when his low shot slipped through Green’s buttery fingers. The fans at Tremont went primate feces crazy after Dempsey’s lucky strike. I never thought I’d see that kind of crowd watching a soccer match in an American bar. The atmosphere was a whole lot like an English pub during a big match. The England fans finished off Tremont’s supply of Boddington’s before the midpoint of the second half. The crazy Viking and most of the other U.S.A. fans seemed to favor PBR.

…I’m watching the World Cup highlight show on ESPN2 as I type this. I just saw the highlights from a 0-0 tie between Portugal and the Ivory Coast. I know what you’re thinking? Highlights? In a scoreless tie? Well, there were some. I promise. Portugal captain Cristiano Ronaldo smacked a 35-yard laser shot into the left post in the first half. Ivory Coast star Didier Drogba made a heroic appearance in the game’s final moments after suffering a broken elbow in practice. All that being said, I understand the criticism from those who get bored by the lack of scoring in some (if not most) soccer matches. (So far, in fact, this is the lowest-scoring World Cup.) It’s a cultural thing. Soccer fans in the rest of the world are used to the subtle ebb and flow of a good match. Scoring opportunities can be few and far between. Americans usually prefer more “action” and points on the board…although an awful lot of baseball games are as exciting as a knitter’s convention…

…The World Cup matches will get a lot more interesting after they finish the “group stages.” Two teams from each four-team group will move into a more common-looking 16-team single-elimination tournament format. Every match will be “do or die.” Make no mistake. This is the biggest sporting event in the world. The Olympic Games have more events, but the World Cup’s focus on one champion of the most popular sport in the world…makes it unique. The U.S. and England are both supposed to emerge from their group. Spain and Brazil are top contenders to lift the cup. Germany and the Netherlands are up and down. There will be an awful lot of highlights between now and the July 11 World Cup Final. I don’t expect the U.S. team to be in that match…and I don’t expect Tremont Tavern or other U.S. bars to be full for it. But I’m glad I got to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Tremont last Saturday and watch the U.S. play England fairly even on the biggest stage in sports…

-- Mark Bedford

So, the other day I was just minding my own business and generally just being a model citizen, as usual, when somebody I don’t say “no” to very often asked me if I thought I might not enjoy a free kick in the balls. Actually, it was more of an invitation to descend into Hell.

Okay, more actually, it was an invitation to attend the last day of Bonnaroo but let’s not split hairs, here. A spade is a spade and a bad time is a bad time.  At least I was fortunate enough to miss having to witness the featured performer from the previous night- Jay Zee, one of the last fuckers on earth that I, being mostly a fan of classic rock, would ever choose to have to endure, even for a minute

Charmed as I may have been to have missed the auditory equivalent of being disemboweled by a rabid wolverine, I nonetheless suffered extensively in other ways for the privilege of hearing Kris Kristofferson growl out a few of his old hits, only to be joined later by somebody who at least sounded a whole lot like Willie Nelson. I was too damned far from the stage to get a good look so I can’t really say.

I got no room to gripe, I know. I was aware – or thought I was, anyway – of the potential misery I was subjecting myself to when I welcomed the chance to attend this craziness. I’m not a “crowd person” in general and a year ago I wouldn’t even have considered stepping foot within four miles of anything or any place so riddled with the potential for unpleasantness as this. The last time this many people were wandering around out in the blistering heat in such a fashion, some guy names Moses was shouting at them to get their asses across the muddy bottom of some sea before something really bad could happen to them. 

All I’m saying here is that after a couple of mis-spent hours of huddling under an umbrella to escape the direct sun while spritzing myself in the face with warm water from some battery powered fan that well and truly sucked, I was seriously starting to question my own sanity.  It might have been better than nothing, but that stupid little fan looked like a hell of a lot better of an idea on the shelf in some Kmart in Hixson than out in the dust and the sweat and madness of some field full of maniacs in the middle of not much of nothing. I began to entertain the idea of a good drowning or an Egyptian spear through the neck as a God-sent relief.

 Hixson at least has a Red Lobster with air conditioning, and actual flushing toilets. And usually some place to park.

What the hell had I been thinking?

One lousy year ago, I wouldn’t even have considered this but life is short and I’ve found myself saying “yes” to some things I ordinarily wouldn’t have and haven’t yet met my demise as a result. This time, though, I was having my doubts. I might just run across some bad people, I reasoned, and sane, model citizens such as myself might be just a little out of place here. I’d been warned about the things that go on at these sorts of events but asked myself how bad, really, it could be.

The decrepit old school bus with the blow-up love doll tied to a lounge chair on top of it should have been a hint. If nothing else, it was a landmark to help find the car. Or maybe, I thought with a sudden shudder and picking up the pace a bit, it would serve as a lightning rod for the potential outpouring of fiery righteous fury of a pissed off God like some modern day Sodom.

I tried my best to look away. I swear it.

I was told last night by somebody who sometimes knows his ass from a hole in the ground that Bonnaroo is the second largest musical festival in the country and if he’s right, I know that I sure don’t want to see the big one. I don’t really even know if I care that his information was accurate or not but there certainly were a lot of people there.

 A lot.

A whole lot.

More than you might think, and some of them seemed to be trying their very best to kill themselves. They were mostly eating questionable Bonnaroo vendor food that sat out tempting the local fly population in the scorching heat for unregulated periods of time and many were drinking more than the best man at an Irish wedding reception.

Also, I think there might have been some drugs floating around.

If I ever go back, which I might at gunpoint, I hope they have more Porto toilets than the roughly nine jillion full-to-the-brim ones they had this year. We saw at least one guy who apparently took the option of crapping his own pants rather than risking the lurking horrors inside one of these wretched plastic torture chambers.

I came, not so much for the music but to see what there was to be seen, but I could have done without that one.

To soil yourself in public is bad enough, I’m guessing, but I also talked to a woman who had been “spritzed” on herself by somebody too smart, too cowardly or too weak-stomached to risk one of those modern-day outhouses who chose to pee in a bottle instead, right in the middle of a crowd. Or maybe he was just too drunk to walk twenty yards. Anyway, the bottle was a little smaller than it needed to be and when it, too, reached full-to-the-rim status, the unfortunate result was a nasty peripheral spraying.

Right on her leg.

Somebody nearby gave her a wet nap and pee pee guy gave her fifteen dollars as a peace offering but, yuck!

 She did buy a pretty cool Bonnaroo tee-shirt with the fifteen bucks but I don’t think I’d have done that. Rather than spend good money on something that would always remind me of such nastiness, I think I’d have added a few more dollars to it and gone to see a good hypnotist at the first opportunity to wipe that memory right out. Also, I’d have kicked that guy’s ass, but that’s just me.

Four hours into this madcap excuse for suicide by heat stroke and potential springboard for relentless nightmares, I’d seen all I needed to see which, as luck would have it, included a bunch of tits. Eight of them were painted up and sitting on a blanket next to me awaiting the headline performance by the Dave Mathews Band and it surprised me, actually, at how quickly I got tired of looking at them (Hey, I went to the Grand Canyon once and got tired of looking at it in about fifteen minutes but we’re talking about boobs here.). Some guy sat down right next to me and asked if he could borrow a key to scrape out his pipe and I obliged, but by the time I looked back up all the titties had wandered off, anyway.

And then, as more people flooded in, crowding us more than we cared to tolerate and an evil wind began to bear down on us from the Porto toilet direction, we decided that enough might just have to be enough. We gathered up our senses, our umbrella and our stupid little fans and headed off into the night, surrendering our folding chairs to the nearby crazy people rather than carry them a mile back to the car, just as the band began its deafening finale - its triumphant testimony to the state of mental illness of countless thousands of people who were probably still looking for their cars at dawn the next morning.

I hope they had a good time, but I’m glad I left when I did.

I know that some big, nasty looking clouds were rolling in as we left and I’m not so sure that was heat lightning I was seeing.  I have to tell you I was getting a little bit nervous.

At least until we were in the car and way, way the hell past that bus.

Festival, my ass.

 - C. Fentress

I am a PC.

Pissed-off Caucasian.

What is going on?

Where have all the people skills gone?

Since the day I started driving I have always enjoyed getting out. Driving meant freedom, I figured that was why it is said that Americans have a love affair with their cars.

Cars get you out.

Fifteen meant learners permits, sixteen meant freedom.

Now, you might have been driving a POS but driving anything was better than staying at home.

Not that home was bad but to stay home was to maybe miss something or someone somewhere else.

Today I watch as my adopted niece and nephew both 16 are just now getting learners and will be almost 18 by the time they drive. What is going on?

People used to get together just to see other people.

So I would wake up, go to school, then to work after school and the rest of the time I was off doing something or nothing somewhere and that has continued to this day. However, it is getting harder and harder to find places where other people gather.

Recently a survey said that Americans spend nine hours a day on or with media. Nine hours!

Now if you sleep eight and work eight, add a few hours driving, doing domestics, eating and bathing. Then on top of that spend nine hours with media then I am getting 29 hours a day.

Okay so you sleep less as you stay up late on MySpace and Facebook, you screw the boss out of a couple of hours a day chatting and sending IMs, then it’s home where you pitch a tent in front of the Play Station, Plasma Screen or maybe catching up on ESPN on your phone while driving.

I have a friend that plays poker on his phone while he drives.

Wow, technology is playing a big part in our lives.

Growing up I heard that it would but to see it explode in this manner, this fast, is almost scary.

Now, I must say that in my day I was one of the first to switch from 8-Tracks to cassettes and I was a master at Pong and Ms. Pac Man but I still had time for interaction with people.

My Space was something you shared with someone you liked. Dating started face to face, often with a smile from across a room.

People today have turned to the internet to start relationships and friendships. I know teens who say they get to know people better on line or through text messages.

When we went to the mall, we were focused on the moment. Today people are never anywhere, not really. How can you enjoy a drive when you are distracted by video screens in the car and a phone in your ear?

Guilty!

How can you meet people out when your busy text messaging people as you walk?

Now I hate to admit it but I have slowly begun to see the usefulness of text messaging however the excessive way it is used is like masturbating in a brothel. I see no reason for it.

Now there are times when you know someone is not in a position to talk and you need to send something their way but again, technology is taking away every human interaction.

How do you type a giggle or a whisper when first getting to know a girl?

I know LOL, how about you’re Full-O-S if you believe a text is a better way to communicate?

Anyway, I will continue to lead my one man revolution against the de-humanization of civilization by technology and I will do it on a key board and send this article by e-mail.

Did I mention I just bought my eleven year-old an iPad?

Damn It!

Don’t tell anyone but WOW it’s cool.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Riverbend Festival is upon us one again as Chattanooga prepared to hoedown for the next nine days to a diverse array of music.  Love it or hate it, there is always debate on both sides of the fence to the quality and relevancy of the headliner’s stage.  Believe it or not we’re not here to critique the Coca Cola stage lineup.  We’ll leave that up to you, dear reader.  Listed below are the headliners, a small resume of each and what they’re doing relevant now.  We have not included family night or the Bessie Smith Strut artists for this.  That being said, I would like to point out that this year’s headliners are much younger on average than last year (44 years old compared to 58 years old).  Presenting for better or worse this year’s Coca Cola headliners.

Sheryl Crow Friday, June 11

Sheryl Crow broke big on the scene with the release of “Tuesday Night Music Club” in 1993 that included two top five songs “All I Wanna Do” (#2) and “Strong Enough” (#5),

The singer/songwriter has won nine Grammys to date and last charted in 2003 covering Cat Stevens’ “The First Cut Is the Deepest”.

Crow next album is scheduled to be released on July 20.

Alison Krauss  Saturday, June 12

The bluegrass-country singer, songwriter and fiddler has been a long time favorite of Chattanoogans.  Whether solo, or with her band Union Station, she has won a record 26 Grammy Awards over the course of her career. The last couple of years saw her on tour with Robert Plant.

Country Music Television has ranked Alison 12th on their “40 Greatest Women in Country Music” list.

Joan Osborne Sunday, June 13

Osborne shot up the charted in 1995 with the #4 single “One of Us”, her only charting single.  She is also known for her work with members of The Grateful Dead.

Her last album, “Little Wild One peaked on the charts at 193 in 2008.

Darius Rucker Wednesday, June 16

Rucker first gained fame in the 1990s as lead singer and rhythm guitarist for Hootie and the Blowfish.  Some may remember their early gigs in Chattanooga performing at Michelangelo’s and the Sand Bar before they hit it big in the mid ‘90s.  1994 saw Hootie and the Blowfish place three songs in the Top 10 beginning with their breakthrough hit, “Hold My Hand”. The band’s last single to chart was 1996’s “Tucker’s Town” which crested at 36.

In 2008 Rucker dissolved the group to pursue a solo country career.  In 2008 Rucker boasted two #1 singles and 2009 saw him continue his run on the charts with a #1 and #3 single

George Clinton Thursday, June 17

Considered by many the Godfather of Funk Clinton is the mastermind behind bands Parliament and Funkadelic during the 1970s with such dance classics like “Flashlight” which was #1 on the R&B charts in 1978.  In the early ‘80s he went solo and had two big hits in 1982.  “Loopzilla” made it to #19 on the charts and maybe the song he is best known for “Atomic Dog” made it to #1 on the R&B charts.

Clinton’s last charting single was “Do Fries Go With That Shake” which peaked at #13 in 1986.

Billy Currington Friday, June 18

The 36-year-old country artist was signed in 2003 and has since produced three albums which has produced four #1 singles.  His first two albums have hit number one on Billboard charts and the most current is sitting at #3 and has already been certified platinum.

2009 saw the singles “People Are Crazy” and “That’s How Country Boys Roll” hit #1.  His current single sits at 36 on the charts.

The Charlie Daniels Band Saturday, June 19

Southern rock and country icon Charlie Daniels has been entertaining folks longer than most of the readers here have been alive.  He is most famous for the number one country song “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”.  The single peaked at #3 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 1979.

Daniel’s name also became synonymous with one of the first summer concert series a precursor to festivals such as Bonnaroo and Music Midtown with “June Jam” featuring his band and other contemporaries.  Daniels has been active as a singer since the early 1950s.  He was inducted into the Grand Ole Opry in 2008.

Daniel’s last charting single was “Deuces” in 2007.  His last top 40 single was “Fiddlin’ Man” in 2002 and his biggest charting single after “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” was “Simple Man” which reached #2 in 1989.  Pop culture fans of late have seen Daniels featured in commercials for GEICO.

The other day I watched a guy on TV do something that, to my way of thinking, just shouldn’t be done. “Big Wow” you might just be thinking to yourself, doing your best to stifle a yawn…doesn’t some damned fool or another do that on every court TV show and every Springer or Povitch episode ever filmed? They do, but that’s not the kind of stuff I’m talking about here.

Aesthetically challenged retards from the bad side of town that sleep with their cousins or sisters at least have some entertainment shock value to the rest of society. And just because folks with good sense might shout “Holy Bastards of Incest!!” (they just bopped their cousins, or worse. I’m guessing condom usage wasn’t a pressing priority) and gag at the thought of it all, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be broadcast to amuse the rest of us and boost our self esteem by comparison.

Hell, no. This is the kind of stuff that we should all watch more of. If PBS would show stuff like this, they’d not have to do those stupid, annoying pledge drives!

Talk about doing stuff on TV that shouldn’t be done……

The kind of stuff I have in mind, here, is far, far worse than being pressured into buying expensive collections of cheaply done “artsy” movies, and you might be wondering how that could be. You might be thinking that an explanation- a clarification, of sorts- is in order and, if so, I think I can help.

Follow me, for just a minute, if you would, and think back a while.

Isn’t it a crime that some washed up slag heap of a burned out celebrity from a 70’s era sitcom is begging for our spare change in order to feed fly bitten starving natives when it’s all too obvious that any food, donated or otherwise, that comes within a quarter mile of this sanctimonious heifer might well be set upon and devoured without the benefit of even a quick unwrapping (or skinning. whichever)? You might think that a school of piranha can make quick work of your garden variety cow caught crossing any old African river on a bad day and you’d be right, but it ain’t nothing compared to what I’m guessing one Ms. Struthers might do if she could only wade after one quick enough with a ginsu knife in one hand and a bottle of ketchup in the other.

Cannibalism, at its graphic worst is what we’re talking about here, but you quite probably won’t ever see it broadcast. The forlorn begging by some ostensibly big-hearted but clearly overfed pitchwoman on the behalf of emaciated and scab-covered, barely conscious Ethiopian toddlers will just have to do.

You watch these gut-wrenching commercials and, from the very first time you just know that the lot of those listless, pitiful, rag dolls that the camera is zeroing in on are being deprived of any foodstuffs that might just perk them up a bit until the full impact of their pitifulness has been burned into your consciousness and your wallet by some bovine glutton who’s likely eaten so much for breakfast that she’s nodding off and having to fight the urge to lay down right there in the middle of some filthy, disease-ridden village street and take a good long nap.

Careful, there, Big ‘Un.  Don’t drop that semi-comatose orphan in the mud! At least not until the camera quits rolling and the dinner bell rings.  

Think me a bastard all you like, I honest-to-God think that they shouldn’ta, hadn’ta ougtn’ta given any famine relief TV spokesperson job to no fat lady.  There’s an Olsen twin joke in there somewhere but I’m going to let it slide. I’ve got enough Go-to-Hell points already this week.

Back on track as I can possibly get at this point, though, I’d like to state that it is my belief that certain things should not be done on TV. And the crocodile tear solicitation of our hard-earned dollars to buy food for those that need it by someone who obviously has no control over their own carbohydrate intake is just one embarrassing example.

Here’s another…

Yesterday morning I’m watching the news and an anchorperson from the Nashville area starts pitching a story about a local car-jacking gone bad. Nobody of any substance really likes a car-jacking all that much but it is news and, as such, should be reported. So far, so good.

The story takes an abrupt left turn, though, as the news anchor, obviously getting his story’s facts mixed up and confused somehow, effects a vacuous, zombie-like stare and trails off into blank nothingness for a couple of seconds. Then, just as I’m wondering “wtf” and smacking myself lightly on the side of the head to clear up my thoughts and make way for something hopefully sensible on his next try, Newsboy pops up with….”Okay. I take that back.” And just starts over; changing forever – for me, at least – the boundaries of what might be allowable by newscasters in a momentarily awkward spot.

Can he do that??

I don’t know if he can or not but he did and I firmly believe that it should not be allowed. No “”take backs”. That’s the rule.

Even with a jacked up teleprompter (maybe?), to my way of thinking, anyone making the kind of cheese that big-time news anchors do should be able to correct themselves smoothly when they really blow it with the professional TV personality version of “oops” or “my bad” and then carry on with the best poker face that a big bucks salary can muster. Not just shrug and start over like nothing ever happened. That’s bullshit. What’s next, the Jedi Mind Trick?

“I did not screw that up!

Oh, yes, you did, Mr. Newsguy, and next time I’d like you to acknowledge it in some way, okay? You can’t pull that stuff on us and just waltz away unscathed or at least you’re not supposed to. At least act like you know you’ve done something stupid, will you? Even Sally got her lines right, for chrissakes.

And just to show that I’m not a hypocrite, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll set an example for you. This past Saturday night, around eleven-thirty, It was brought to my attention that there was one – and only one- Snak Pak vanilla pudding in the refrigerator and that if I wanted it, I’d have to take the matter up in the form of a wrestling match with a woman who might have recently done something that potentially could give her the munchies.

Maybe.

Being the junk food addict that I am, I was ready to wrestle for it if I had to, but it fortunately, for both of us, didn’t come to that. I got my pudding.

 As I peeled off that pesky little foil top and all but inhaled the stuff as I imagine Ms. Sally might do, I let it be known that I was quite happy to be indulging in such a fashion. So happy, in fact that I thought I just might do the Happy Pudding Dance (don’t ask) right there in the kitchen. Immediately, there was no doubt in my mind that I had just royally screwed up.

 I did think about it for just a second or two after Pretty Girl With a Buzz prodded me to back up my mouth, but of course I took the easy way out. I “took it back” which is lame as all hell and means I got no room to bitch, just yet.

Come this weekend, though, I’ll be doing the Happy Pudding Dance in the kitchen if Pretty Girl With a Buzz insists.

 ‘Cause there ain’t no “take backs”. That’s the rule.

What’s this got to do with things that shouldn’t be done on TV?  Just keep watching long enough and maybe, if it just ain’t my day at all, you’ll see some bald guy doing a bad rendition of the Happy Pudding Dance on America’s Funniest Videos.

 I ain’t making no promises.

PS That’s not a hunger coma, Sally. That orphan’s playing possum so you won’t eat him.

C. Fentress

I’ve been meaning to offer some more substantial commentary on the disastrous gulf oil spill for a while now. Frankly, it’s been hard to separate fact from fiction on this one. In fact, of all the fears stemming from the big leak at the bottom of the Deepwater Horizon oil rig…it’s the uncertainty that is the most frightening…

…No one really knows how much oil has leaked into the gulf. We do know that British Petroleum was either underestimating the flow of the leak or just plain lying about it for weeks. We also know that any estimates of the current flow are just that. Guesses, basically…

…There are bigger and scarier uncertainties. Will they ever find a way to truly stop the flow of oil from the bottom of the gulf? What damage will the immense underwater rivers of petroleum do to the gulf and its coastline? Will BP, the fourth-largest company in the world, do the right thing for the victims of this cataclysm? Uncertainties abound…

…One thing is certain. Despite all the slick talking, there is plenty of blame to go around. BP is front and center in the fault line, obviously. BP partners Transocean and Halliburton also seem to be culpable. But the lion’s share of the responsibility is falling on the shoulders of BP. The headline on www.cnn.com does not bode well for the British energy giant: “Rig survivors: BP ordered shortcut on day of blast.” According to the report, a BP official basically forced rig workers to replace the heavy mud used to keep the well’s pressure down with lighter seawater. The shortcut was prompted to help speed a process that was apparently costing BP $750,000 a day and already running five weeks late. The investigations into this incident will go on for a very long time…

…The Obama administration hasn’t exactly shined through this disaster. You’d think that anyone who saw George W. Bush get pilloried for his poor response to Katrina would know what not to do in a similar situation. You’d think that someone smart enough to win a presidential election…or any of the someones employed by the aforementioned person smart enough to win a presidential election…would not replicate the Bush administration's slow, sad response to the hurricane. Instead, Obama and his team were inexplicably slow to take the lead on responding to the oil spill. Current regulations call for the oil companies to be in charge of stopping and cleaning up after their leaks. Current regulations also call for a $75 million cap on damages. Expect both of those regulations to be struck down soon…

…Some experts insist that a major gulf oil spill was only a matter of time in coming. Perhaps BP was just unfortunate, although the news of the “shortcut” steps makes me believe the company helped make its own bad luck. I don’t think British Petroleum will be the world’s fourth-largest company a year from now. As a British-born half-Brit, I always took a certain amount of pride in BP…and most things British. I don’t think the firm will ever recover from this. But that’s a small issue. I wonder if our gulf and its coast will soon recover from this disaster. The uncertainty continues…

“Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous”.

I have been a bit of a rebel in my day, raised a little hell and along the way I have not always followed the teachings I was raised to believe. However I have always felt empowered by the fact that I knew the way and would find my way back to the right path.

In some of my darkest times I have given thanks to my parents for teaching me right from wrong, leading me to God and then allowing me to go my way with those lessons tucked inside my sometimes thick skull. Over the years that unexplained strength has never allowed me to completely fail myself or for that matter, fail my parent’s hopes for me.

Now that I am a parent I too have hopes for my children.

I take the role of teacher very seriously and I am very diligent about teaching the life lessons that I was taught by the people in my life who loved me. I try and teach new, sometimes very painful lessons that I learned while doing things “my way”. 

 My goal is for my kids to grow up to be better people than myself and to have a better, happier life than I have had.  I want my kids to look back one day and know that their dad loved them unconditionally and prepared them for as many of life’s battles as I could.

Part of those lessons for me includes the general teachings of the bible and the development of their own personal relationship with God. This job is getting tougher everyday.

Growing up few people would attack religion and even fewer would attack the very existence of God. Growing up no one went on National TV and mocked God and religion. Growing up no one publically called people of faith “blind, dim witted and stupid”.

Today they do!

I recently saw one of the world’s great minds Physicist Stephen Hawking tell Diane Sawyer “there’s no way to reconcile religion and science”. 

I kind of agree and then he said “There is a fundamental difference between religion, which is based on authority, [and] science, which is based on observation and reason”. Again I understand where a man who thinks in detail like few others would say this but then he said “Science will win because it works.”

Hawking has went back and forth over forty years as to his stance on whether God is justified through science but this quote made me think, will science one day supplant God completely?

Will Science win?

Then there are the haters. The people who are not only elitist but so brave in their arrogance you can tell they have no personal doubt that there is no God. It is not that God doesn’t exist in their hearts, but that God cannot exist in any ones heart because God is not real.

“I think flying planes into a building was a faith-based initiative. I think religion is a neurological disorder”.

Bill Maher

This is what our children will grow up to hear and worse.

Its scary enough what we all made it through and the future looks a lot scarier to me. Most of us made some pretty bad mistakes despite the teachings many of us received about faith, family and God’s will. How will our children fare if the world around us is filled with people who mock our beliefs and even question our intelligence for developing them?

Without these beliefs where will our world end up?

How can we expect our children to hold on to these beliefs if the world is tearing away at the core of them? I guess there is only one real answer, GOD. “IF” God exists will he not show himself to them in a way that they will know they are not alone in this battle?

My mother gave me a plaque that read “Reach up as far as you can and God will reach down for you”. I guess there in lies the answer.

I will teach my children all I know about God and being a good person and then I will have faith that “GOD” will take it from there.

I believe this and while I am not a genius and may have no pictures or physical proof, this is my theory and like Mr. Hawking I am willing to stake my reputation as a Father on it. I am betting that God already knows I am going to need a little help along the way so he has me covered and I am good with that.

Kahunaman Aka Dewayne Gass

I don’t know what all seven bucks will buy these days that’s worth having and I’m not really sure I want to know, truth be told. I do know that I watched some people pay exactly that amount for one crummy shot of coconut flavored tequila last night and saw how quickly a day’s wages could disappear if you happened to get a little thirsty in the wrong place at the wrong time. Heck, get more than a couple of thirsty people together for a good time in the wrong place at the wrong time and you can wind up with a tab of ninety-four dollars in about fourteen minutes,  if you’re not careful.

“I’m buying!” is a phrase steeped in peril at certain times in certain wrong places at certain wrong times and muttering “Ninety-four dollars! What the@*&# cost ninety-four dollars?” in stunned disbelief won’t do a danged thing to change the tally, like it or not.

It’s simple math, but it ain’t so simple once you’ve been drinking.

A dozen shots amongst friends and a few beers to chase them and you better make sure you’re enjoying their company ‘cause it could cost you a good chunk of cash. At seven bucks a pop when you’re shooting tequila, at least you get to make a horrible face (“Ninety-four dollars?  You’ve got to be @*&#- kidding me!”) twice.

 Go ahead. Try saying that with a smile.

A day’s wages spent shouldn’t leave you feeling like you’ve just been robbed and I remember a time when it didn’t. It was nearly forty years ago, but I recall a time when my brother and I would push, pull and cuss at a lawnmower in the hot sun for most of a Saturday and finish up too tired to do much of anything for the next few hours, all for the paltry sum of seven bucks.

Tequila drinkers in the wrong place at the wrong time have no kind of monopoly on getting screwed and not knowing it until later.

When you’re a ten year old workaholic with a bad comic book and junk food addiction, finding some lazyassed adult that won’t push a lawnmower up what amounts to the side of a big grassy cliff is no kind of problem at all. And when you’re also the fortunate son of another workaholic who wants his kids to have “character” it just makes it that much easier. I am convinced my father must have passed around a memo at work, auctioning off our services to the lowest bidder. He was just that kind of guy.

He was also the kind of guy who would look us in the eye and tell us with a straight face that mowing a yard from hell was a good thing and we’d be glad we’d done it later. I don’t know if he was right or not.

Is your yard too steep for a Himalayan Sherpa to walk up? Do mountain goats stand at the bottom of your driveway and think to themselves “Oh, crap” while anxious hang gliders await a fortuitous breeze at the top of it? If so, my Dad was probably peddling our services to you back then, ever mindful to caution against paying us any more than the going wage for a one-armed street orphan in a Honduran sweat shop.

Thanks, Dad.

He didn’t want us spoiled, that’s for sure. And with one of us at the top of the hill pulling a tank of an old push mower up by a rope and the loser of the coin toss struggling and straining to keep his footing behind it, I think he got his wish. God help the guy behind that old mower if the rope would ever have happened to snap.  He’d probably have been killed or at least maimed all to hell, eventually having to resort to employment in some sweat shop in some place like Honduras.

It wasn’t all bad. At least we got to take breaks here and there when we started to display heat stroke symptoms and began to see dead relatives beckoning. Add in all of the lukewarm July hose water we cared to drink and by the end of the day we were whipped, albeit a few bucks richer and with a hair more character than we’d started with. We’d have ridden our bikes down to the Stop N Go store for a well deserved junk food reward but by the time we were finished washing and waxing the mower (not our idea) we were just too tuckered out and it had already been dark for an hour.

Just kidding, kind of.

Come Sunday afternoon, with ten percent of our hard-earned yard work money in an offering plate somewhere (again, not our idea) and another seventy -five percent headed to some lousy savings account, we could turn our attention to the serious work of Slim Jim and Twinkie ruination with the balance.

Back in 1970, a measly buck would get a sixty pound ten year old a very serious sugar buzz and that’s about all it took to keep me pretty happy for a couple of hours. I don’t know if there’s been any real progress made on the cost/buzz front over the last four decades; in fact, I’m convinced of just the opposite.

That being said, I am sitting outside typing this and overlooking that very same lawn that punished my brother and me so mercilessly all those long years ago and I have to admit, it might not be quite as horrific a chore to mow as I remembered, thanks in part to a nice, new self-propelled Toro. This is day two, though, and I’ve only got the worst two-thirds of it finished but it’s going to have to be enough. The chick who owns the place these days actually likes to cut grass and wants to finish it herself, believe it or not, and rule #1, as any man who is not a complete idiot will tell you is: Never argue with a woman!

I am not a complete idiot. Also, said chick has a pretty sweet pair of legs on her and I plan on sitting here guzzling the ice water in an honest-to-God glass that I’ve graduated to in adulthood and ogling them while she pushes that mower around later. 

And when she’s done with it all, I hope she pulls that bottle of coconut tequila she has out of the freezer and rewards herself for a job well done with seven bucks worth of it in order to loosen up a bit.

Heck… maybe because it’s a holiday and all that from-hell mowing is finally over,  she’ll knock back about ninety-four dollars worth of it,  cop a very serious buzz for herself and loosen up a whole bunch!

And that’s all it might maybe take to keep both of us happy for a couple of hours.

Maybe old Dad was right, after all.

Hope you had a good Memorial Day.

 - C. Fentress

Five years ago I was about to make a life changing move.

A move that I really didn’t think I would ever make again.

A move that I made once and totally screwed up.

A move that stunned many people.

A move that ultimately cost me many a night of uncommitted, adulterous adventure which disappointed other people more than it did me.   

Now days I am one of the regular guys.

I am no longer available but I did probably add a few years to my life expectancy and I picked up a few new tax write-offs along the way, so hey, it isn’t a bad deal.

I am now a married man.

Yep, “The King of all Pigs” is now a historic moniker’.

These days I am a “bona-fide, ring through the nose, man of commitment”.

I am now, Happy! This is my story and I am sticking to it.

Honestly, relationships are all about decisions. If you decide to be a one woman man then you really have a chance at making it work. If your name is William and the local strippers call you dollar Bill then its probably going to be a tough gig.

If you find someone that you love more than yourself there is a good chance they will love you back equally.

If you love yourself while surfing the web instead of warming up your ladies sheets then she may one day no longer be under them when you run out of Pay Pal credits.

It is really only very hard if you make it that way. Do unto others and they may out you on national TV. Ask the Tiger or Jesse “Damn, what was I thinking” James, they will tell you. Cherish is another word for “Hold-On”. A woman’s heart is a valuable possession. One easier won than won back. So much for the preachy stuff, you stupid bastards are on your own, I have learned my lessons.

Five years ago this week I took the plunge!

I was front and center at the first wedding I have ever known to have inflatable Tiki Gods and an inflatable palm tree, complete with matching monkey and Sponge Bob Piñatas’!

I watched the wedding video this weekend and I remember little from that day. I was so busy playing host that I missed out on the big conversations and gossip.

My favorites that I can now watch on video are:

• You know he can joke about their ages but she may really have to give him sponge baths.
• Was the bride pregnant? Maybe that was why Kahuna finally gave in?
• With 20 years difference in the two, how much Viagra you think that guy will go through in the next 20 years?
• With all his years experience throwing parties you would think the guy would have thrown a good one for his own wedding.
• Looking at him and looking at her, he must have money or the “Big” in Kahuna means something. Matter of fact, looking at him and looking at her, He and His bank account need to relate to “Big”.
• Momma, what’s a “Sponge Bath”?

It has been five years, I am still married and to date I have not used any Vitamin V. My Bride has popped out two lovely babies and I couldn’t be happier, unless I had married twin sisters.

I am content in the thought that I may never again know the thrill of the hunt and that oral sex is now restricted to lonely nights calling 900 numbers. (I am so dead.)

I am now a married man and if I must sacrifice my old ways to have a long term, meaningful relationship that wont cost me my equity then I am proud to say, I have changed.

Ms. Kahuna is a tolerant lady and a wonderful mom yet I must admit that she is getting smarter. These days it is harder to dazzle her with BS and since she now owns a tape measure I have been forbidden by her to use the word Big in my moniker. In five more years I may be banned from the word man behind it, but for now I am still.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

I began last week’s rant by admitting that I’ve been doing this weekly diatribe for so long that I blow right past my feelings of déjà vu and often find myself fairly sure I’m repeating myself. I know for a fact, for instance, that I’ve moaned about the long duration of the N(everending)B(asketball)A(ssociation) season. This time, I’m even going to look at www.nba.com so I can quantify my moaning a bit. Done. The Boston Celtics, half of the storied showdown in this year’s NBA Finals, played their first game of this season on October 8…

…A quick look at www.timeanddate.com told me that there’s a 236-day span between Boston’s opening night game and the night I’m typing this. Thirty-three weeks, rounded down just a smidgen. Good Lord. Have you watched much pro basketball in the fall? The games are almost as pointless as Major League Baseball games in June. (More on that later.) College basketball cranks up at about the same time as the NBA, but its season comes to a glorious climax with March Madness. With pro hoops, the madness just…keeps…going…and going…and going...like some perverted Energizer bunny with a wicked crossover dribble…

…So this is usually a sports limbo time of year for me. As previously mentioned (probably on more than one occasion), I don’t pay much attention to pro hoops. I will grudgingly admit that there is some allure to a Los Angeles-Boston NBA Finals series. I was a Lakers fan back in my youth, so I’ll have to pull for Kobe and the gang…even if I do so without a huge amount of enthusiasm. By the time the NBA season starts actually nearing its seemingly-inexorable end…I’m pulling for a four-game sweep…for either team…

…We’ve also got a hockey season coming to a close. Despite the presence of the Nashville Predators, however, Chattanooga is not really a hockey town. I remember back when there was a semi-pro team that played on the old ice rink at the Choo-Choo. Several of my old rugby teammates were on the roster. It was a blast to go down there and stand next to the glass wall while the guys slammed each other into it. Tickets that good at the Sommet Center will run you a couple of c-notes. This year’s Stanley Cup has come down to the Chicago Blackhawks and the Philadelphia Flyers. Another old-school matchup…and one I could care less about. It the Preds or the Red Wings aren’t playing, I won’t watch hockey…

…Then there’s Major League Baseball. And I know I’ve bitched about this before. What bugs me about baseball (beyond the fact that just about everyone seems to be taking performance-enhancing drugs) is the weird way its warm-weather season concludes in October…often with a northeastern team in the World Series. The conclusion of America’s summer game should not involve long underwear…

…You might have noticed that I said this is usually a sports limbo time of year for me…emphasis on the word “usually.” This year, and every four years, my long wait for the start of football season is made much easier by the biggest sporting event on planet Earth. Even its name reflects its importance. The World Cup. The United States faces off against Jolly Old England on the afternoon of June 12, in a match that could hardly be overhyped. All told, 32 teams will compete for the most prized trophy in the game the rest of the world calls “football.” Television coverage will be better than ever. Unfortunately for the U.S., England is one of this year’s favorites. The smart money is on Spain, but the World Cup is notoriously unpredictable. Odds against the U.S. winning the whole thing...are astronomical...

…The World Cup happens every four years…and throws an immense amount of drama into a month-long tournament for the most coveted title on Earth. The NBA could learn a lot from that...

-- Mark Bedford

Just about the very best way to start a Saturday - once you’ve gotten out of bed, anyway - is with a biscuit and maybe some Cajun pintos from some place with a name that might rhyme with “Rojangles”. On that premise, then, I found myself in a long, long line the other day for an opportunity to clog up my arteries just a little bit more with a biscuit wrapped around some fried stuff with cheese. This, after all, is America. And it is my God-given right to do myself in with whatever form of grease-laden cholesterol bomb I can afford, ain’t it?  

At least I had what I thought was the good sense to offset my reckless, self abuse tendencies as I took what exercise I could by walking inside rather than making a leisurely turn into the drive-thru lane, joining all of those misguided types that probably are too lazy to scratch themselves when they itch. 

Slackers, at a fast food chain restaurant. Who’d of thunk it?

Anydangway, I was standing in line waiting for roughly a year and eventually realized that I was suffering severe hunger pangs and that the line hadn’t really moved that much and it instantly had me curious. “What” I asked myself “in the name of Jesus, could be taking so *censored* long?

I got to looking. And after about thirty seconds or so of keen observation of the rush-hour business operation of some place with a name that might rhyme with “Rojangles”, I had what I thought was my answer.

Tyrone (let’s just say that I’m making that name up) is what appeared to be taking so *censored* long.

 In the name of Jesus.

There he stood, in all his morbidly obese, slump-shouldered, filthy apron-ed counter-help glory. One quick gander at this sterling example of pisspoor protoplasm and you just knew that his eulogy one day would include the phrase “eleven boxes of Girl Scout cookies”.  Obviously in need of a friend that would be honest enough to tell him to buy one of those man bras or generous enough to buy him a mirror, he shuffled around pointlessly with the speed of an anesthetized box turtle and the demeanor of a freshly pimpwhipped hooker.  Openly contemptuous and disgruntled with something, he mostly just stood there while the people around him worked their asses off.

It was pathetic.

I’ve run up on some spectacular examples of how not to do things in the retail and hospitality industries lately and some of them I’ve actually put into print, they were such a joke. But this was the acme -the pinnacle- of sullen indifference as I’ve been exposed to it. I was astounded.

Taking no apparent interest in what people might be saying, he forced people who were speaking quite clearly to repeat their orders, muttered back to them in unintelligible grunts and snapped back at them rudely when asked to repeat himself. He waddled about between orders, apparently without aim (he didn’t actually do much of anything discernable), scowling all the while and giving the unmistakable sense that Tyrone wasn’t no kind of happy at all. 

Well, *censored* you, Tyrone!!

What’s the problem, you lazy bag of *censored*? Are you mad at the boss? Did he/she kick you out of the kitchen and make you work a register for eating up all the profits? Or did you maybe just waddle your way in late to work one time too many with the same urgency you demonstrate in (not) filling orders and get bawled out for it?

What else is wrong, huh? Car broke down? Can’t get a date, even with a freshly pimpwhipped hooker? Did somebody eat your Girl Scout cookies?

Listen up, you miserable excuse for an employee…nobody cares! Next time you’re in a crappy mood, try working it off, just like you ought to try working off about 150 lbs. (at least), okay? When we-the-people go out and spend our hard-earned cash on food that will kill us, we expect and deserve to be treated civilly. Spare us the stinkeye treatment, the grumbling and the probably faked inability to count money back correctly, will you, you *censored*?

Get your fat butt in gear and at least try for chrissakes! And if we happen to scowl at you in return for gypping us on our change or shorting our order, tough *censored*. Probably, we wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t already acted like something that rhymes with “rat, razy rasshole”.

PS I was watching you, just so you know. If you managed to sneak a booger into my pintos, at least you were quick about that!!

PPS See? I told you (you know who you are) that I could write an entire column without resorting to profanity!!

C. Fentress, an angry American.

Still More Axe Grinding

I’ve always kind of liked that expression. According to The Phrase Finder at www.phrases.org, when someone says they have a metaphorical “axe to grind,” they “have a dispute to take up with someone or…have an ulterior motive…(and) private ends to serve.” In my case, the “dispute” is going to be my ongoing (and sometimes repetitive) criticism of some things that frequently annoy me. And I will serve the private ends that could potentially (in my little imaginary world) help convince some practitioners of these annoyances to cease and desist…

…I was driving along Chattanooga’s Northshore the other day when I saw a cute young mom merrily walking toward Greenlife…pushing a baby stroller. From the size of the stroller, the tot inside it couldn’t have been very big yet. Never saw the kid. But I’ve pushed a few strollers in my day…and this was a little stroller…for a little bundle of joy. Mom was smiling…with a set of earbuds hanging from her auditory receptacles. I’m sure that mom loves her lil tot with all her heart. You’d think she’d want to be able to hear the little tyke crying or be aware of an oncoming police siren? No. She was more concerned with listening to her favorite iPod tunes. Annoying…

...I won’t turn this into another “headphone nation” rant, but you people who have your little earbuds on while you’re driving…are just as annoying…but more dangerous...

…I’ve bitched before about truck drivers who insist on driving in the “fast lane,” even if they are only going one mile per hour faster than their good buddies in the right lane. I’m going to expand that criticism to include all of those annoying drivers who think they have some divine right to the left lane, regardless of their speed. You’d think that watching a steady stream of drivers go by to their right would help these left lane loungers realize that they should scoot over. Oh, hell no. They just cruise along obliviously…and make me wish I kept a dozen eggs on my passenger seat…

…I hate line breakers. This goes back to elementary school days, when “no cuts” was like the eleventh commandment. My darling daughter and I were grabbing a couple of slices and some salads at the Hixson Lupi’s last week. There was a pretty good line in front of the counter. A grey-haired couple eased through the door and were urged to the front of the line by their apparent dinner companions…another grey-haired couple…who had waited their turn to reach the head of the line. Maybe I’m overly sensitive, but that chapped my ass. I think you should at least politely ask your fellow line-standers before allowing your pals to skip past a dozen other people…

…I just looked back at this list of complaints and realized that they all have something in common: self-absorption at the expense of others. We continue to be the “me generation.” It’s hard to apply the golden rule when people so seldom make conscious decisions to “do unto others.” They’re too busy doing unto themselves or expecting others to do unto them. You know who you are, you ear-bud wearing, slow-driving line cutters…

-- Mark Bedford

“Everything is black or white, there is no gray”!

Kahunaboy 25 years ago

Ah, to be young and absolute.

Bob Seger sings of being “like a rock”, looking back on myself, it was more like young with a head full of rocks.

A very young and naive me, really did believe that gray was an excuse, a copout, a way to justify compromising your true beliefs, perhaps it is.

Maybe the years have eroded the true me and all that I thought I was about, maybe not?

One things for sure, the years are a great teacher.

Last night I watched one of my all time favorite movies “Crash” and while it is not entertaining escapism, it is engaging, thought provoking and captivating. The movie is a hodge-podge of stories about people of all races and social standing and how they interact and connect to one another. There are expected reactions and contradictions from several of the characters. Much like in the real world the movie’s characters will surprise you just when you think you have them figured out.  

I pride myself in surprising people.

I have spent my life surprising people.

I guess I set them up because I lay it all out there for the whole world to see. I have spent 24 years as the Moc Maniac, acting like a complete, well, maniac at UTC basketball games. But, when I watch sports with my friends I am often the quietest guy there.

I have been known to shock people with my stage character in nightclubs or when doing my sometimes “blue” comedy bits. But, at a party I am usually the least likely guy to tell a joke and really never participate in the “guy talk” about sex or women.

I know it is hard to believe but the man who invented the “Big Ole Booty Contest” and once warmed up Spring Break crowds for MTV would much rather be hanging out with my kids.

I hate bigots and prejudice and have been known to ask people to stop using the N-Word or get out of my car.

I have been blessed to have friends of all ages, colors, religions and social standings. I have also found myself on the outside looking in from time to time simply because I don’t choose a clique.

I have however noticed that more so than ever I find myself judging a book by its cover and the younger Kahuna would never have done that.

For you picky folks out there “I” realize how many times “I” have referenced myself. However it is my experiences that “I” have to draw on and it was my mind and thoughts that were once again awakened by this really interesting movie.

So I ask, “is it life experiences that shape our beliefs or do we just get socially and morally lazy”?

Do we get wiser with age and experience or just tired?

Do we learn it is wise to be pessimistic about certain things or is pessimism the easiest path?

I have lived my life as an optimist; pessimism is no fun to me. However, in these crazy days, I am finding it easier and easier to look towards the dark side. Then I slam on my attitude breaks, think it all over and choose to look at the brighter side of things, even as my beloved gulf coast is being destroyed by ignorance.

That’s what “I” do. It works for me. How do you deal with it?

The movie “Crash” will make you think.

It will make you stop and evaluate the characters who reflect a broad range of the population.  It made me look back on a lifetime of experiences and how they have shaped who “I” am and how “I” look at other people today.

With summer blockbuster season here where everything blows up into good digital fun and 3-D, it was nice to watch an older flick that I sat and thought about for hours afterwards. That makes for a good movie.

Perhaps your thinking, “don’t you think that’s a little deep for a guy named Kahunaman”?

If so, I have one thing to say to you.

SURPRISE!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

City Council's Brilliant "New Math"

Dear Council Members,

I read the minutes from a Council meeting on March 2, 2010, where you were debating about the city buying mulch for $7 a yard and selling mulch for $15 a ton. The estimated weight of a yard of mulch is between 200 lbs. and 500 lbs according to Garden Guides .com http://www.gardenguides.co m/86864-one-yard-mulch-equ als-many-pounds.html .

 A yard is defined as a cubic yard 3 ft by 3ft by 3 ft. A ton is 2000 lbs. So if the city is buying for $7 a yard and it takes 4 to as much as 10 yards to make a ton, this doesn't seem to make good sense to me. You are comparing apples to oranges. In this case the city would be paying from $28 to $70 a ton if you convert yards to tons, and then selling it for $15 a ton, looks like you are losing money to me. I think this should be looked at again.

Thank you,

Robbie Wade

Above letter is about the city council meeting on March 2nd, 2010. They were discussing on how the city makes money on buying mulch for $7 a cubic yard and selling it to landscapers for $15 a ton. According to www.gardenguides.com a yard of mulch weighs between 200 and 500 lbs. So the city is paying $7.00 for a yard, which it takes anywhere from 4 to 10 yards to make a ton (2000Lbs.) and then selling it for $15 per ton and think they are making money. Even Littlefield’s side kick Dan Johnson thought this was a good idea. Look up the minutes yourselves it written right in them, City council meeting for March 2nd 1010.

http://www.chattanooga.gov /City_Council/minutes/2010 0302.PDF

"He stated this bid is $7.25 per yard and public works is selling it for $15-or-so a ton and is not sure what the tonnage is for a yard; that those are the kinds of things we need to look at and at this point he encouraged the Council to approve this with the understanding public works and parks and recreation will work out an arrangement to get the mulch needed to make this city look great."

Dan Johnson stated "there is one simple thing – that it is economics, too. He stated public works is selling all they can produce for roughly $15.00 and this cost us over $7.00 and to him that is a matter of numbers; that we are making money doing it this way."

Yesterday I tried to teach somebody else’s cat what to use a cat’s scratching post for and came away bloody and sorely disappointed. Seems like the concept of “scratch” was easy enough but adding in “post” as a variable just messed that cat up all to hell. As I sucked the blood away from the base of my best pointy finger, I evil-eyed the furry little brat and silently wished it a hairball and a bad flea infestation but knew deep down that I had no basis for legitimate complaint. I had been plainly warned ahead of time that I was messing up by a woman who had known this particular cat well for years.

So why did I do it?

Just stupid, I guess. You should have seen the way that cat looked at me. Before and after the laceration. Everybody knows that cats are poorly mannered snobs but this one was plainly accusing me of an indescribable level of mental retardation if I read his look right and I think that I did. He actually sneered at me!

 He might be on to something. I don’t care what IQ tests might have to say about anyone, the way to judge the true dumbassedness level in anyone as far as I’m concerned now consists of a piece of wood wrapped in rope and carpet and a cat that just doesn’t seem to “get it”.

“Here, kittykittykittykitty. Watch this.” Scratchscratchscratchscratch. 

Yeah. I was asking for it. I might have gotten lucky and made up some lost ground later in the estimation of the pretty woman who’d warned me about the rabid cat earlier by mushing a couple of spiders for her. I sure hope so. Ones like her don’t come along every day.

The real problem here, I think, isn’t that I did one temporarily insane thing like messing with a known hostile cat but more that I’ve made a habit lately of making perilously stupid decisions, recognizing them as such, and proceeding anyway. Decisions like going to work in a place that can get a guy with a big mouth shot, for instance, or not checking tire pressures on the motorcycle before a spirited blast through several miles of fast sweeping curves.

There’s more. I’ve lost my keys nine times this week, spilled a diet coke into my guitar, sprayed myself in the face with WD 40 and said “hello” to the crazy lady next door after having being warned that she was crazy.

There seems to be some pattern.

That not dumb enough for you? How about popping the cap off of a bottle of blueberry vodka the other day and taking a big long snort of it, all the while knowing that drinking + me = jail.  Apparently, I am totally unconcerned about my non-incarcerated status these days. I know for an absolute fact that I am a sucker for blueberries and an even bigger sucker for vodka and that the two of them together can only be bad news. And yet, I sniffed it anyway.  The last thing I need in my life right now would probably be a cheap vodka binge but I think I might have just come close.

Scary.

And if a good(?) liquor binge is about the worst thing I can think of right now, a trip to the Golden Corral, complete with five bowls of ice cream to top it off,  is right on its heels.

Guess where I just ate?

I seriously don’t know what the hell is wrong with my thinking lately but something has got to change soon. I’m getting tired of doing idiotic, yet totally avoidable things, like stabbing myself in the finger with a screwdriver, drinking hydrogen peroxide and setting my leg on fire. Even the occasional rational, not-stupid decision like saying “Bye, now” (it was something like that) to the crazies at my last job can’t quite cancel out all the weeks and months of seriously nit-witted stuff I’ve found myself doing lately.

There’s nothing like a little company, though, when you’re down and out to make you feel a little better and I perked right up this morning when Mr. Scratchy the cat (not his real name. we don’t want to get sued, here) was given a perfectly good fresh strawberry. He licked it for about twenty seconds and then started smacking it around like it was a smartmouthed mouse or something, proving conclusively that cats don’t know jack about what to do with a strawberry.

Mr. Smartypants cat (again, not his real name) and I are now even on sneers.

Stupid cat.

I recently reconnected with an old college chum via Facebook. Huge surprise, right? Well, this particular college pal now lives in north Georgia…about a 25-minute drive from Chattanooga. I asked, via FB message, if he gets up to ‘nooga very often…so we could have lunch…or a few beers…or a lunch that involved a few beers. His answer stunned me. “No, it’s too violent up there for me.” Wow…

…The Coolidge Park shootings back in late March were the most recent high-profile incidents of urban violence in Chattanooga. Since that fateful Saturday night, things have just felt…different…especially for those of us who live near the Northshore. The increased police presence in and around Coolidge has been welcomed by local residents and Frazier Avenue business owners…

…My friend’s perception of violence in Chattanooga made me wonder if I had been wandering around oblivious to the dangers of downtown life. So of course I had to hit Google. A search for “Chattanooga + crime rate” led me to www.neighborhoodscout.com. The site rates neighborhoods for prospective relocators. Crime rate is one of the metrics it tracks. According to a great big graphic in the middle of the Chattanooga page: “Chattanooga is safer than 1% of the cities in the U.S.” My chances of becoming a victim of violent crime in Chattanooga are about 1 in 77, compared to a 1 in 126 chance in Tennessee as a whole. How reassuring. Not…

…I kept Googling. Found www.cityrating.com. According to a big graph on their Chattanooga page, our city’s murder rate is 1.59 times the national average. Our aggravated assault rate is 2.47 times the national average. Overall, violent crime in Chattanooga is 2.11 times the national average. Again… not very reassuring…

…Other than those odd little tingles since the Coolidge Park shootings, I’ve mostly felt safe in Chattanooga. When people in north Georgia avoid our city because they don’t want to become victims of violent crime, there’s a problem. When prospective new residents’ first impression of Chattanooga comes from scary crime statistics, there’s a problem. Perception is reality. And the reality is a bit scary in its own right…

…Of course I realize that there’s a lot more to violent crime than statistics. There are murder victims, rape victims and assault victims making up all those numbers. The mayor’s proposed budget (which will have been passed or shot down by now) calls for an increase in property taxes and police officers. It’s a tough time to ask for the former, but we definitely need more of the latter. Chattanooga has too much positive momentum to let its criminal element define a community. Let’s see our city put its minds and muscles into crime prevention…

-- Mark Bedford

I’m probably two weeks late with this. Cinco de Mayo was last Wednesday. That’s when everyone else did their topical Mexican-themed stuff. For most people, however, Cinco de Mayo is more of a beverage-focused celebration than a dining experience. I did choke down a few tacos at T Mama’s on Drinko de Mayo, but the emphasis was on margaritas (El Caminos, of course) and cervezas…

…Regardless of my timing, Mexican food is incredibly popular here in Chattanooga. I’m planning on hitting Amigo in Rojo Banco with my son shortly. We’re blessed with a lot of pretty decent Mexican restaurants around here. I like the authenticity of La Altena. The atmosphere on the deck of Las Margaritas. The old-school feel of Cancun. The great beer deals at Amigo. The upscale Tex-Mex flavors of Abuelo’s and Chuy’s. (The latter is delish, but not in Chattanooga… yet. Visit the one in the Boro if you get a chance.) The killer margs and great grub at the aforementioned Taco Mamacita. Almost everyone can find at least something they like on the menu at a Mexican restaurant…

…My first experience with Mexican food came while my dad was stationed in San Angelo, Texas. I’m sure we went to a few local Mexican restaurants while we there. I have a vague recall of chips and salsa…somewhere. Heck, I was in elementary school at the time. But I do remember the place where my parents and I would wolf down large amounts of Mex cuisine. The all-you-can-eat Mexican Buffet at the local Holiday Inn. It had huge tables full of tacos, enchilada, tostadas, burritos and other goodies. The place was packed with locals on Mex buffet night. I loved everything I ate…but I didn’t try a burrito until several years later. My dad had me totally convinced that burritos were made from baby burros. Evil man. I still get a little queasy on that first bite of a burrito…

…A good Mexican restaurant should have a few key things down pat. Chips and salsa should be free and delicious. (T Mama’s charges for theirs…but I forgive them.) That first bite of salsa and chip is the first impression a diner gets. Beans and rice should be given some attention and not be bland. They should be able to make a good, authentic chile relleno…and a great cheese enchilada. They have to be able to make good guac. And good queso...

…For me, nothing goes better with Mexican food than very cold beer. Give me a tall Dos Equis Amber with a slice of lime and a plateful of Mex and I am one happy caballero. I’m a recent convert to margaritas, but I still prefer cervezas mas fria with my fajitas, chimichangas, quesadillas, and other Mexidelicacies…

…As is often the case when I impersonate a food critic, I have written myself hungry. I think I’ll go with the Mexican-style tacos at Amigo. And some guac. I’m feeling some guac. Hasta luego, mi amigos…

-- Mark Bedford

At 2:45 am on a Monday morning at Alan Gold’s, a bar that caters to an alternative lifestyle crowd, “Who do you have to blow?” is a question best left unasked by the common heterosexual with temporarily clouded judgment, but also not unlikely after fourteen shots of dollar Jaegermeister.  Just ask my buddy, Mike.

Late Sunday nights at Alan’s used to be the thing to do amongst the ranks of the service industry sots in this town, thanks to the aforementioned bargain to be had on something that nobody in their right mind would ever put in their mouth, but this was Alan Gold’s, we’re talking about. Nasty stuff in a guy’s mouth ain’t setting no precedent, I’m guessing.

Have I offended anyone yet?

I hope not.

I just know that nothing in my life, in retrospect, has been funnier than Mike, well on his way to pee-in-your-pants-at-the-Krystal inebriation, screaming at the top of his lungs to the bartender for a last round of shots. It was “Who do you have to blow to get a drink inhere?” to be precise.

It was “Who do you have to blow to get a drink in here?” just as the blaringly loud music had ground to a halt, to be just a little bit more precise.  

Oops!

Can you say “poor judgment”? All eyes in the house on the guy standing next to you at Alan’s is a little unsettling, but all eyes in the house on the guy standing next to you at Alan’s is something else altogether for said guy.

I know. I saw the look on his face. It reminded me of a scene from Deliverance.

That would be the one where Ned Beatty had just figured out that the fun had worn completely off of a trip he never should have made in the first place. That scene.

The other five of us- powerless to stop ourselves- broke out in hysterics and still do, whenever the memory of that night is recalled in all its vivid, alcohol-fueled glory/horror. Even Mike, guilty of the ultimate gay bar faux pax, has to work hard to retell the incident with a straight face.

Maybe you had to be there.

I know that from that point on a trip to Alan’s just wasn’t the same, though, dollar Jaegers not withstanding. Say to yourself  “They’re just like a bunch of ugly girls” all you like, but if twenty bucks worth of shots and a decent tip to follow it up still won’t take the “edge” off, you’d better find someplace else to drink.

And so we did.

That was thirteen years ago and I hadn’t thought of it in a while but something happened the other night at work and the memory of it popped right up, as fresh and hilarious as ever. I was bartending the nastiest, rudest crowd of stinkbag skanks and pants-down thugs in town and the subject of how to get a drink was loudly introduced by one of its most contemptible, miserable members.

“Yo, bitch!Wus a muhfuckah gots to do to get a “Hen” and coke in dis muhfuckah?” is something every bartender wants to hear screamed at them on a Saturday night, believe you me. After all, we’re there to make drinks, aren’t we? To serve, to the best of our ability, the folks who pay the bills in our homes and workplaces?

Indeed we are. I’ve got a pretty good work ethic and I also have bills and habits just like the next guy, but listen up, people….

It was a slow night Saturday. Nothing like the riotous, frenzied orgy of drinking of that long-ago night at Alan’s, and anyone who cared to, could get a drink with no wait. At least the ones at my bar could.

There is a way, however, not to order from your bartender but poor judgment, fueled by copious amounts of alcohol, can easily drown out common sense in any crowd, it seems. A simple “Hennessy and coke” would have had one made and delivered in just a few seconds, even if I knew for sure (I pretty much did) that no gratuity would be involved.

I make drinks. That’s what I do. And it is my pleasure to serve them to all but the lowest common denominator of customer.

But I don’t make drinks for out-and-out assholes because life is too damned short to. I drew my line politely enough and declined service after informing the muhfuckah exactly what it might take to get a drink from a bitch in “dis muhfuckah”. Apparently my terms (there’s that bad attitude of mine breaking out) were too harsh, go figure. I watched my disgruntled would-be customer try and storm off indignantly and thrilled at the sight of him nearly stumble and fall, the waistline of his pants just above his knees and apparently interfering with free movement of same. As moments go, it was sublime.

I served plenty of other drinks that night to people I didn’t care much for but none of them quite as bad as Muhfuckah. Even counting up all two dollars of my tips that night couldn’t quite sour me on the idea of serving cocktails for a living but it did it for that place. I’m going to use what common sense I have left and leave. Pull the fork out of my ass, I’m done, I don’t care how hysterical watching some pissed off creep almost face plant is.

I never thought I’d see the day that a drink order and what followed would amuse me as much as the “Who do you have to blow” incident did, but I have.

All amusement aside, though, if you’re going to call me a bitch and then demand a drink from me, you might be out of luck. At least my buddy Mike who was dumb enough to ask what it would take to get a drink wasn’t an asshole about it all, just stupid.

If you want a cocktail from me and you think you have the right to be unspeakably rude about it, I have these three things to say to you.

• Blow me.
• Blow me.
• Blow me.

I think I have made myself abundantly clear.

Decades ago, in one of the drunken stupors I was as likely to be found in as not, I made the following ridiculous statement to my then significant other…

“Surely” I slurred, probably drooling at the same time, “you will agree that I’m destined for greatness” – and then might have done something noteworthy to back it up like throwing up in the closet or fixing myself a ham and Cool Whip sandwich and a vodka and chocolate milk, a meal fit for an aspiring king. I may have even done both, though not necessarily in that order, but who’s concerned about small details?

My inebriated declaration of lofty future status went undisputed -  was met with no quarrel at the time, at least nothing audible, but the next umpteen years would bring about an opportunity or two on her part to indulge in a good smirk over it. Folks on the fast track to fame, fortune or both are not always noted for finding themselves in jail for flooding hotels or shooting up the inside of nightclubs after hours unless they happen to be up-and-coming rock stars. I had really long hair back then and looked for all the world to be a heroin addict on Death’s door but I can’t play and I can’t sing so I got no excuse.

None at all.

There is nothing like an abundance of cheap vodka, however, to impart to one’s self a sense of great importance, however temporary or misguided it might be. Aristocrat vodka, you are aptly named.

And so it went. Months and years would come and go and any talent or ability, any drive I might have had, was lost to the madness of the next binge and the hopelessness of its subsequent withdrawal. The distant possibility of that expected success was still there but, more and more, it was being overshadowed by a dark and thoroughly unpleasant alternative. The notion of a future of bitter failure in all aspects of life had settled itself comfortably into the back of my mind, incessantly whispering to me the last thing I wanted to hear but knew there could be no mistake about.

“You’re fucked.” it said.

It wasn’t alone. I’m pretty sure that’s about what my significant other said when she packed up her things and left and old friends and the people I’d been working with had been saying it for years but now I was hearing it all at once and I damned sure didn’t like it. There’s any easy, temporary solution to all of that though and me being me, I took it.

Liquor might not cut the vocal chords of one’s Inner Critic but it’ll sure stuff a sock in its mouth for a while and all other detractors were avoided easily enough. I quit my job and quit answering the phone is what I did and sat on the couch, bottle in hand, staring pitifully at a door nobody in their right mind would knock on and hating the fact that I somehow couldn’t muster whatever it might take to want to walk out of it.

Taking another futile gulp in what seemed to be an unstoppable series, my rapidly blurring, vacuous stare would invariably settle itself on the square green bottle that I had eventually gravitated towards, the one with the malevolent deer on the label that had falsely promised me everything, and then there would follow the inevitable. An ignoble drubbing in a high stakes game of Stare Down, the bleak and watery gaze that had become such a constant in my pained existence settling itself in the withering shame of defeat on the shambles of a room that had become a squalid trap, the failed last remnant of the realm of a would-be king. Cursing my life and most everything in it, I would then help myself to another shot and another smoke in preparation for the daily re-do of the hostile outgoing message on my answering machine.

I needn’t have bothered. There was nobody calling.

Family, friends, finances…all gone.

One day, though, the son of an asshole deer blinked and before it could yank me back by the hair that had reached my bony, malnourished ass, I managed to slither quietly past the piles of ferret shit, a go-kart with no motor and a TV that hadn’t worked in a long, long while and out the front door. I sat there a while on the front step, shaking.

I’ll never forget it.

Eleven years and some change since my last run-in with the Jaegermeister, I’ve been wondering what the hell is coming next. I don’t want to be The King anymore. I’m just happy to still be breathing and realize fully that my importance in the great scheme of things is non-existent. The odds are six billion to one that my being here counts for anything at all and I’m not too shabby at real world math which is why I’ve never bought myself a lottery ticket, but I’ve thought about it a time or two, standing in line at the Kangaroo behind would-be multi millionaires shelling out a pittance in exchange for a ticket to dream.

At least they’re smart enough not to rely on misplaced ego and who knows? Somebody has to win enough money to buy their own island kingdom and it might as well be somebody standing in line in front of me at some dump of a store on Rossville Blvd, mightn’t it? 

It might.

I met a guy a few days ago, though that had what seemed to be a better, different plan. He was walking into said dump quite a few steps ahead and made it a point to wait and hold the door for me to enter in front of him and I was a little bit surprised, truth be told. Exhibitions of good manners are getting kind of rare these days. I acknowledged his kindness, thanked him as I should have and made my way to the coffee pots, a tiny little bit happier than I’d just been.

It got better. In the two lousy minutes it would take to fix myself a cup of coffee I heard the man politely ask the store clerk directions to a particular item and then thank her. I saw him step aside willingly to allow another customer past him and also saw him invite another to take the place in line ahead of him when they arrived at checkout simultaneously. The customer ahead of him bought beer and lottery tickets and walked off without a word. This fellow bought work gloves and wished the clerk a good day. And then, wouldn’t you know it, he held the door open on his way out for a couple of loudmouthed punks with their pants around their knees that walked past him without a shred of acknowledgement.

If it was me I’d have maybe kicked ‘em, but he just cracked a quick grin and went on his way, leaving one pitifully unimportant caffeine addict in his wake, stunned and impressed to no end.

I caught up with him and introduced myself as he was climbing into an old grey truck that had seen its best days a long, long time ago but was still apparently capable of pulling a trailer loaded to capacity with lawnmower, trimmer, leaf blower and other trappings and implements of humble, honest work.

I thanked him for his displays of courtesy and manners, knowing full well he had no need to hear it – that he did what he did because he could, and wanted too. I’m sure he knew that I was thanking him for my own benefit but he humored me with gracious acceptance. I would have been surprised, at this point, with anything less.

He shared his name with me and I walked away from our exchange with a substantially better outlook on life than I’m generally noted for, hoping like hell it will last for a bit.

I spent a winter years ago reading the Bible cover to cover and don’t remember a whole lot of it but there was one thing in there, though, that went something like this:

“The first shall be last, and the last shall be first” it says, or something close, and I think I just had a little glimpse of “shall be”.   Screw a bunch of sudden, capricious wealth and the power it might afford in this life, I think I might have just met somebody truly throne worthy that old coveralls couldn’t quite hide.

“King Calvin”.

 It has a pretty nice ring to it, if you ask me.

                                                                      Craig Fentress

PS I never got his last name. Anybody knowing where I can contact Calvin, please email

fentresscraig@yahoo.com

Last week I had to go back and forth to Nashville on back-to-back days. My planning wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I know I should have just spent the night in Music City. But I didn’t know I’d be going to the meeting on day two when I went to the meetings on day one. Here’s where it gets a little weird. My meeting on day two was at the Gaylord Opryland Hotel complex…

…I just got finished Googling for pictures of the hotel. Water is up to a full story high in some of the images. Chairs are floating in the famous atriums. They are saying that the Opryland Hotel might be closed for up to six months. The torrential rains of this past weekend hammered our state capital. Of the eighteen flood-related deaths (as of Tuesday night), ten occurred in Nashville. The Cumberland River topped out around 6 p.m. Monday night…at 51.9 feet, about 12 feet above flood stage. More than 13.5 inches of rain were recorded Saturday and Sunday. At this point, the long-term cost of the near-Biblical deluge is unknown. A friend of mine who lives in Brentwood and has family in New Orleans summed it up: “It looks like Hurricane Katrina in some parts of Nashville.” Scary stuff…

…This time around, the storms missed Chattanooga. I remember keeping a close eye on the weather radar over the weekend… and watching as the bright yellow and orange parts of the storm system passed blessedly north of us. While Nashville was facing its worst flooding since 1937, I joined hundreds of others in enjoying a breezy day at the Chattanooga Market. We got a little bit of rain late Sunday. No big deal...

…If the long-term cost of the Nashville flooding is hard to calculate, the long-term cost of the ever-expanding oil slick in the Gulf of Mexico is impossible to fathom. As of Tuesday, the damaged well had been spewing 210,000 gallons of crude oil for 12 days. BP, the owner of the sunken Deepwater Horizon drilling rig, faces millions (if not billions) of dollars in cleanup and penalty costs. The cost to the commercial seafood industry and tourism will be enormous. The damage to our coastlines and coral reefs might not be reversible in our lifetimes…

…As video from Nashville and the Gulf of Mexico competed for airtime on local television, I felt like I was watching a disaster movie. Or two at once. But the flooding and the enormous oil slick inspired completely different thought processes in most of us. Music City’s massive rainstorms and the ensuing floods seem like one of those unfortunate “luck of the draw” things that Mother Nature randomly drops on communities. Tornadoes. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. Floods. You can’t dodge them. You just hope they don’t hit you…

…The cataclysmic oil spill in the gulf doesn’t feel so random. It feels somehow…inevitable. It’s really easy to make broad, sweeping judgments on BP and our ongoing dependence on petroleum in the middle of this mess. Some right-wing fringers are even accusing the Obama administration of being “glad” for the oil spill, claiming they will leverage the disaster to stop further offshore drilling. I think there’s enough blame and damage to go around. When gasoline starts edging towards four bucks a gallon and the commercial seafood industry in Louisiana, Alabama and Florida becomes a distant memory, finger-pointing won’t be much use. If you’ve watched any disaster movies at all, you know that the (relatively) happy ending doesn’t happen until everyone pulls together for the common good. I hope that happens in Nashville and in the Gulf of Mexico. Things are going to be bad enough already…

   --  Mark Bedford

Is it just me or has the political season gotten as long as Tommy Lee’s…….hair ?

I think yes.

It never ends.

Everything is political. Robert T. blasts local politicians, RTN is gone. Local politician takes his place and somebody’s potholes get fixed? Look for new pavement.

No matter how much you hate or claim to hate politics, you really can’t avoid them.

There are politics in the work place.

Even when you’re the boss, you find yourself playing that game sometime or the other.

Do you play on a sports team or have a kid that does?

If so, you know politics, especially around All-Star time.

As much as it seems wrong, churches are very political at times.

Some people will say or do anything that they might not normally say or do, just to be noticed.

Politics are everywhere so get used to it.

In 2008 I wrote an Election Eve prediction stating that the Republicans would return to power in two years.

And, some of my Democratic friends took offense at my saying their party was “nothing more than a Mistress to the American voting public”.  I said that the American people might elect the Democrats, but would soon realize that a Democrat might be fun when things are tough at home, but you can’t take them home to meet the parents. Soon the voters will come back to Baseball, (By the way, baseball sucks too.) Apple Pie and the American way of The Republicans.

Sorry boys, I’ll stand by that.

Sure Bush and his boys screwed the pooch but this Democratic gang-of-morons is tripping all over themselves trying to change the world in two years. November is when it all turns back into a pumpkin and a bunch of rats.

I was a Clinton guy before he was elected because he was a moderate despite Hillary.

Hillary is so liberal, she would outlaw marriage between a man and woman just so gays wouldn’t feel funny about their wedding pictures.

(And I’m cool with gay marriage, let them know how it feels. They might not be so damned chipper all the time).

As for Obama, Pelosi and company, to hell with them or as it will be called in a decade, to a hospital with them. Not that I wish them harm but hospital, hell, hell, hospital. Get it? Obama-care joke.

So sit back and get ready for another season of Yo-Momma from both parties.

I only hope enough of our elected leaders can come together long enough to fix a few things.

That is why you voted for change last time right?

What will we vote for this time, “change”?

As in “hey buddy, can you spare a brother a quarter”?

This should be fun.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

I saw in the paper yesterday where a lot of incumbents will be reelected with no opposition. That's a crying shame. If I lived in Chattanooga I would run against anyone just so they would have some opposition. They are on a gravy train.

It makes me sick that the new immigration law in Arizona is bringing out protesters, that are illegal aliens and white do gooders. If we don't stop them from coming across the border this country will be like Mexico soon. Maybe we should cross the border and take over Mexico and straighten the stinking country  out.

Nascar- it makes no sense to sit and watch cars drive around in a circle for three hours and burn up thousands of gallons of gas. No matter who wins, it  doesn't matter- another worthless race next week. What a waste of fuel and energy.

Kentucky Derby- these idiots that spend hundreds of dollars to watch a two minute horse race should be horsewhipped. CRAZY!!!!

That commanding general McKrystal in Afghanistan has banned all fast food, like Burger King and Pizza Hut in that country. That's about the only comfort our guys get in that hell hole. They can't get a beer and a Whopper or a slice of pizza when they may die tomorrow. Throw that bum general out.

Catch me next week

The Crab

I want to be a Cowboy. I might be a little too old to be thinking that way and God knows I’ve had some crazyassed ideas in my half a hundred years but most of them haven’t been acted upon, I don’t care what you may have heard. Right now today, though, I’m really really wishing I could pull on my boots, don my white hat and strap on my trusty six-shooter for a ride off into the sunset.

Oops! I’m already sporting my “shooting iron”, a holdover from my night last night which was as good a time to be packing as any old white boy might happen across in this day and age. “Be Prepared” they’ll teach you in the Boy Scouts and I was one of them once, believe it or not.

I still can’t tie a sheepshank and I get turned around lost in the mall not to mention out in the woods but we all have our shortcomings. Give me a piece of flint and some steel to rub it on, though, and I can start a fire big enough to burn down the stupid mall –the same one that sits on what used to be picturesque pasture land dotted here and there with large trees - a perfect place for an aspiring cowpoke to practice up on herding things that moo or tying other, fun things like lassos or even nooses and slinging them over high branches in studied preparation for any rustling polecats that might happen along. 

Toss in cooking out over an open fire and sleeping out under the stars and obeying seems like a pretty natural progression for any aged, former Boy Scout in midlife crisis, doesn’t it?

It does to me.

It’s too bad I dislike horses. They are evil things that will kick you and trample you and indiscriminately decide to run like old ladies, thereby costing you a fortune and also they will leave things for you to step in that you’d really rather not. Maybe, this being the twenty-first century and all, cowboys are allowed to ride 4wheelers instead and I sure hope so. I really, really want to be a Cowboy.

Here’s why….

I’ve been a bartender for the majority of the last thirty-two years; for the most part, a pretty good one. But just as the ability to tie a sheepshank or a clove hitch would prove to be elusive in my early years, there have always been areas in my mixology career in which I have come up painfully short. Just ask around.

In addition to being aesthetically challenged (I have a mirror and it works so no argument there), I am rumored to have the temperament of a bear with its foot in a trap and a toothache. I had a boss once who put me at a service bar in a corner behind a big wall to keep me out of contact with his customers so that accusation might contain some small shred of truth. Also, on the Top 10 list that was customarily read out to the crowd at Flashbacks on weekends, I was once the subject of the list. Reasons # 10 and 9, respectively, not to ever hire me were that all of the employees hated me and all of the customers hated me so I suppose I’m just an asshole. I know I purposefully was to the little shit that made the list so it might be somewhat tainted.

I wasn’t all bad, though. In an industry riddled with charlatans and opportunists, I at least tried to be the employee I would want for my own and barring a certain irreverence that couldn’t be subdued and the “occasional” cussword here and there, I think I pretty much pulled it off. I wasn’t a juggler, physiatrist or social coordinator but I was dead honest and saw to it that every drink that could and should be sold did.

No gimmes. Ever.

Not a goddammed one. I’ll pay for the polygraph.

If you ever got an unpaid-for drink from me that wasn’t authorized by the boss than I paid for it out of my pocket. Not all of them cheerfully, but I paid anyway because that’s what I do. I’ve spent a new car on walkouts over the years and I wish some of you goobers that owe me would settle up, already. Times are tough.

What else I did was I made a career out of learning every way I could to make a drink suit a customer without over pouring and cheating the house. Chopping down ice, loading straws with liquor or floating it on top for that first eye-opening sip or just plain old trying to up sell to a double isn’t dishonest trickery and you can always add juice to a screwdriver if you make somebody choke too hard. Try taking it out sometime.

I don’t short pour, not even for assholes. I would for a time back in the day if you wanted that 12th lemon drop but it says not to in the bible so I’d rather just not sell you another. Come to my bar and you get what you pay for but please…..pay for what you get. Is that so bad?

I’ve learned what seems like a million drink recipes and forgotten a bunch of them but I remember how to make an Old Fashioned. I carried a muddler, what looks like a 6 inch baseball bat and is used to mush up its fruity ingredients, to work for years and it wasn’t for threatening waitresses who would conveniently forget to write up a drink fifteen times a night, though it could have been. There’s that honesty thing again.

The man who taught me integrity took his last breath a little over four years ago and I let go of his hand for the last time and made my way to work ten hours later. I drove five hundred miles to get there and I can tell you this. Not a mile went by that I didn’t have a hard time seeing the road clearly.

 Not a godammed one.

I got to work on time. I think he would have been proud.

The thing he might not have been too proud of was my mouth. I’ve been known to cuss like a wounded pirate on occasion, usually over somebody doing something lazy or dishonest that reflects badly on an industry I love. I am less than perfect.

I can keep my mouth shut when it counts, though. Like when the people around me do less than perfect dumb things that can get them in trouble, for instance. I’m still keeping some dirty secrets and always will. And one other thing…..

I am very, very fast.

But now it seems that all of that stuff means nothing. Apparently, I’m a dinosaur, an anachronism. Nobody out there seems to have a need for an employee like Yours Truly and I don’t know what to make of it. Speed demon veterans who have your back and will fire their own wives for showing up late to work (Yes. I did.) are obviously out of favor these days. They might loan you back every nickel you ever paid them if you get in a tight spot but, really….what good are they in the big picture?

Not much, I guess. I found myself working, after a bit of job searching, in some pretty gruesome conditions this weekend. Surrounded by a mob of thugs that nobody in their right mind would want any part of waiting on, I endured it all with little protest. I tuned out what even they know is a defamation to the word music and, in between popping beers, romanced the idea of the open range. The lone prairie and the high true place where the wind whispers down from the pines and lulls you into a sense of oneness with the stars in the sky and sets your soul at ease.

Unless, of course, some thieving, rustling polecat tries to swipe your cows and then, by golly, you just string ‘em up or shoot ‘em, don’t you? And the fact that thugs will stand next to your bar and smoke something that smells like polecats instead of buying a drink from you and there’s really nothing you can do about it just makes it even worse.

It’s time for a career change, obviously. Even though Derby Day is coming and any bar worth a damn might need an old guy who knows how to make a mint julep and can make a thousand of the damn things if need be and collect for every one of them, it’s time to move on but my heart’s not in it.

It’s not ticking like it used to and should be and it’s giving me fits but one thing’s for sure. My heart has always been in the bar business. And some day soon when the horses shoot out of the gate and people are caught up in the excitement of it all, shouting at bartenders for beers and at horses for running like old ladies, I’ll be missing the hell out of it, wishing for all the world for one last chance to do the thing that has made me happiest over the years.

Tough shit for me, huh?

I knew of a man down in Goat’s Ass, Florida several years back that loved his work in this business and was defined by it as much as I do and am. My customers in the crummy little joint I had open down there for a year used to tell me about him after the cold beer got the best of them and it fascinated me. I’m sorry I never met the guy but I talked to his widow, his best friend and a host of others about him and came to understand the true nature of a man who was a legend in a town that is nothing, if not serious about its drinking. He showed up every day on time at a place called the Hi Level, an out and out dump if there ever was one, and put his heart and soul into seeing that it ran as it should. Everybody who could stand another beer had one in hand if he had anything to do with it and things ran as they should because of him. That’s what they tell me.

He ignored the chest pains and other worsening symptoms that warned him things weren’t quite right until it was just a little too late, though. And one busy night, in the heat and the noise and the fury of it all, he dropped to the floor, suddenly dead, the music right behind as a stunned crowd looked on, aghast.

They’d have buried him out back of the place if they could have gotten away with it. He loved it that much, they tell me.

They did the next best thing, though. A few of them got together and opened a bar in his honor and named it after him but it didn’t last. It couldn’t have, really.

Not without the man who inspired it. A business needs sacrifice and dedication sometimes and not just any damned fool will gamble his own life to see one make a go of it. This one needed that.

On Highway 19, just outside of Palatka, Fl there stood, for a while, a bar that folks there still talk about and sometimes, after a beer too many, they cry about it a little. I forget the man’s name but I saw his picture there and I know what everyone, even his wife, used to call him.

“Cowboy”.

I feel like I’ve been robbed.

 - Craig Fentress

“A little bit of this and a little bit of that equals a lot of nothing. Unless you are female and then it’s a freakin masterpiece”.

I was hangin’ with Enigma’s Hank Cashman this weekend, you know him as Poker’s own version of Beer Abby and he made reference to never knowing just who reads his articles. He mentioned that just when he begins to wonder if people really do read it they start coming out of the woodwork complaining about something he has written.

Amen brother!

After said conversation I incredibly stumbled onto several people sitting in a local cantina reading Enigma. They were in heated conversation about the Robert T. Nash termination at Talk FM and the way I reacted in my article towards his parting words about Chattanooga being less than a great town with great people.

As they talked I admittedly hid my face and listened as I was called both a legend and a wannabee, a jackass and the man, funny as hell and the worst writer to ever live. It was for sure a roller coaster ride of ego trip and why the hell do I do this.

Eventually I settled on thinking “Hey Cashman, they really do read our stuff”. Mixed opinions are okay, even encouraged, no opinion means it’s time to choose another gig. Right as they started to debate the old Chattanooga Live television show I was ratted out by one of the guys who recognized me from UTC and the detractors looked like I had pulled a gun. So using my best poker face and bluffing ability I went on to say how much I really appreciate them reading and that being called a nuttless butthead is really what I live for. Before long, we were all best friends proving that even spineless butt kissers can fit in if they apply themselves.

As the conversation went on I found out that the six of them had all somehow or another ran across my body of work in several ways and so I decided to ask for their thoughts, their likes and dislikes in the media, specifically my work. They were very helpful especially the guy who had pointed out my lack of testicles and the anus on my face – it’s good to bond with your public.

Here is what I found out.

The UTC grads were my buddies to the end loving me as fellow Mocs Maniacs and former regulars at Wild Wednesdays. They were quick to say that they like me being a family guy at UTC but loved the Big Kahuna being King of the Pigs and felt I should give them more raw humor when I write. They also reminded me that I have a hot wife because at one time I was hard to handle. (Note to wife, their idea not mine please don’t change the locks…..again).

Two of the guys mentioned a story I did about the target rich environment of young single moms at “My Little Pony Shows” and that they had taken their nieces to a “Veggie Tales” show and hit pay dirt. I have to admit, it almost brought tears to my eyes to hear that my writing had impacted people in such a way, it’s truly a gift.

The female wanted to know if I really did drink toilet water from my daughter’s tea cup so I asked her did she really want a tongue kiss? Her response was not at all lady like but she did wink as if to suggest “maybe if I would go swish some Listerine”.

As for my biggest critic he was mostly silent as if he had been caught sleeping with his cousin outside of Alabama but with my persistence he finally explained his remarks and why he thinks I suck.

In a nutshell, he is a communications snob.

One of those people who believe unless you have a college degree in bullshit you shouldn’t be allowed to deal in it. He went on to say that Robert T. is a wordsmith and a journalist and I agreed. He explained that writing is a time-tested art form and my style is demeaning to our area making him look bad when he visited other places. Wow, Enigma has gone national?

He also stated that “there should be a minimum required IQ before people should be allowed on public radio and TV”. To which I offered to show him my Mensa acceptance letter, again he looked like I had pulled a gun.

That’s my fans, thanks everybody and to show that I am listening here are three completely different tidbits for this week.

#1. UTC Lady Mocs Basketball coach Wes Moore has left Chattanooga for a job at ECU. Wes is a regular guy who just happens to be an “INCREDIBLE” coach and person. He will be missed by all of us in the UTC family and area hoops will never be the same.

#2.  "When we talk about chicken, it's pumped full of female hormones, and so when men eat this chicken, they stray from being men."  Bolivian President Evo Morales

There have also been studies on how said hormones make girls boobs bigger. 

Kahunaman’s summary, eating chicken can make for a world full of giant boobs filled with men who don’t really give a crap.

#3. With all the talk about manufacturing growth in the area may I suggest that we get back to our early 20th century roots? No wonder Robert T. thinks we are a city full of tools, it’s where we came from. In 1900 our area led the way in the manufacturing of sex toy technology.

The Chattanooga…stood nearly seven feet tall and required a couple of men to operate it. Being steam-powered, the engine of the machine was located in a small room and two men shoveled coal into the furnace and monitored the steam temperature, pressure, and thrust required to drive the Chattanooga. The engine room was separated from the doctor’s room by a wall that had a hole in it. A mechanical arm extended from the engine through the wall and into the consulting room where the doctor controlled it and used the vibrating arm to administer the appropriate genital massage to the grateful patient.

This was a mechanical and medical wonder back then and I am sure we have the politicians in place to once again put our cities name back in a place of national wonder.

Let’s hope my wife doesn’t want one we just bought a Volkswagen and the garage is full.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

A lot of you are familiar with that expression. Some of you live it. “Windshield time” is the time spent behind the wheel (and the windshield) while traversing the roads and highways of this great state and nation. The nature of my job requires a lot of windshield time. When I’m not devoting my energy and attention to my Enigma duties, I am a wandering peddler of things technical. My customers don’t like coming to my office to meet with me, so I drive to them. I fly to conferences and training sessions now and then, but I’m typically putting four tires on the freeway for business trips…

…Those of us who get a lot of windshield time in Tennessee have a healthy appreciation for the scenery of our state. Things get a little bleak between Bucksnort and Memphis, but there are a lot of great roads, highways and towns in the Volunteer State. There are even some cool places on either side of that dismal stretch of west Tennessee interstate. Jackson. Ripley. The growing metropolis of Martin. Tina Turner’s tiny hometown of Nutbush (Unincorporated). I love driving through the valleys on the east side of Nickajack Dam and up Monteagle mountain on a crisp spring morning. (I kind of hate the Monteagle thing on a cold, rainy day. Don’t you?) I enjoy getting past the smell of Bowater and crossing the Tennessee River on the way to Knoxville. I hate getting stuck in the office for too long. It feels like the road is literally calling me back…

…Dealing with truck traffic is one of the necessary evils of being a road warrior. Everything you eat or own has spent some time on a truck. Trucking is a critical part of our national infrastructure. I appreciate the job that truck drivers do. I just wish the jackasses wouldn’t insist on being in the one interstate “fast” lane when they’re going 62 mph so they can pass the right lane truck going 61 mph. Chattanooga’s “ridge cut” is the worst example of bad truck driving in the country. There is no reason at all why traffic should grind to a near-standstill heading up the ridge cut. Make all the trucks use the right lane (even if it backs the lane up to Tiftonia) and let the rest of us head up at a normal speed…

…Pit stops are a critical part of road life. Deciding when, where and how long to stop can greatly impact travel time. I have stopped at most of the exits on the interstates between Chattanooga, Nashville, Knoxville, Atlanta and Birmingham. I know where the clean restrooms are. I know who has the enormous fountain Diet Cracks that I need for a long drive. I know which Mickey D’s drive-thrus are too slow for a quick pit stop. McDonald’s basic cheeseburgers are still one of the best road meals ever. The new McDoubles have a bit too much ketchup for safe vehicular consumption. If I’m truly worried about getting errant condiments on my pants or shirt (and don’t have backup apparel in the car), then I stick with a pack of beef jerky, some Combos and a one-liter bottle of Diet Crack. A typical road meal for me. Health food…

…Windshield time often puts road warriors in the path of law enforcement. The big trend now is spreading a small fleet of black or white unmarked (but unmistakable) SUV’s over a couple of miles of interstate. They usually have their windows blacked out. They seldom travel alone. I have heard that the officers inside those spooky gas-guzzlers are looking at drivers’ faces with powerful binoculars, trying to spot the ones who freak out when they see cop cars. I never look in their direction after I first see them. I have one of those terrorist watch list faces and I have to be careful…

…In fact, being careful is the most important part of windshield time. I try to avoid distractions. I try to keep focused on my surroundings. It doesn’t matter how safe I drive if some wack job runs into me. I have to completely forget that last thought when I head out on the highway or it might turn me into one of those wack jobs…

-- Mark Bedford

This SUCKS this week:

My boy R. T. Nash got fired from talk radio. He was the only one on the air that got on the "Hood Rats- Welfare Bums- Bottom Feeders in office and worthless  projects around town". He and a nut called Jammer that used to be on talk radio  are the only two that ever got close to telling it like it really is.

Did you ever notice that the Patel's gas stations are 15 or 20 cents higher when there is no competition close to them.

Saturday night Fox News- the big lead story is a cat in a tree for five days. The woman is crying about it. What the hell?? If it gets hungry or thirsty enough its coming down. If it doesn't I can do it with one shot !!

I think the Projects should be surrounded with razor wire, have guards checking ID's to go in and out, do monthly drug test to allow those leeches to live off us taxpayers! Don't let them live there forever either. We don't owe  them anything.

I wonder what these out of town people that spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on South Side condos and the North Shore condos think when they get a  whiff of the chicken plant and the sewerage plant after they have moved in!!

The oil rig that blew up in New Orleans last week will bring gas to  $3.00 a gallon soon! This after the airlines  saved $690,000,000.00 for  not flying after the volcano.

Don't drive thru Red Bank- they still have the cameras!!

Crabby Bill

Friday the termination heard ‘round the world or at least through all of Chattanooga was heard as popular talk radio personality Robert T. Nash was dismissed.  Before we get started I might as well advise the folks at the radio ranch to unclench as there is not enough reasoning to put up a fight here making a martyr of myself and Mr. Nash, whom I have known personally and worked side-by-side a lot of the time since he moved back to Chattanooga in the mid 1990s.

One reason to unclench is that the media in this market – radio, TV, print and internet, is not that big a deal – at least not as much as those of us in the business would like to think.  Even if you are the number one rated station in this town Chattanooga is the ranked 106th in size.  We’re fifth place in our own state for size and national importance.

So the next time some little sales person with their literature and rating book comes in to see you quite frankly ask them what they can actually do for you. Despite the vast improvements in livability in Chattanooga, this town will always be a stepping stone market.  It is a stop off for those on the way up and down the ladder of media success.  Some have chosen to call Chattanooga home avoiding the constant moving usually involved with career advancement in media, some with good reason and others who know they have already peaked and want to be a big fish in a small pond.

That being said about this market there are good things and bad things about being in a market like Chattanooga.  You can get to know a lot of people in varying capacities relatively easily, but then again there are those who in turn are constantly trying to interfere with your privacy.  That and the fact people in this town tend to clique up in what is like a game of us versus them.  In other words, we probably live in the world’s biggest high school.  Despite how much you keep to yourself there is always at least a handful of people that know the “real you” and can tell you a thing or two about just about anyone in this town.

Because of this homespun way of acting a lot of people like the smalltown feel Chattanooga has.  And because of this the town has trouble growing beyond that and constantly suffers from growing pains.  And that is no more evident than in the media and media sales.

When I got my first gig in this market I was told by a sage media veteran (who no longer resides here) that a majority of the advertising in the market was handled by only a handful of people.  That has proven to be true as since I’ve been in this market I have seen a dozen newspapers come and go and merge, a number or radio stations buy and sell and flip and flip format over and over and have even seen at least two TV stations go out of business. (They were smaller non-network affiliates).  Heck even among the big five, two are owned by one company and outsource their news from another station.  That can’t be a healthy sign, even in this digital age.

There have been many questions and guesses about why Nash was terminated.  I personally don’t know.  I only have a hunch.  If Nash was in any other market he would probably be a rock star because he has one quality that is missing in a majority of news, radio, and media “personalities” – (not the quotation marks there).  Unlike others in this market who only want to hold a job in the market and not stir anything up, Nash actually did his homework.  No one in this market has ever done the kind of show prep – be it for radio or print that Robert T. Nash has always brought to the table.  And when you find the truth sometimes it hurts and ruffles feathers.

And quite frankly the only way not to have your feathers ruffled is to do your job right.  As long as I’ve known Nash he has been a top rate investigative journalist – probably the only journalist in this market.  The media is this town is afraid to tell the truth most of the time opting to air cute pet adoption stories instead of hard news pieces.

Robert T. Nash is not the easiest person to get along with.  Many times over the years we have gone face to face yelling four-letter expletives at each other over difference of opinion, but in the end once the smoke cleared we shook hand and went back to what we were doing at the time.  If there was ever one person I would trust to hire to work a story and to do it completely and correctly with all “I”’s dotted and “T”’s crossed it would be no one but Robert T. Nash.  Kevin West comes in a close second but I often wonder if he’s gotten too comfortable with his position at WGOW to be as an effective newsman as he was when he first entered the market 20 years ago. No one can question Robert T. Nash’s integrity – no one.

Granted, I rarely listened to his show, although I began listening to it more lately.  But I know the product is always good.  His voice got on my nerves – he doesn’t have a voice for traditional radio, but content-wise he was light years ahead of anyone else that has ever worked at the station.  And because I knew he was thorough I respected him, which I have for years and continue to.  I believe him more than other radio hosts who are mere mouthpieces for an advertiser so they and the station can get free stuff.

But that’s the problem with radio, newspaper, TV and the news in general in town.  They don’t feel pressure to tell the truth as much as they feel the need to tell people what will make them feel good or service an agenda that has a backroom payoff.

Anyone that had a personality problem at the station with Nash I’m sorry, but he was the one thing people in this town talked about – good or bad on the station.  Compared to other markets talk radio in this market which is filled with a lot of wannabes and blowhards seems to be pressed to find anyone to entice engaging conversation on the station.  Pulse news is no better as they are proving what is truly wrong with radio in this market.  It’s not really about ratings or who’s listening, it’s how much advertising you can sell.  The ratings prove that.  In the last year there have been over a half dozen stations flip formats or affiliates for one reason or another.  That’s a disturbing trend.

And if Mr. Nash offended someone on the air, I’m sorry.  I’m not apologizing for him.  I have no dog in the fight.  The truth hurts sometimes.  It stings more than a lie about you.  There’s a reason your feathers got ruffled and you need to come clean and not call a meeting with a sales or station manager demanding changes.  At least when Nash would do his show he would be accountable, using his own name and stating his contact information over the air, not hiding behind some phony deejay name.  But he’ll end up like the other talk giant in this market that used his own name – Parker Smith.  But Smith was a totally different breed of radio personality.  He was also number one in his time slot when he first got fired on talk radio. Go figure.

The handling of the Nash situation with the only reason given by the station was incoherent stuttering will definitely shed a light on the way radio stations and other medias in this market do business.  I hope something is learned by this when all is said and done and hopefully some justice to Nash and his reputation will take place.  He was a shining star at the station that houses a ton of personalities, many, like Jeff Styles (who thinks I hate him but I don’t) who in any other radio market would easily be demanding a six figure salary, and not scraping by after 20 years in this market.

Good luck Nash, I’ve got your back, even though I feel a few bullets are aimed at mine as I finish my little diatribe.

 - Dave Weinthal

We all scream for ice cream. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like ice cream. I’m sure there are ice cream haters out there. I just don’t know any. As the weather gets warmer, ice cream sales boom and waistlines stretch. I probably put on five pounds researching this column. I’m the Hunter S. Thompson of dessert journalism…

…Before I go all out into further analysis of ice cream and other frozen desserts, let me throw out some general observations on sweet things. I have read… and I tend to believe… that men are more predisposed to crave salty and spicy things, while females are more drawn to sweets. Perhaps those are stereotypes, but I am more likely to hunger a slice of pizza or a bag of Doritos than a dessert. All that being said… there are times when ice cream is supremely cravable…

…Any discussion on ice cream has to involve the big question. What’s your favorite flavor? If you like ice cream… and I’m sure most of you do… your favorite flavor perhaps suddenly came to mind. Maybe your taste buds had a quick flashback and you could… almost… taste… it...

…My favorite flavor has become as elusive as the Holy Grail. Haagen-Dazs Macadamia Nut Brittle. Yes, I had to hit Google to spell “Haagen Dazs.” I also hit the HD website and discovered that Macadamia Nut Brittle is not on the list of current flavors. That would explain my inability to find it for six or seven years. My recollection of MNB is vivid. Haagen-Dazs ice cream is always incredibly creamy. By that, I mean it is filled with fat grams. I never look at the nutrition label on ice cream. I have gotten good at looking at the ingredients (love to know what’s in that yummy stuff) without letting my eyes waver to the sugar content and grams o’ fat. If I have decided to have ice cream, I am throwing nutritional caution to the wind. MNB is perfect... like butter pecan on steroids...

…OMG on the MNB. I just found Haagen-Dazs Macadamia Nut Brittle. Unfortunately, it’s only available in mini-cups… in Europe. Wonderful. Now I have something else to put on the “to do” list for the European vacation I’m planning for…2020 or so…

…Given that my much-loved MNB isn’t currently available here in the continental U.S., I am spending more time with my favorite ice cream flavor that I can actually buy here in Chattanooga. Bruster’s Chocolate Raspberry Truffle. Lord. The chocolate is so chocolatey. The raspberry jam streaking through the rich ice cream is more tart than sweet. It’s epic. I have some in the freezer right now… and I will have a bite before I type another word. Well. That was a nice break. I have tried several flavors at Bruster’s, but I’m stuck on the CRT for now. My adorable daughter loves their Key Lime Pie. I’ve tried it. It’s like lime sherbet, but creamier… and with chunks of graham cracker crust. Delish…

…There are several fine local purveyors of ice cream. Clumpies, on Frazier Avenue, is another fave. Love their Blackberry White Chocolate Chunk. Cold Stone Creamery, down by the river, is a nice stop on a warm night’s river walk. Love their coffee ice cream with mashed up Heath bar pieces in it. Marble Slab on Gunbarrel has much the same approach. Great ice cream with stuff mixed up into it…

…Once you decide on your flavor or flavors, you have a few more decisions to make. Cake cone? Waffle cone? Just a cup? Any toppings? Decisions, decisions. I love waffle cones myself. Every now and then, I treat myself to a sundae… or even a banana split. I haven’t had a hot fudge sundae with loads of nuts in a very long time. I think I ought to have one. Soon. I told you. This column has put a fiver on me. Once I have that HFS, it might rise up to a tenner. There are worse fates…

-- Mark Bedford

This weekend, instead of slinging beers as I probably should have been to thirsty hordes of people consumed by spring fever, I found myself out and about in what will have to pass for the real world, in good company but at times just a little on edge. My favorite friend had been invited to a campout/party on top of a mountain somewhere and we went, along with the legendary Spike B. of Nicklebag fame.

Sometimes, Spike just don’t quite behave himself, to put it mildly, and that’s nothing but good news for somebody struggling for material when it comes time to do a little writing.

Thanks, Spike!

Add just the right amount or a little bit more of coconut rum to an already dangerously uninhibited personality, and any nearby decent looking woman is going to hear some stuff if Spike is on any kind of a roll and, trust me, he was “on”. In between nearly wrecking another friend’s dirt bike, possibly scarring myself for life in an unfortunate turn of events involving a high-powered rifle and eating every potato chip I could find I would invariably find myself, throughout the day, in close proximity to some serious woo being pitched by my buddy doing a fine impression of a half-crocked Don Juan.

Hey. Whatever works.

I know that I very nearly choked on my tasty barbeque Frito Lays when I heard him impart to all those nearby that he was actively searching for a woman who would engage in the trashiest kind of grownup naked stuff you can find all over the internet but that you wouldn’t want your mother to know that you know about.

The fun stuff, in other words.

As if that weren’t enough, Spike being Spike decided to throw down with the bare-bones honesty policy that we’d all probably be better off if we used a little more often. He said, and I quote, to one of the little cuties at hand:

“All I can promise you is sex”.

Now, damn it, why didn’t I think of that twenty years ago? Because I’m just not that kind of guy, that’s why. I’m not an iconic figure with a cool nickname and an ongoing history of standing out and apart from the ordinary and I just don’t see it working for me.  Also, I’m afraid my mother might be listening in when I least expect it; even on top of some mountain in the middle of nowhere where the beer is flowing faster than the bullshit and somebody keeps turning the music way up.

Hey, never do or say anything you wouldn’t want your mother to know about, is all I’m saying… just another handy little hint that we’d all be better off observing, for the most part. Call me crazy, but I’m funny that way. 

Anyhow, the indecent proposal thing seemed to pretty much do the trick for him and Spike was in a pretty good mood on the way back to civilization.

I wish I could say the same. I was cold and bleeding and my shoes and socks were wringing wet; the pain-in-the-ass result of my listening to another nearly famous friend telling me that the creek I was going to ride a dirt bike through was only a foot deep. Five words to that dude:

Kiss my sopping wet ass.

I think I might have indecent friends in general but I’m not really sure. I overheard another one, this one female, tell somebody “You don’t have to take a bath to come see me” on the phone yesterday – a statement fraught with absolutely filthy connotations but I thought it best not to pry. A few other people showed up while I was there and none of them really stunk that I noticed, so the mystery continues.

The highlight of indecency for the weekend, though, didn’t involve anyone that I know, at least to the best of my knowledge. Schnucki Putci (Pronounced shnook ee put zee. I’m told it means “sweetheart” in German but she’ll still probably punch me for it) and I went out to the Blue Hole in Soddy yesterday, braving some slippery creek rocks that could well have resulted in another sopping wet ass, or worse. We made our eventual way to the top of a big assed rock overlooking a somewhat smaller assed rock about 75 yards downstream that afforded a spectacular view of some rednecks in their natural habitat, tanning their fat, tattooed selves and encouraging each other to jump from the adjoining cliff with such choice phraseology as “Jump, you queer” and “Jump, Putci”.

At least that’s what I think they said.

Five seconds of that bullshit was about four seconds to much for me and I turned my eyes and attention to hopefully better things. It was a spectacular day, weather-wise, and we were out in the very best part of it. There was an exceptional view from atop this big assed rock of the creek, the surrounding hills and the bright blue sky above and I allowed myself the luxury of trying to imagine it all unspoiled by dumb rednecks and the things that they do.

It almost worked.

As Schnucki Putci made her way close to my side, we both looked down onto the creek bed below and saw, coincidentally enough, another rock adorned with the following by some would-be Romeo with a can of white spray paint:

“I love you. Will you marry me?”

How touching.

How absolutely charming and, at once, horrific that anyone would choose to graffiti a marriage proposal on a rock in the wilderness. Couldn’t the barbaric sonofafuck (sorry, Mom) have just used a lousy freeway overpass like all the rest of his miserable ilk out there? Would his mother have approved?

This was close to Soddy, so she might have.

The real problem here was that this wasn’t the indecent proposal at all, not by a damned stretch. Atop the rock that overlooked this wretched display of some spraycan-happy idiot’s wanton disregard for nature and the people who seek to enjoy it was something even worse. Ten feet away from where we stood was another message written in the same color spray paint by what looked to be the same handspraywriting. I can only assume it was the same author. This one read “Poop sex?”

How indelicate. And also how baffling trying to figure out which proposition came first. You never know about the kind of people who will paint things on rocks and the way they might think. I only know what I saw.

I’m not kidding. Hell, I was looking for another tag that might have said “Spike was here” but he’s got too much class for that. Way too much. Besides, he’s not looking for marriage, even out of a woman who’d hike a long way and then climb up a big rock to do nasty things.

Somebody is though, and I’m guessing there was a redneck wedding recently without a whole lot of new ground being broken on the honeymoon. Again, just a guess, but I’d bet they probably skipped the champagne and huffed some paint out of a spray can instead.

To top all of this off, I found out this morning that somebody I’ve had some difficult dealings with lately has something I want and need has set the terms for its acquisition. I don’t like them too much because they are harsh and put me at an unacceptable disadvantage. It isn’t the partnership -the fair deal or reasonable proposition that I was looking for and I’ve read what amounts to the fine print. It amounts to this:

Poop Sex.

Call me crazy some more but I’m thinking I probably don’t need to climb that rock.

“The Chattanooga area is filled with history and natural beauty. Its people are Southern and American and all that implies both good and bad. There is no other place I would rather live, no other people I would rather hang with, no other town I would want to call home”.

Chattanooga has its problems like every other area in the world. We have periods of time when it seems the bad guys try and take over. Slow downs in the economy can make us all wonder if the end is near. Our politicians can leave us scratching our heads as they prove that they are human and humans can be dumb asses. And sometimes the line between the bad guy and politician is drawn on city stationary. But overall this area holds up to the challenges of the times because of our people.

Chattanooga and its surrounding areas have our share of national interviews that can make most of us turn to the tube and go “Oh no he didn’t just say it sounded like a freight train”? And sometimes it feels as if the wife beater should become the area flag, flying next to the pride of Dixie and a Don’t Tread on Me flag. Those images are no different than seeing gay folks parading in Frisco, the Jersey Shore gang or tanned people with emotionless faces in L.A. 

Every place has to have a comical version of the people who live there. I am sure that our new friends from Germany don’t all have blue eyes, blond hair and speak like that VW Bug in those commercials but it’s funny to think they might.

Recently a local radio talk show host known for being mean about such things was let go from his station and as if to take one more back handed swipe at our city he was quoted as saying:   "I've often said - On air and off - Chattanooga - my hometown - is dirty, cheap and mean”.

That pisses the Kahunaman off!

The three words that I would use to describe my town would not be dirty, cheap and mean.

How about beautiful, affordable and friendly?

To each their own but I see Chattanooga as a great place with great people minus the spattering of assholes that are slowly being weeded out as they are taken off the airways.

Again, that’s just me!  

Here’s to a bright future and our hometown.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass                     

This is what sucks this week:

With all the wrecks and traffic jams on I-24 at the ridge cut why don't those idiots that are responsible for the problem set up porta toilets and booths to sell or give away water, snacks, etc., for the hours of waiting for traffic to move again.

How bout these goofy sheriffs in these small counties around here that wear 5 stars on their collars. I'm retired military and the only people I know that ever wore 5 stars were Eisenhower and Patton.

Levi- running again for office. Seventy-eight years old, receiving three pensions and still wanting to suck off taxpayers. I wish there was someone else besides "hey Buddy" Hullander running against the fossil.

Littlefield was in Australia last week. That joker spends more time in other countries than he does here. He is in China so much he knows the language. The boy knows how to milk the system. I wonder if Missy was invited.

We have lots of empty buildings here with toilets, showers, kitchens etc. We could put these homeless bums in them to live. In return the bums could keep the place looking nice and go out and clean up Chattanooga. It won't work! Laziness always gets in the way.

Did you ever notice that the Patel's Indian gas stations around town are always 10-20 cents higher per gallon when there is no competition close by? Gouging??

How bout these parasites that have been living in the projects for generations. The other day I heard on a black radio station I heard the announcers congratulating a woman for living in the projects for 40 years. In other words she has been living off taxpayers and working the system (food stamps, healthcare, pretty much free everything) for most of her life. We are sick of it.

Check me out next week

Crabby Bill

This has happened to me twice in the last couple of weeks. I was eating out in a restaurant. Had to go to the restroom. Hey, it happens. We’d all rather take care of our personal business in the privacy of our own homes, but biological imperatives have schedules of their own. On both of these occasions, I saw a “server” from the restaurant texting madly from within the confines of the men’s room. (Being a man and all, I tend to use that restroom most often…other than two rather embarrassing incidents in the Panera on Cleveland’s Paul Huff Parkway and the Golden Corral in Fort O. It’s not my fault that they flipped the traditional restroom orientations.) I have been meaning to comment on this latrinal texting phenomenon for a while now…

…The two above-mentioned incidents bothered me on a number of levels. In this era of marginal restaurant service (there are notable exceptions), I don’t know any servers who are fast enough to be able to take a little text break after they pee. I’m a solid 20-percent tipper for decent service…and do better for exceptional attention. I see a lot of entry-level servers working in places that you’d think would hire more experienced help. (Restaurants tend to keep a stable of college kids who are willing to settle for 20 hours a week. Keeps the eateries from dealing with messy issues like benefits and fairness.) As I saw these two young lads wearing their thumbs out on their phones, I knew there were patrons out there thirsty for drink refills or obliviously waiting while their entrees cooled off in the service window…

…A bartender in one of the ‘burbs or Orlando was even worse than those two toilet texters. I was out with a couple of business associates. The bar was somewhat crowded. As we (and others) waited to order some adult beverages, this bartender was holding her phone up in front of her face and texting someone. Holy crap! This lass depends on tips for a large chunk of her livelihood, but she was willing to ignore a line full of patrons while she texted whomever was on the other end of that “conversation.” It won’t surprise you to know that I was a bit sarcastic toward her… or that she didn’t get enough tip out of me for half of a Happy Meal…

…It bugs me a little that we have become a text-obsessed nation. The technology involved in text messaging is remarkably simple. Text messages are tiny little data packets that move quickly across today’s telecom networks. Voice calls are far more data-intensive and complicated. But my two teenagers hardly ever make actual phone calls any more. They are textmonsters. And, I must admit, it is nice to be able to ping them via text… just to be sure they’re okay. My adorable daughter is virtually unreachable via voice… but usually replies to a text message. She replies to every last text from her friends… even if we’re having dinner out somewhere… but I am B-listed when it comes to responses. I cope…

…Mostly… I think text messaging is a good thing. Texting is a generational thing, in some ways. I know some people my age who say they never use texting. Their loss. Texting is a nice way to share or get some information without taking the time (or requiring the privacy) needed for a phone call…

…But texting can be a bad thing, too. A friend of mine got hit head-on by a texting driver who also happened to be under the influence. She’s had a couple of surgeries already. They are hoping they can save her right foot. Drinking and driving is bad enough. Drinking, driving and texting? Not a good idea. Cell phones are distracting enough without the added distraction of trying to work those tiny little keys while navigating through traffic. Think before you text. And if you’re my "server"… and I see you texting in the bathroom… don’t count on any folding money out of me…

-- Mark Bedford

GOLF SUCKS!!

This joker named Tiger Woods has all these sports nuts on radio, TV, newspapers, etc., acting like he is the second coming of Christ. Golf is not a sport and what that dude makes off a game that to me is about like Ping-Pong is crazy. Glad he lost the Masters!!

Saw a new Myth Busters tonight where a phone book inside a car door panel will stop a bullet. All cars in the projects should come equipped like that now! The only problem is most gunshots hit you in the head or upper torso. Windows don't stop lead.

Saw in the paper today that Einstein Scales wants to give a $25000.00 a year raise to Howard school principal Smith because Howard is "improving". The state says get rid of the guy. Where is he gonna go if Scales can't get him a raise? This good ol boy stuff needs to stop.

Went to Coolidge Park Sunday. None of the outside water fountains work. What's up with that? I'm not sticking my face in the fountain where kids are playing. Walnut Street Bridge is still closed too.

I wish we had a local radio station that would let people call in and voice their opinions on things and limit their commercials. We do have a station that calls its self "talk radio" but its mostly commercials. The people that are on the air must be living high on the hog with all the freebies. I wonder if corporate management knows about them? It used to be called "payola".

How about those commercials on TV for Sonic, where the two gay guys are sitting in their car eating and they have a disagreement over food? One always punches the other. Sonic has great ad producers (What the Hell!!)

What about this fat nut that thinks he looks like Elvis and kicks mattresses that have smiley faces on them. Why buy anything from a stupid commercial like that. I hate those stupid commercials where the parents have their little brats say something stupid like "shop with my daddy".

See you next week

The CRAB

“Have you lost your dog?”

I just finished my seventh year of writing for Enigma and it has been, to say the least seven years of incredible change for me. I have gone from the crazy guy the editor of this publication wanted to “shake things up a bit” to a guy he probably wishes would take a few more risks in my writing. I have gone from the Big Kahuna of Chattanooga nightlife to a modern day, suburban “Leave It To Beaver” episode.

Maybe I haven’t completely gone soft but I have to admit that I can’t think of anything better than being a father and a “good” husband. They say “pimpin aint easy”, BULLSHIT!

 It’s daddyin’ and husbandin’ that aint easy, pimpin is playing, this other thing, that’s when you find out if you’re a real man or not.

Speaking of changes, things have changed a lot since I left TV and radio. The corporate crunch has neutered some the best in the business. However one thing remains the same, the legend on Broad Street, Luther.

Not only does his incredible wit and spirit continue to shine even as his once majestic pipes crack a bit but he is still the king and the one name most the area knows best. And now he has a mile of the road he has traveled since Jesus was a little boy named after him.

Congrats Mr. Luther on your strip of Broad Street being officially named Luther Masingill Parkway. That’s a very cool thing.  

As for me and media, I don’t really miss it, I stay busy doing some equally cool stuff but I do miss the power, sort of like when Superman decided he wanted to be mortal until he got his ass whipped in that café, allow me to explain.

When I was on TV, I could go on the air and announce that I was hungry for some Krystals or gummy bears and by shows end, someone would bring them to me.

Okay that was self-serving, try this.

I could announce that a family had been burned out and my great viewing family would have a truckload of stuff outside the studios in a matter of hours. For three years in a row I won the media “Pig Kissing” contest for the Kidney Foundation setting a new record each year because my audience listened when I would speak and genuinely ask for their help.

If a judge was a goober or a cop “Gerry Davis” was a crook I could turn up the heat by focusing on their unjust ways. It didn’t always make for immediate change but it started the ball rolling.

And as I said I could almost always help people in need and that was reason enough for me to love the job.

Recently, I had to come to terms with the fact that I no longer have that kind of immediate influence. An old viewer of mine contacted me and told me about a military family who was living with no lights, no cable and barely enough grocery and gas money to go to school and work. The father was in Iraq and because of some red tape the family checks were three months behind and according to my viewer, the wife was “almost suicidal”.

In my TV days I would have went on the air and I guarantee you I would have gotten immediate response on how we could find help and even raised enough money to have turned the lights on and helped the family “RIGHT THEN”!

I explained to my old viewer that I was no longer in a position like before but that I would try and reach out to people who could help. After a while we did come up with some funds and I hope it helped but shortly after that I found out that a lady I had once worked with was going through the same thing and no one knew about it because she didn’t let us know. I thought how could I not know? I helped hundreds of folks in my TV days, strangers, they would find us but this lady was right in front of me and she never let me know. Then it hit me, back then I was in people’s living rooms everyday and as calls would come in people watching would come to know me and my callers. They would see the generosity of the area and feel like they were part of something, something I was lucky enough to be a part of.

On this sunny day as I drive down Luther Masingill Parkway I am thinking how lucky I have been to be a small part of the Chattanooga Media Family.

I am most lucky to be a father, it is absolutely the best thing I have ever done.

However, I do hope that one day soon I will once again be able to sit behind a microphone or TV camera and rally my listeners to help out folks in need. It is the gift hidden in the giving, the meaning hidden in a seemingly meaningless body of work and looking back and according to the lady who called for my help, “the reason people accepted The Big Kahuna into their homes”.

I truly thank everyone who ever did. 

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

The Crab is back!

What about these animals that came to Coolidge Park and harassed and shot people! I think they should give the cops flamethrowers and they can shoot gentle bursts of flame and drive them into the Tennessee River. It might put a stop to this craziness!!

Retired police chief Cooper-Mayor Littlefield needed him like a fish needs a bicycle. It’s the second time (Marti Rutherford) maybe more, he's tried to give taxpayer dollars to floaters. How 'bout Missy Crutchfield!!

How about the cost for parking around the Riverfront?- $9.00 for 2 hours. I don't think paying that amount  to smell and see the stinking river and  the overpriced restaurants, theaters, and shops will be worth my money.

Curtis Adams- some nuts in Crossville decided he'd be a good City Manager. Reminds me of the Andy Griffith Show where the Greenville Council came to Mayberry to hire Barney as their Sheriff because they saw where Barney made the papers as a hero, when Andy actually made it happen.

Kanku's are you really stupid enough to stop and buy gas, beer, snack etc. when you might catch a bullet in the head. If you are GOOD LUCK!!

Went to Top of The Dock today- outside Tiki Bar- 85 degrees- cold beer, good food- Its as close to Florida as you can get!!

See you next week

The Crab

All men like fast cars and hot women.  Sometimes they get reversed and you get hot cars and fast women. Either way you’re a winner.  I’ve always had a deep fascination with different and unusual automobiles.  It seemed like my taste in women runs along those lines also.

I had read in a magazine about a new car being made by a man called Malcolm Bricklin.  It was a gull-winged automobile made in very limited quantities.  I called Malcolm on the telephone at his office in Nova Scotia, and told him I wanted one of his cars.  We made arrangements for him to ship me one of the automobiles to the port in Norfolk, Virginia.  I flew to Virginia with a friend – a female of course – and picked up the automobile.

I kept the car for about a year and a half and became a little disenchanted with it.  I took it to the collector auto auction in Atlanta and sold it to the Copeland Brothers, at that time the owners of the Popeye’s Fried Chicken chain.  I took the money and then purchased a slightly used Excalibur.

I drove that Excalibur for about a year and enjoyed it very much.  Only a trip to Fort Lauderdale I went by an exotic car dealership and they had a newer Excalibur.  I sold the one I owned to my South Florida distributor and purchased the newer one.  I kept that one for about a year and decided to order a custom made new one.  I called the company in Milwaukee, told them what I wanted and placed the order.

They finished the order in about three weeks.  Two of my friends and myself flew to Milwaukee and picked the car up.  We had a grand old time driving back to Chattanooga.  After spending a few days in Chattanooga I proceeded to Daytona Beach.  I had to get ready for a cosmetic and sun care show that was being put on in Fort Lauderdale.

At these shows it was the custom to have extremely good-looking models working your booth or showroom.  The young lady that worked for me lived in Daytona, got on the Florida Turnpike, and headed south.  As I mentioned earlier, not only was she a valued employee, she was also a very dear friend.

The Excalibur was a convertible, and as we were going to be traveling at a high speed I had the top up (thank goodness).  About halfway to Fort Lauderdale, my friend started getting a little frisky.  If reaching over and massaging my private member is getting a little frisky – she got very frisky.

She asked me if I had ever had oral sex at 70 miles an hour.  Up until that time the answer was no.  She then proceeded to unzip my pants.  I don’t really need to tell you what happened next.  Use your imagination.  I will say it’s awfully hard to concentrate on the road and maintaining a lane with such a distraction.

After that trip I had a new appreciation for that car.  The young lady moved to Hollywood, California and had a great career in movies and TV.  Occasionally I’ll see her on a TV program.  Whenever I do I can still remember that day.  I sure miss that car, if you know what I mean.  This is true -  I swear I know I was there…

 - Paul Burke, Sr.

I’ve been running across a bunch of crazy people lately and it’s had me thinking. Am I doing something to attract these people that I’m not really aware of or is it mere coincidence? Did the bus from Milledgeville break down nearby or am I just a plain old weirdo magnet? I can deal with crazies fairly well and I’m not afraid of most of them but like all things they are best handled in moderation. A couple of Jehovah’s Witness types on your doorstep at 10:00 am is okay as a daily dose of weirdness but not as a warm-up for some guy picking his nose and humming Led Zeppelin tunes next to you at the Waffle House an hour or so later.

I am fully aware that entering any given Waffle House at any given hour is just plain asking for it and that any place that serves hashbrowns topped with mushrooms (“capped” they call it) is likely to be frequented by goobers and forty year-old guys with subscriptions to Boy’s Life and pill problems but, goddam it…. that should pretty much do it for the day. Come 6:30 and you find yourself in line at the Bi-Lo behind another nose picker, this one androgynous and sporting a purple Mohawk, with a basket full of wrestling magazines, Vaseline, cucumbers and a toy poodle hopefully just along for a ride and it could very well be that The Universe is messing with you.

If he/she/it just happens to turn in your direction and lecherously look you up and down, it’s kind of a sure thing.

 Especially if they’re drooling.

You can decide for yourself whether or not I’m dreaming all of this up but I’ve put up with weirdos and crazy people seemingly without end for a long, long time. And if you don’t know the difference between crazy and weird let me try and help you out here. A weirdo, if he gets really bent out of shape, will mail you something that dropped out of a horse. A crazy person might just throw it at you.

Sometimes the line is a little more blurred and harder to call. A weirdo, for instance, might own eleven chainsaws but a crazy person (or is it the other way around?) might have a freezer full of Jehovah’s Witness parts. Either way, you don’t want them living next door.

Sometimes crazy is just a small step sideways off the weirdo path as in the following: weirdos will bang on your door at 10:00 am, identifying themselves as representatives of Jesus Christ and insist that grape juice was served at the Last Supper (Luke: Hey, Judas…you look kind of bummed out. Pass me a couple of shot glasses and that pitcher of Welch’s and pull up a chair, dude.) leaving you to doubt their sanity. Crazy people will sometimes do the same but also fiddle around with rattlesnakes for good measure.

Again, it’s a tough call.

I know one thing for sure. Crazy, weird, or just in need of a little observation to be on the safe side, I wish the majority of nutballs out there would buy one way bus tickets to Detroit and use them and leave the rest of us well-adjusted folks to our own devices and doings. The very next time I’m out for a ride on the motorcycle and find an inviting stretch of water where I can park and jump in, turning the sweltering heat of mid-day into a shivering, teeth-chattering experience better talked about than experienced, I don’t want to see any creepy types with giant Adam’s Apples riding up on unicycles in their BVD’s in broad daylight looking to do the same. I’m not sure which one that is- crazy or weird- but either way, I don’t like it. Just pass me by already and start pedaling your freak ass north and you might just catch up to that Greyhound at the next stop.

And just so I know that The Universe is screwing with me (thanks Universe!) this isn’t the only improbable incident in my history involving a nearly naked whack job making their way down a public thoroughfare on a bizarre mode of transport.

Hell no.

Ten years ago I was in my Jeep and on my way to visit my parents in Palm Coast, Fl and was traveling down Hwy 100 outside of Keystone, a no account burg that any sane person wouldn’t want to even stop for gas in. I was tempted to drive through it as quickly as possible but didn’t want to risk a ticket so I just puttered along until finally the road cleared and the speed limit went up. Way up.

I hit the gas. Hard.

A few hundred yards later I was passing Jimrod’s Trailer Paradise on the right, an out and out Hellhole on the shore of a small lake. Clotheslines full, decrepit cars as well as homes on cinder blocks and their decrepit owners staring, beer in hand, from behind charcoal grills full of God knows what, I attempted to flee this horrid tableau, headed for the coast with its palm trees, beaches and a Chile’s in place of Timmy’s Burger Hole.

I wasn’t fast enough. Peeling my eyes away from Jimrod’s, the ugliest thing this side of a raw oyster and back to the road was easy. Having them come to rest on what was to my left had me teetering on the brink of something too terrible for words in less than two seconds. There in broad daylight, to my utter amazement, was an overweight, sweaty black guy on a donkey at a dead trot, I’m guessing headed for Timmy’s Burger Hole for a milkshake and a king-sized order of tater tots. He was wearing a cowboy hat and boots.

And a Speedo.

The nightmares persist.

Weirdos and crazy people come and go and most of them are, by and large, harmless but that’s not always the case. At 4:30 this morning I got a phone call from somebody I was quite close to for more than a few years and apparently she’s really a weirdo magnet! She lives on another small lake fifteen miles away from Jimrod’s only this one truly is paradise, or was. A rustic home with the most bitchin’ fireplace and wood floors you’ve ever seen. Gorgeous flower gardens and an orchard. A perfect dock for swimming, catching a few rays, feeding the fish and turtles from or just sitting on and staring up at the stars at night while your mind keeps you perfect company. It is Heaven on earth.

I know. I used to live there. With a woman that people - including me, sometimes - say might be crazy. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t, but I know her and whatever form of nuts she might be, she’s earned it. Trouble has followed her all her life and it hasn’t let up yet.

Yesterday they say she got crazy and pulled a gun on some rednecks in a boat that found their way to where she was bothering absolutely no one and feeding her friends, the fish. They got weird and before it was over she went to jail, charged with assault with a deadly weapon. I’ve heard her side of the story, I believe it, and I have to say I might have done the same thing.

Does that make me crazy? Maybe. 

I used to feed those same fish and turtles, enjoying every second of them, and maybe that also makes me weird. But when deviant people who give the impression that they are up to no good come sidling up to you when you’re minding your own business and trying to have a life, it pays to be on your guard, lest you wind up in pieces in some freezer in a trailer park.

I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve about had it with some of these freaks running around loose these days. And although I don’t especially want to, I’m keeping a close eye on the lot of them and God knows I’m beginning to hate a few, especially the ones that harass innocent women because they think they can get away with it. I know I’m not supposed to hate anybody, at least that’s what the representatives of Jesus Christ will tell you and really I wish that I didn’t. Life’s too short for all of that.

I think I might just go to some church some day soon and pray for all of the misfit nuts out there. But if some crazy weirdo throws a snake on me, I swear I’m catching the next bus for Detroit.

You can email me at badlydisturbed@yahoo.com

Greatest Show on Earth?

A couple of weekends ago was a family adventure weekend around our house. With my eleven year-old off with the grandparents to carve up the last remaining mountain snow with his new board I decided the small ones deserved an adventure of their own. So we loaded up the “Baby-Bus” and were off to the arena for some ohhhs and ahhhs. There are few places more deserving of the Kahunaman than the circus and when the “Baby-Bus” pulled onto the lot it was officially party time, Kahuna gang style.

I should have known something was wrong when we, the perpetually late due to smallkiditus gang showed up thirty minutes early for the one hour early pre-show. Even though that is when the kids meet the clowns and see the ponies it’s also when dad gets to stare at the hot “Circus Chicks” who mingle on the floor. So the official story was hurry so the kids can see the elephant poop up close, no way was dad going to let them miss that family tradition.

When we get there the line is half way out in parking lot so we hurry for a place in it as the wind and rain cut into the two and four year old like a hospital stay in the making. Dad being used to entering the UTC arena through the staff gate realized this was going to be a long thirty minute wait before the 1pm opening and decided we should wait in the car until the doors opened.

The little guy decides to sit up front and as the minutes passed he was only happy when he was sticking his head out the sunroof of the “Baby-Bus”. Did I mention it was sprinkling? Of course rain is water and water quickly became “Daddy I have to go pee-pee” as my little girl danced around and closed her legs tighter than my first prom date. 

 I know that dance and it means find a facility or your not going to enjoy the next three hours with daddy’s little angel in your lap. As the minutes passed in near panic and every vehicle function was tested the line outside the Roundhouse grew to hundreds.

As solutions were found for the early situations and the line began to creep closer we were off to the “Free” early show. As we entered we found you needed a program to meet the circus folks so we sprung for two, $10.00.

Then once inside there were the usual “Oh crap don’t let them see the…..too late give me a lite up Princess wand and the lite up little tiger thingy” $36.00.

Hurry let’s get to our seats and go catch the hot…….crap, too late…..pop pop pop pop, little man has spotted the bleacher guy with really colorful but skinny circus boxes full of popcorn, $7.00.

Hey, it’s okay I haven’t eaten and I could use some…….holy hell, how old is this crap? Not even my kids who spend so much time watching UTC play that they believe popcorn is for Thanksgiving would touch this stuff. We ended up leaving it so maybe the bleacher guy could recycle it to someone else like they did for us.

Finally we were off to the three rings of excitement and sequins waiting below but wait……there was only one ring. One ring? What happened to three rings? I mean the circus is the cure for ADD, in one ring motorcycles spinning in the “Sphere of Death” while Elephants prance like interior decorators in the second and the Amazing miss no body fat hangs by her boobs in the third. Its how nature meant it to be but somehow the Greatest Show on Earth had become “the hang on while we set up the lion cage and scoop up the poop production”. Suddenly it was obvious, the recession had neutered the Brothers, Bailey and Barnum.

As the lights went down I felt kind of silly to realize I was one of only a few suckers who had dropped the coin on the lite up wands. Last time I brought my oldest son almost every kid had one.

Then the show started and you would have thought with only one ring all the best acts would be featured but the tight rope guys were only four feet off the ground and fell three times. The Lion tamer was no more effective than Leno’s intern Ross Mathews and not near as funny or exciting or why was he doing that? The Ring Master looked like a porn star but his mic skills said the food network. The flying tumblers were good up until the first flip when the female missed her stunt and fell three high, busted her shoulder and was carried from the ring.

I thought it was going to get better when they brought out the house cats, I was just sure it was going to be the cat juggling act from the movie “The Jerk” but no they were cats walking on poles for a Kibble or a Bit. I am not sure which?

Over all this was the worse show I have ever been to that didn’t include the Johnas Brothers and a sure sign that this economy has taken a toll on everything entertainment not directed by that Cameron guy.

But even a day at a crappy circus with my family is better than a great day judging the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Competition in Daytona with a few dozen bikini babes.

I know what you’re thinking but I dropped a bundle on this circus day and I might as well milk all the wife love out of it I can so as I was saying, “That’s la historia mi Vida”.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass       

I feel silly restating some of this, but I do realize that this might be the first time that some of you have read one of my "gazpacho" columns. During the winter months, I often throw together "gumbo" writings on sports, politics, life or all of the above. Once the warm weather sets in... the notion of gumbo has a lot less appeal. Hence the concept of "gazpacho." Even though a gazpacho is a cold soup with fewer ingredients than one will find in a gumbo, it fits my spring mood. And with temps in the high 80's this past week, it's obvious that spring has sprung...

...What can you say about Monday night's NCAA men’s basketball title game that hasn't been said? What drama. What an "underdog" story. Butler's appearance in the Final Four was a "feel good" story if ever there was one. It became a "feel even gooder" story when the Indy-based Bulldogs gave Coach K's Blue Devils all they could handle. Duke wound up winning by two, in a game that featured more caucasian starters than I've seen since the golden age of the Boston Celtics. The title game earned a 23 ratings share, up 31 percent from last year's Carolina blowout over Michigan State. It's the best rating since UNC-Illinois in 2005. I am not the college basketball fan that I once was, but the Vols' Elite Eight appearance and the dramatic championship game captivated me...

...The University of Connecticut won another women’s title Tuesday night. As much as we love the Lady Vols around here, you can't deny the Huskies' dominance this season. Seventy-eight straight victories. Tennessee's Pat Summitt is the reigning queen of women's college hoops, but Geno Auriemma (a throwback to the days when most women’s coaches were dudes) is gaining on her. This was Geno's seventh national title, one short of Pat's record. He's never lost in the championship game.

...It should be noted that basketball season is not truly over until the Never-ending Basketball Association finishes up... sometime in mid-August. Consider it noted. Pro basketball is a highlight reel in search of a reason to exist...

...Bobby Cox is starting his final season as the Braves' manager. Atlanta fans are always quick to jump on Bobby's case, but he's the fourth-winningest manager in major league history. He led the Bravos to the 1995 World Series and a bunch of division titles. While it could be reasonably argued that he should have won at least one more World Series, Cox owned the National League for about 10 years...

...Barcelona smacked my Arsenal lads around in Tuesday's Champions League second-leg match in Camp Nou. Lionel Messi re-established his claim as the world's best soccer player by notching all four goals for Barca. Look for the diminuitive Argentinian to star in this summer's World Cup. It should be noted that my beloved Gunners were missing four starters from injury and two from yellow-card suspensions picked up in last week's first-leg match in London...

...I drove by LP Field a couple of times earlier today while en route to appointments in Nashville. The sight of the Titans' home field reminded me that I can't wait for (American) football season. As much as I love the game the rest of the world calls "football," there's nothing quite like the raw speed and physical impact of major college and NFL games. I can't wait to hear the pop of helmets on helmets and see some big hits...

...Tiger Woods is playing in this week's Master's golf tournament. He says he expects to win. But he's gone from being a self-absorbed model of atheltic perfection to being a self-absorbed model of human imperfection. He would have to have the sexual history of a defrocked Catholic priest to keep the PGA from welcoming him back with open arms... and they might turn a blind eye to him even then...

...That's it for this week's bowl of cold soup. I'm pulling for John Daly in the Master's. Better the title go to an old drunk than a young punk...

-- Mark Bedford

Lately I’ve been running across an abundance of people who seem to be in dire need of having the indifference and the stupid beaten out of them- many, if not most of them, connected to the service industry. Take yesterday, for instance. My favorite friend and I were at a local dining establishment that may or may not be The Boathouse located on Amnicola Highway and were subjected almost immediately upon entering, to vast levels of unsmartitude beginning with the hostess, a hapless doofus who was clearly in over her head.

It seems that leading two of the place’s less than twenty customers to one of its vacant outside tables without incident was going to be a bit of a stretch. This in spite of the fact that every single outside table they had was currently unoccupied. Her excuse? “Hey, I’m new here.”

It got worse. Still stunned and trying hard to get my brain wrapped around such a pathetic display of idiocy, we were then quickly subjected to what would amount to a redefinition of the term. 

Yes. We met our waitress. She didn’t look to be related to the hostess but you can never really quite tell about a thing like that. Could be they were the children of a common mother employed as a common “escort” and two different inbred fathers. Certainly that would explain them.  More likely though, they were both the offspring of carnival workers given the boot for repeatedly screwing up the cotton candy machines, thanks in part to huffing too much paint.

With the hostess gone off to a far corner to cast a blank stare at a mostly blank seating chart, we had at least some small glimmer of hope that, between the two us, we could strike some cord of reason in the remaining ninny weíd been left to deal with but, hey, Custer had high hopes for Little Big Horn, or so says history.

I swear to you on my father’s grave that I was not in any way impolite or unreasonable, at least initially, with what I can only loosely refer to as our “server”.  Some of you might not fully believe me anyway but it is the truth. I swear it some more!

On the balcony of what may or may not have been The Boathouse located on Amnicola Highway there were two separate sections. One was open to the fresh air and afforded a very nice view of the river and its surroundings and the other section would have been open to the fresh air with a very nice view of the river and its surroundings were it not for the fact that it was encased in some grungy, semi-translucent plastic roll up walls. Entombed, would actually be more like it.

Guess which one we were seated in, guess where we asked to be re-seated and guess what Ninny #2 told us.

Good guess.

I’m not making this up. Our waitress actually told us that it was too cold and windy for us to sit in the unenclosed section of the deck but we were quite clear in our desire to sit there, regardless. Apparently, this wasn’t our lucky day and that table twelve feet away was not to be had. It was impressed upon us that we were going to sit where we were if we wanted to be outside, take it or leave it, leaving me to question just exactly why it is illegal to set certain types of people on fire or even just kick them really, really hard.

If that wasn’t enough, here’s the really stupid part: It was made known to us that the nasty, dirty, plastic weather protection could be rolled up if we just absolutely insisted but it would take awhile and we would have to okay it with the next people who were going to be seated close by, whenever it was that they might show up. I almost popped a vein.

Fortunately, before I could stab somebody with my butter knife, another couple was brought outside and seated next to us and they also voted for fresh air and a view versus some sorryassed excuse for a greenhouse, minus any lush greenery.

Watching my new least favorite person having to go through the hassle of rolling up the walls was my new favorite part of life but, alas, the little skank got the last laugh. When we asked to have a side wall left rolled down so as to block any incoming wind we were met with fierce resistance in the form of the following statement:

“The wind (short pause for bitchy effect) is blowing in all directions.” You can’t really argue with that kind of lapse in logic especially coming from someone who is already obviously annoyed about something, probably that they are stupid. In short, we were going to be cold if we wanted to please our eyeballs with any kind of a view. Once again, I considered stabbing her but didn’t particularly want my face on the cover of Just Busted and my friend really wanted a Bloody Mary so I decided to just let it go for the time being.

My mistake. I’m absolutely sure I’d have had a better time in the back of the cop car if I’d just gone on ahead and knifed her and I’m also convinced that the food in the jail would have been as good. Do not, I repeat, do not order the Voo Doo chicken in any restaurant that may or may not be The Boathouse on Amnicola Highway!

Seriously. It blows.

Deep fried. Overdone. Bland and underdone rice on the side with two kinds of sauce that tasted like two kinds of pesticide, it was the culinary equivalent of a swift kick in the groin. My friend really liked her chicken salad but Iím thinking it was probably made from leftover VooDoo chicken that other unfortunates ordered and didn’t, or couldn’t, finish. Maybe I’m wrong.

The coffee was cold despite the time honored test of pouring it onto an exposed wrist (the waitresses, not mine, at least) to gauge its temperature, the celery in the Bloody Marys, when you could get them, was limp and the fries were soggy. Ninny waitress blamed this on the potato supplier, if you can believe it, obviously expecting us to swallow some bullshit story about how this particular brand of potato would fry from limp to a blackened crisp immediately with no in between but things were going to be set straight  next week by God, or else! No mention of any corrective action for now though, surprise, surprise.

Just in case you think I’m bitching about everything just for sport, allow me to say that dessert, some kind of cake swimming in some kind of sauce, was good. So good, in fact, that I at least briefly entertained the idea of driving back to the place on Amnicola Highway that may or may not have been The Boathouse for another slice of it hours after we had left, but the urge to stab the skank was still alive and well, so I passed.

You might be wondering why I didn’t complain loudly about the service and the food and that’s legitimate but I learned something about that years ago. Complain about your meal or your service and you’ll get a booger, or worse, in whatever else they feed you. Count on it.

If you didn’t know it before, you know it now. Decide accordingly.

Best thing to do is tip minimally, if at all, and not go back. Also be sure and spread the word to the any other unfortunate suckers looking for a good meal in pleasant surroundings without any crap from the people serving it.

As an aside, I’ve been working a wienie stand for a couple of buddies of mine on the weekends and the day before all of this happened I had a customer do something kind of different. We still haven’t figured this one out, but after ordering her hot dog with extra onions and taking possession of same, she grabbed up a handful of them, smeared them on my face and just walked away, giggling while I stood there, astounded and speechless.

Damn, I wish I’d have thought of that.

Meals on Beale (And other Memphis tales)

Charles Verdos passed away last Saturday. If that name doesn't mean anything to you, you're not a barbecue aficionado. Mr. Verdos was the founder and proprietor of the famous Rendezvous in Memphis. I'm typing this from my hotel about a block from Beale Street... and a couple of blocks from the dark alley that leads into the Rendezvous. I'm not going to tell you that this Memphis landmark has the best ribs in the world. But Charlie Vergos turned an old coal chute in his basement tavern into a smoker back in 1948... and was arguably the first major purveyor of "Memphis dry" ribs. (Which you can have delivered to your home by clicking to www.hogsfly.com.) I think Sticky Fingers' ribs are better than the Rendezvous. Cozy Corner, a local place on North Parkway (with a great view of the Memphis pyramid), is definitely better. My homemade dry-rubbed ribs are infinitely better. But Charles Verdos was a Memphis legend... and he will be missed...

...Memphis gets a bad rap from the rest of the state. The general perception is that Memphis is a crime-laden danger zone. And, for sure, there are parts of this city that you would do well to avoid. Recent events in Coolidge Park teach us that every city has parts that it is good to avoid... and that seemingly safe places can turn dangerous in an instant. Many caucasians are nervous about Memphis because they perceive themselves to be in a minority here. I will vouch for that. White folks in this area often tend to flee to the surrounding bedroom communities of Germantown, Collierville, Cordova and Southaven, Mississippi. Tourists tend to stick to the several blocks around Beale, Graceland, the FedEx Center, and the Memphis Zoo. Chad, a 38-year-old Memphian who occupied the bar stool next to me at The Flying Saucer last night, explained it pretty well. "Downtown is the safest place to be," he insisted. "It's covered with video cameras and cops." I didn't see any video cameras, but I wasn't looking. I did see a strong police presence in and around Beale. Four Memphis cops were having breakfast in my hotel this morning. It was... reassuring...

...I've mentioned Tennessee's two Flying Saucer locations before. The one in Memphis is right across from the Peabody... and a one-block walk from where I'm sitting. This is convenient... and will be even more so later tonight. The Nashville Saucer is on 10th Avenue, right behind the historic Union Station. There's also one in the aformentioned bedroom community of Cordova. No review on that one... yet. The Saucers have mind-boggling assortments of draft and bottled beer, cute "beer goddesses," very cool t-shirts, and food that can only be described as... average, at best. Go for the beer and the ambience, not the menu. I'd love to see Chattanooga get its own Saucer. Check them out at www.beerknurd.com...

...Last night was "pint night" at the Peabody Place Flying Saucer, so I was able to sample a couple of new beers. If I go back and look at the menu, I could probably even tell you what they were. I knew I didn't want to take another crack at eating there, however. I hiked over to Beale and wound up in the Blues City Cafe. Naturally, there were several barbecue options. Naturally, the staff insisted that their barbecue was the best in Memphis. Naturally, I didn't take their word for it. I am mostly unimpressed by 90-plus percent of the barbecue I eat in restaurants. I opted for three tamales and a cup of chili instead. Tamales are a proud tradition in Mississippi and West Tennessee... and if you haven't had them at Champy's on MLK, you really should. Blues City's tamales weren't as spicy or as good as Champy's, but they were just perfect with the giant domestic light beer I chased them down with. Memphis, like New Orleans, completely disregards public drinking laws in some parts of town. But it's still a bit disconcerting to walk by a group of cops while carrying a 32-ounce cerveza...

...I've been to Memphis 20 or so times over the years... and I've never been to Graceland. Don't plan to go. Everyone tells me it's not as big as you would expect. Elvis was the King well before the era of the modern mega-mansion. He has become the punchline for many a joke since his passing... but... back in the day... Elvis was huge. He was a one-man industry that created hundreds of millions of dollars in revenue. His heirs really do not need my money. Hence my avoidance of Graceland...

...Beale Street. Tuesday afternoon. Seventy degerees and sunny. Tanqueray and tonics. Doubles. Several. Spring is officially here...

...Holy crap. I just had dinner at Texas y Brazil... next to the Peabody. It's a lot like othe Brazilian steakhouses (such as Fogo de Chao in Buckhead). Guys keep showing up at your table with skewers full of meat until you flip your little token and let them know that your colon is locking up. The lamb chops and filet with bacon were the best. They try to distract you with chunks of chicken, but the smart diners hold out for chunks of premium meat. I was on someone else's expense account, so I ate like a champion. I had a semi-dirty martini as well. Life is good...

...I could tell more tales but they'd all have the same ending. Stumbling into my bed under the illusion that it really is earlier in Central time. I know better. But it seldom stops me. Trust me. Memphis is worth the trip. Now more than ever. Drive safe. Don't stop in Bucksnort....

-- Mark Bedford

There really is no sporting comparison to the NCAA’s March Madness. College basketball’s winner-take-all, sudden-death format makes for high drama. Northern Iowa’s enormous second-round upset of tournament favorite Kansas is just the latest David-smote-Goliath story in the long history of MM. This is one of my favorite times of year…and this weekend’s “Sweet Sixteen” matchups should be great…

…Even though most of the media attention goes to the men’s tournament, there is a bigger local angle in the women’s brackets. UT-Chattanooga’s Lady Mocs led Oklahoma State by as many as 19 in the first half before they fell by a 70-63 score. I didn’t watch enough of the game to be able to tell if Chattanooga just fell short or if the Cowgirls rose to the occasion, but I do know coach Wes Moore just keeps doing an amazing job…

…You can’t really talk about women’s college basketball around here without mentioning the Lady Vols. And… speaking of amazing coaching jobs… Pat Summitt is a living legend. Eight national championships. Summitt is the winningest college basketball coach in NCAA basketball history. As is often the case, Tennessee is a force to be reckoned with in this year’s women’s tournament. The Lady Vols face Baylor in the Memphis regional this Saturday… and are expected to be tested, but victorious…

…When Bruce Pearl became the Tennessee men’s basketball coach, he joked that he wanted to build a program “that Pat Summitt can be proud of.” There’s not much doubt that he’s accomplished that. The Vols still labor in the shadows of their female counterparts… when it comes to post-season glory… but their Sweet Sixteen visit is a significant accomplishment. This is the third Pearl-coached Vols squad to reach the SS. He also took his last Milwaukee team to that lofty round. Pearl is the second-fastest NCAA coach to reach 300 victories, needing just 382 games to reach that mark…

…Pearl and his Vols face Ohio State at 7:07p.m.on Friday night. Most objective bracketologists are picking the Buckeyes in this one, but I wouldn’t count UT out. Pearl has done perhaps his best coaching job ever this season, pulling his team together after the arrests and dismissals of former star Tyler Smith and three others. The Vols have never made it to the tournament’s Elite Eight… and that is a huge goal for senior Wayne Chism and junior J.P. Prince. Chism and Prince have stepped up enormously in the wake of Smith’s dismissal. I think this is the year the Vols crack the Elite Eight…

…SEC rivals Kentucky are the strongest remaining tournament team… on paper, that is. Duke and Syracuse should be strong contenders, too. On paper. But the NCAA’s March Madness is played on unpulped hardwood. And you never know what might happen. Maybe both Tennessee teams will advance to their respective Final Fours. It sure would make this the maddest March ever in the Volunteer state...

-- Mark Bedford

o quote Danny DeVito….Ok, Ok, Ok, Ok….

I have lost my mind, right?

I could have sworn I read a Tennessee legislator is upset because Tennessee athletic director Mike Hamilton issued an edict saying he did not want UT athletes being strapped, even off campus.

Naw….I must have read that wrong.

Nobody in their right minds would object to Hamilton’s objection to athletes carrying guns.

Right?

And yet….more reading….it appears to be true.

Oh….here’s the explanation.   Hamilton’s rule applies to athletes even off campus.

Now that makes a big difference.

And here’s the perfect sense objection from the legislator….the rule violates the constitutional right to bear arms.

So, lemme get this straight now.

A UT player is not going to be able to pack his nine when he goes downtown after the game…That’s Hamilton’s rule. (Following some ahhhh “problems” with activities involving gun possession by athletes.)

Well hell, that’s not right…any plain old student at UT can carry his gun to town, why should we deprive a football player of that right?

So that’s the reason the Knoxville legislator is up in ….arms? about the Hamilton Rule.

And that’s easy to understand, in the mind of the legislator; Hamilton is acting like Wyatt Earp in Dodge City, forcing the jocks to leave their guns in the dorm.

No, wait, Marshall Hamilton says the jocks can’t even have guns in their dorms…dorms being on campus, therefore……

Clearly Marshall Hamilton does not understand the dangers UT athletes face in downtown Knoxvegas. 

How can he expect his boys, and girls, I guess, although I bet Pat Summitt don’t ‘low no guns anyway, to feel safe going to the bars and clubs when the Tennessee legislature, in its infinite wisdom, has already decreed you and I can bring our pieces to the bar?

(It is probably wise, at this point to note the gun you carry has to be registered to be legal.)

How can any rational UT fan, and the legislator is, apparently a UT fan…or at least has attended some games although briefly in one instance, not applaud a rule by the UT athletic director that might prevent a UT player from getting into very serious difficulties with the local constabulary.

Oh…wait, I just got a flash of insight. Hamilton’s real concern is that the UT athletes run the risk of taking their guns to town, then having them taken away from them by some bad ass Knoxvillian in bar, thereby affecting the morale of the team.

Now I get the picture, I should have realized this from the get-go, Marshall Hamilton lacks the faith, the legislator is a true believer in the manhood of UT jocks, or womanhood, but they would have to deal with Coach Summitt anyway.

That has to be the deal. Surely no rational adult would object to a rule forbidding UT athletes to carry guns….unless they questioned the ability of the UT player to defend himself in a bar.

Wow, glad I figured that one out.

Don’t you feel better?

 - Scorpio Jones III

I met Denise while I was in Chattanooga on a winter’s break from the suntan oil business.  It was the winter of 1968.  She and her twin sister were both skaters with the Holiday On Ice Show.

We hit it off at once.  The show was in town for approximately one week, and after that they traveled to New Orleans.  Denise and I kept in daily contact by telephone.  After the show played New Orleans the next show on the schedule was in the Tampa Bay/Sarasota area.  We hooked back up that week and the romance was great.  I became close friends with a lot of the skaters and management.  After the Florida schedule they had a short break before going to San Juan Puerto Rico for two weeks.  I expressed interest in going along and was given permission to do so.  Let me make one thing perfectly clear right now, I was a guest and not a skater.  I tried to ice skate one time and proceeded to fall on my butt.

It was a grand time, carefree days on the beaches of Puerto Rico and exciting nights at the Arena and on the town.  I shared a two-room suite with Denise and her twin sister.  We never had any trouble finding alone time.  We stayed at a large hotel directly across the street from the beach in the evening.  Several ladies of the night conducted their business near the front of the hotel.  To say they were very attractive Latino ladies would be a great understatement.  One in particular made it a point to speak to me every time I passed.  Of course this made Denise extremely jealous and angry.  Being the butt of a male dog that I am I loved it.

One afternoon as I was coming home from the beach by myself this particular young lady asked me what I was doing tonight.  I told her nothing special, just riding the crew bus to the show site and coming back after the show.  She suggested that I stay home that night and she would make it worth my while.  I explain to her that I was on a limited budget and as attractive as she was I could not afford her company.  She said don’t worry about it there are some things in life you do because you want to.

That night I made an excuse not to go to the show and Denise accepted.  It was with no questions asked.  I knew what time the show was over, so I knew how much time I actually had.  I rushed downstairs where the young lady was waiting for me.  She said we’d have to take a taxi to her place.  I explained to her again I wasn’t prepared to spend any money, and once again she told me not to worry bout it.  After a short cab ride we arrived at her apartment.  It was located near the old Fort San Juan.  It was a very nice, tastefully done apartment in a clean upscale neighborhood.  I guess business was good.

I was still a little apprehensive, but I am always ready for a challenge and adventure.  After some hot passionate kissing she started undressing me.  I, being the gentlemen that I am paid her the same favor.  I will have to say the lady knew her business.  It was my first time being with a professional.  I guess if anyone was a professional that night it was me.  Even though I didn’t take money, I was getting the service for free… and sometimes the best things in life are free.

After about an hour and a half having things done to me no woman had ever done before, and trying hard to please her, we dressed and went to a small café across from her apartment.  We had a lovely bottle of wine and a great meal that she paid for.  I noticed the time was getting close to the time I needed to be back at the hotel.  I explain this to her and she totally understood.  We stepped outside, she hailed me a taxi, paid the driver in advance and sent me on my way.

I made it back to the hotel with about 15 minutes to spare.  When Denise came home she asked if I wanted to go out somewhere.  I explained to her I was very tired and would just like to go to bed.  I felt a little guilty that night, but I went to sleep with a big smile on my face.  I know what you women think, but this was the age of sex, drugs and rock n’ roll, and I don’t know how to play a guitar.  Denise never found out, and this is the first time I ever admitted to this story.  It’s true.  I swear.  I know – I was there.

Paul Burke. Sr.

I'm a total snob about food... some of the time. I am currently sitting in Fido, my favorite breakfast/lunch place in Nashville. I just finished their "local burger," a lamb and beef mixture with caramelized onions and fennel, mixed greens, red onion and a delicious avocado mayonnaise. The burger was charred on the outside and still a bit pink in the middle... something a restaurant can only pull off safely if they grind their own meat. All in all a darn fine "gourmet burger." Yesterday's lunch was Taco Bell. Combo number uno. My "regular." My attitude toward food is a lot like my attitude toward beer. I am picky and knowledgeable, but sometimes I opt for quick, cheap and easy. On a hot summer day, I'd much rather drain a couple of Natty Lights than try a few new IPA's...

...But back to the food thing. Thanks to Food TV and a couple of breakthrough shows on the Travel Channel, anyone with a decent cable or satellite package can view an ever-expanding array of food porn. I think Anthony Bourdain from the Travel Channel coined the pithy phrase... or he stole it from someone we've never heard of and made it popular... which is just about as good as inventing it yourself. Bourdain's excellent show is filled with food porn. Tony is an adventure traveler's dream. He goes to offbeat places, eats and drinks (usually heavily on both counts) and shares his warped travelogues with us viewers. You can count on some explicit food porn in Bourdain's travel segments, even though his show is not a "food show" per se...

...One of Tony's best food porn segments was the "Three Little Pigs" sandwich footage from The Silver Palm, a railroad car diner in Chicago. The Three Little Pigs sandwich features smoked ham, a breaded pork tenderloin cutlet, two strips of bacon and two fried eggs. It obviously gets its name from the three varieties of pork. The whole thing is coated with gruyere cheese and served on a brioche bun. I've not been to Chicago to try one yet, but you can bet The Silver Palm is on my Windy City itinerary. Food porn is a lot like the other variety. You know it's not good for you, but sometimes you can't take your eyes off of it...

Armed and Terrible ...Guy Fieri's "Diners, Drive-ins and Dives" is one of my favorite shows on the Food Network. Fieri didn't impress me with his first show, "Guy's Big Bite." It was just another cooking show. Fieri's Billy Idol bleached-blonde hair and jet black goatee made him look a little different from most other cooking show hosts, but the show was kind of... been there, seen that, didn't bother with the t-shirt. But Fieri was made to host Triple-D. He takes his cool red convertible across the country to some amazing local joints, gets into their kitchens and has the cooks whip up some amazing comfort food. I sometimes watch multiple episodes back-to-back... using On Demand, so I can pause the video and fix something to eat... or several somethings to eat...

...Adam Richman's "Man vs. Food" is the sickening, but fascinatingly orgiastic side of food porn. Richman travels around the country (and now the world) looking for "food challenges." He is always trying the biggest and/or hottest food selections from his various locales. I've seen him eat burgers the size of a pizza pan... and pizzas the size of a dining room table. I've watched him consume wings drenched in hot pepper sauces that would take paint off of your car. Adam is a true American hero...

...If ever there was a television show that was appropriately named, it's "Bizarre Foods." Mere insects aren't weird enough for host Andrew Zimmern. The wacky, chubby, bald maniac seeks out things that most of us would gag to even think about. I've seen him eat a lot of things in various states of decay and several things that were still alive when they entered his mouth. Bizarre, indeed...

...Food porn like the shows above, "Iron Chef America," or anything with Emeril Lagasse in it are growing in popularity. Food is like a drug to some people. They are always seeking out new flavors and ingredients. For schizo-snobs like me, food porn is a cheap visual thrill with no calories or fat grams...

-- Mark Bedford

If any of you’ve kept up with this nonsensical claptrap that I am prone to spit out quicker than a Coke with a bee in it or a cup of something icky that might have looked like coffee, then you are already privy to certain truths about Yours Truly. For any first time readers or Alzheimer’s types, allow me bring you up to speed.

I am terrible. I know this because a buttload (that’s a lot) of people have told me so. In support of those buttloaders, I submit for your consideration a few of the aforementioned, not-so-great truths….

A) I do not completely obey traffic signs at all times.

• I will provoke beavers.
• I have been to jail for assault. That would be assault with a water balloon, if you must know.
• I taught the neighborhood short-bus kid some dirty words once when I was in fourth grade.
• My ex-wife calls me every one of them.

I know what most of you are thinking. You’re thinking “I best get my ass downtown and sign on for the lynch mob before it gets full up….a guy like that might burn down the Moose Lodge or rape a nun or something if we don’t put a stop to him!” and you might be right. Turn your back on a beaver-botherer with a water balloon and next thing you know you might need a poncho.

Especially if you’re a third shift fireman close to the Moose Lodge.

For the handful of you more liberal, forgiving types that believe that goodness and human decency will always triumph over terribleness and that everyone should be given a chance to redeem themselves, I have some bad news.

You may have been suckered.

Especially if you might be inclined to give me a break and I say this because I am purely evil. I am as terrible as the buttloaders all say that I am and there is no credible evidence showing that malefactors of my ascribed lowliness can ever be rehabilitated. I should be set upon immediately by an angry mob brandishing pitchforks and torches and burned to a crisp if you all know what’s good for you. Here’s why….

Last weekend was birthday number five for my favorite friend’s nephew and she, being the kind of aunt that every kid ought to have, typically gets him something way cool. Last year, for instance, she got him a remote control flying man, leaving me to hope like hell she doesn’t give me the boot before my next birthday because I might just do something despicable- but fun- with a remote control flying man of my own. Something like chase her cat with it, maybe.

Hey, it’s not always easy to find a beaver to harass. Sometimes you have to make do.

Anyway, nephew turns five and I, wretched dirtbag that I am, cast my vote for BB gun right away, which any upstanding liberal citizen knows is a killing offense. Hang me, Mussolini style, from the nearest meat hook if you must but I figured the kid should have one just as soon as he possibly could, oblivious to the fact that his Dad, being a fellow firearms enthusiast and therefore the kind of Dad that every kid should have, had already at least  considered buying him a real gun!

How cool is that?

I am not suggesting that every five year old should have ready access to a loaded shotgun come dinner time with spinach in any form being served but I ain’t unsuggesting it either. My parents used to feed me that bullshit when I was way small (even though it made me puke) and a pistol gripped Mossberg could have come in handy, big-time!

Of course, I am just kidding. Eat your spinach you little shit.

Regardless, kid didn’t quite get a real gun for his birthday. Cool Dad reconsidered, but that’s okay. Cool Aunt bought him a semi-automatic BB pistol that she initially had some doubts about. “He’s five!” she had protested early on, but a day or so worth of mulling the idea over swung in the little guy’s favor, that lucky devil. No downgrading to paintball gun or slingshot or any of that mess, junior was the fortunate recipient of just about the coolest thing a five year old could ever hope for. You can pin a note to your remote controlled flying man saying “Spinach blows. I ain’t eating it” and fly it into the back of your Mom’s head all you want, but if you’re five, you better have something to back it up.

Something (somebody call the SWAT team) like a semi-auto BB pistol, maybe.

And- sociopath that I am- that’s what I was hoping for, of course….another future crazed gunman. Somebody to grace the front pages of the paper and get all the anti-gun liberals into another bigassed uproar. Somebody who likes to shoot stuff as much as I do. Somebody evil, or terrible, if you will.

Forget the discipline to be garnered from schooling somebody at an impressionable age about the importance of firearm safety or their appropriate, supervised use. Don’t even mention the summertime hours that could be spent outside in the fresh air, plinking away at paper targets or old Coke cans full of bees, developing potentially useful skills. This is time that could always be used for something far more socially acceptable. Something, maybe, like endless hours in a darkened room honing computer game skills where the objective is to steal a bunch of cars or kill somebody with a bazooka.

Hell no, we can’t have none of that crazy target shooting going on. Everybody knows it’s just a matter of time before junior will get bored plinking at cans and eventually shoot his sister in the tit instead. Next thing you know you got another societal menace at large like Yours Truly and before it’s all over, here comes that SWAT team who, coincidentally enough, are practiced marksmen.

No. Despite what crazy, terrible people like me might think, children should never be allowed to have guns of any sort, up to and including plastic squirt guns that could get them kicked off the bus and suspended for a week for squirting somebody in the eye, thereby giving them plenty of time at home to play computer games (that’ll learn ‘em, won’t it?) where they can blow up entire cities instead!

We, as a society- folks like Dianne Feinstein will tell you- have got to keep these renegades under control. Give them squirt guns and inevitably children will grow up to be terrible people who buy .500 magnum revolvers with holes in the end of the barrel so big it’s like looking down a well. They will then, without exception, go out and shoot children on playgrounds because they, and their guns, are so terrible. Just ask any campaigning Democrat behind in the polls.

Heck, it gets worse, if you can believe it. The aggressive behavior spawned by gun ownership eventually spills over into all facets of societal interaction. Give these same maladjusted types water balloons and they might just throw the damned things. And you can bet your ass they’d be slinging them at guys in expensive suits (probably lawyers) jumping out of BMWs parked in the handicap spots at fancy restaurants while shouting some crap that nobody wants to hear to some fool on the other end of one of those cell phone thingies that looks like a giant cockroach attacking your ear and God knows we can’t have that bullshit!

Shame on you, Cool Aunt, for starting that poor child out on the road to perdition. What’s next, lighter fluid and matches? Cussing lessons? A bag of weed?

Just kidding. You did a good thing last week, I don’t care what anyone says; most especially the folks who support gun control and would like to see awful people like us disappear.

Hell, given a choice they’d probably send us to the electric chair.

Or maybe just a nice firing squad would do.

I like to argue about politics. I’ve confessed this before. My personal politics would be considered somewhat liberal by Chattanooga standards, but I most closely identify myself with the “yellow dog” Democrats from days gone by. Back in the day, Southerners would sooner vote for a yellow dog than a Republican. Sadly, some of this colorful history traces itself back to the days of slavery and Abe Lincoln’s fight against it. In later years, the term came to define democrats who retain a balance of conservative Southern values and more progressive Democratic principles…

…I have lots of friends who are more conservative than I am… and I like to argue with them about politics. My longtime friend, Mike, went on a Facebook rant the other day. He scorned and scourged the Obama administration for tripling our national debt and leaving it all for our grandchildren to pay. Where the hell was he when George W. Bush turned the Clinton surplus into $5 trillion in national debt? Bush started the “stimulus” funding before he left office. Our grandchildren were saddled with a pretty huge debt well before Barack Obama took office…

…I still have huge issues with the way the stimulus funds have been distributed… by both parties. I would have opted for a “trickle up” strategy where our government propped up homeowners and helped them keep their homes, rather than propping up the lenders who were repossessing those homes. I wanted to see my government help people buy American cars, rather than bailing out the carmakers. But I sometimes live in a fantasy world on such things. I asked Mike what John McCain would have done differently if he had inherited the same economic fustercluck Dubya left for Obama. “Well, he wouldn’t have done what Obama has done,” was the retort. McCain would have helped a few more Republicans profit from the misfortune of others. That’s what he would have done…

…A lot of Republicans are horrified at the notion of health care reform. Compassionate conservatives are disgusted at the thought of deadbeats on welfare getting free health care. News flash: a lot of deadbeats on welfare are already getting free health care. Perhaps health care reform will prevent them from getting it in the emergency rooms of those federally-funded hospitals that can’t turn them away. I’ve been concerned at Obama’s quixotic obsession with his health care agenda… until I look at each month’s growing unemployment numbers. Someone has to look out for the well-being of those who are suffering most through this troubled time. Republicans hate the idea of a paternal government that cares for our least fortunate. They like to think of a government that is like their rich grandfather… handing them a stack of cash every now and then… and telling them how smart and handsome they are…

…One disturbing trend I’ve noticed is the increase in blatantly racist emailed jokes about our nation’s first African-American president. Some of my “friends” just presume I’m Republican and will find such Klannish humor amusing. I don't. I find it sick and sad. If you're one of those people who forwards that racist trash... I find you sick and sad as well. And I'd love to argue politics with you... you sick, sad bigots...

-- Mark Bedford

It’s every man’s dream, and yes it happened to me.  It was the summer of 1972.  I was a lifeguard in Daytona Beach, Florida and also running my tanning oil business.  I was a night person who would go nightclubbing every night. 

One of my favorite places was a club called The Wreck.  I usually stopped in there every night.  They would change bands weekly.  The timeframe this event took place was in the month of June.  A band from Georgia called Brother Bait was booked for a week’s gig.  It was a five-piece band with a soundman and roadie.  Five of them brought their wives and girlfriends with them. 

Because I went to the club every night it didn’t take long to befriend the women. After a while it became quite obvious that the male members of the band were totally ignoring their female companions in favor of flirting or trying to make out with local talent. 

Needless to say, the band’s womenfolk started to become quite irritated.  In the course of my friendship with them and in a humorous spirit I suggest it would be better to offer myself as a means of getting even INSTEAD OF GETTING MAD.  Never in my wildest dreams did I think they would take me serious.  My suggestion was received with some interest. 

I didn’t push the point that night as to not seem as a total idiot or pervert.  The next night I was very surprised when the women themselves brought the matter back up.  Thinking they were playing a joke I went along with it.  As the night progressed and the drinks flowed, I began to realize they were not kidding, they were very, very serious.  The more I had to drink the more I really got into the idea.

At that time I was living in a three-room apartment in one of the larger oceanfront hotels.  I had a very nice apartment with living room, dining room, kitchen, and large BEDROOM.  It was just the thing for a single man like myself.  I HAD maid service, two swimming pools, large coffee shop, fine dining room and popular bar, what else could a single man wish for.

As the night progressed at the bar the plan of the five of them and myself actually going through with it became a reality.  Still not quite believing them I suggested that they all come to my apartment the next day around 12 o’clock.  That way if they didn’t show up I wouldn’t feel like a total idiot.  We left it like that and didn’t discuss it any more that night.

The next morning I rose as usual and took care of certain business items that need to be taking care of.  Around 11:30 just on the thought that they might show up I went back to my apartment I poured myself a drink, turned on some music, when out on the patio and waited.

Imagine my shock and surprise when around noon there came a knock on my door.  I went to the door, opened it, and there they were all five of them.  I almost dropped my drink.  I asked them to come in and made them all a drink and started small talk.  After a few moments one of the girls said let’s cut out the bullshit, you know what we’re here for.  Still thinking it was a joke and hoping it wasn’t, I said okay let’s go to my bedroom.  We all proceeded into my bedroom and they started undressing.  To say I almost had a heart attack would be an understatement.  One of the girls said, “Okay, Burke start stripping we don’t have all day.”

Still not realizing if this was a joke or not I proceeded to take my clothes off.  One of the girls then said “Me first”.  And believe it or not she was the first.  It was unreal, like an adult movie, but much nicer.  At one point I did feel a little cheap when one of the girls said “Hurry up! I’m next”.  I must confess I didn’t have sex with all five of them, only four.  One of the girls was a little shy and said I just want to watch and we let her.  Unfortunately that night was the band’s last night in town and they left the next morning.  I just hope the girls enjoyed as much as I did because it was a memory I’ll never forget.  They got even I got happy and have a story to tell forever.  Later that summer I did get a couple of letters from the girls telling me how much they enjoyed it.  The story is true. It happened.  I was there.  I swear.

 - Paul Burke Sr.

Some weeks back, an old friend and I were in deep discussion of a topic I figured would never come up; that being my sense of humor, or the lack of it. It seems that general opinion held it that I had become far too serious in my approach to daily life and that the negative impact of said approach was causing some big problems.

I called “ horses**t”. He continued, unfazed.

After a minute or so more of hearing about what a sourpuss I’d become and how I  desperately needed to lighten the F up, he then came at me with a verbal pimpsmacking I wouldn’t have seen coming in a million dang years and let me repeat that.

Not in a million dang years.

He said to me- and this is an actual quote- “You are completely without whimsy.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather (okay, if I hadn’t have been sitting down you could have) and, totally out of character for me, I was utterly speechless. Completely without whimsy??   I can only attempt to convey to you the depth of my surprise. I’ve met some accusations and been called a bunch of things in the last half century, some of them true and not so very nice, but never anything like this. It was, to my reckoning, akin to calling Mother Theresa a selfish whore or giving Kevin Federline the nod for top berth on a Best Dressed list.

I was just about three quarters dang near stunned, is what I was. Shocked beyond anything I can recall and I’m thinking all the way back to 1967 and the time, my older brother looking on, I went to turn off the Christmas tree lights and the plug came apart in my hands, leaving the prongs protruding from the outlet. This is going exactly where you think it is but, hey…. I was seven years old and still believed in Santa Claus which roughly translates to “dumbass” so what the (expletive) did you expect?

My brother, eventually catching his breath and recovering from what threatened to be a fatal bout of hysterical laughter, was kind enough to slap some sunburn goop on my singed fingertips and promised (brothers can be liars) not to tell anyone how stupid I’d been.

There was also that time my Grandfather had me hold a sparkplug wire on his tractor and hit the starter (mean old man) and an incident twenty years after the Christmas tree fiasco where my boss snuck up on me and zapped me on the leg with a stun gun as I sat at the bar doing my best to “close the deal” on some babe, nearly causing me to wet myself.

It is my undying shame that I didn’t take a stick to these people at the first opportunity.

Back to the point.  As surprised as I might have been at my old friend’s suggestion that I had become a saddened, cynical wretch of a man, I at least gave the idea its due consideration before rejecting it wholly. This took all of about twelve seconds as I silently countered that “no sense of humor” business with the recollection of a recent event involving an impromptu game of Tug Of War between me and a couple of ferrets over a piece of beef jerky - the ferrets emerging as the eventual victors, even though I’m sure I could have won if I’d tried just a smidgen harder. If I catch too much attitude from ‘em, there’ll be a rematch.

Having warmed to my own defense, the continuing consideration and subsequent rejection of the “completely without whimsy” assertion took no time at all as I am the man who was once in the car, top down and headed to Pie Town, New Mexico for a slice of Lemon Meringue a lousy half  hour after the urge hit me!

Maybe I was stoned and maybe I wasn’t. I ain’t saying. But, how’s that for indulging a whim, huh? Doubt me all you like, you doubters, but if you’ve ever been to Pie Town, then you know.

 Save up. It’s worth it.

If this incident weren’t convincing enough of redemption in the face of the No Spontaneity heresy, I could always dredge up the time that I made an impulse purchase of a not-so-swift race horse, and the only thing that spooks me worse than a damn horse is a damn miniature horse and I bought one of them once, too.

Don’t ask.

Hard on the heels of these and other equally absurd incidents of fanciful spontaneity came the recollection of a time when I am purported to have impulsively opened a cigarette machine using a .40 caliber pistol as an emergency key in order to provide a cheerful refund to an unsatisfied customer who wouldn’t stop squawking. I don’t know if that qualifies as a “whim” or not, but I know it qualifies as something! I also know that the squawker fell strangely silent.

Go figure.

Isolated incidents in an otherwise mundane and predictable life that these may be, I have always sort of seen myself as a spur of the moment kind of guy but, much as I hate to admit it, weeks after our talk, I’m beginning to have some doubts.

Could it be that my old friend was right, after all?  If I were truly a man of whimsy, wouldn’t I have at least grabbed that beaver (see the issue from 1/28) by the leg and maybe even punched somebody in the mouth that week? Would I not have bought the biggest guitar amp my meager budget would allow so as to annoy some neighbor/assholes and would I not also have stopped in at the Outback last night for some cheesy fries?

Indeed I would.

Indeed I would, but I didn’t. I hate to say it but when I’m wrong, I’m wrong and I think that I just might possibly be wrong, here. I am not a whimsical man, I was a whimsical man. And something (a quick tickle to the bottom of girlfriend’s feet in defiance of dire consequences somehow just doesn’t cut it) might have to be done about it.

I just had an idea. It is stupid for sure, and probably terrible, but it counts as a whim and I’m going with it. I’m not going to New Mexico or anything like that; it’s something way better.

It involves a water balloon.

Look for me on the cover of next week’s Just Busted. And If I get lucky, they might just have Lemon Meringue pie in the jail this weekend.

Bracketology!

In case you didn’t know Bracketology is the term used for the act of predicting the selections of the NCAA Basketball Tournament known as March Madness.

Now I won’t jump into the fray as far as predicting or even writing about basketball except to say Wes Moore and his Chattanooga Lady Mocs are one of the best things this city has to brag about.

Now to curb my March Madness I have created my own Bracketology based on my two favorite things, basketball and music.

 This is my bracket of “my” favorite musical acts of all time.

 They will battle it out for the group/songs of my life.

I am using various sources to rate and seed my favorite acts and then based on my life experience I will name Kahunaman’s All Time Musical Act!

 First let me mention my Bubble acts that almost made me go to a 32-act format.                                                                                                                 Sade, Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac, Mothers Finest, Tracey Chapman, U2, REM, Alicia Keys and Snoop. All deserving but left just outside my bracket. So here we go, my top 16 ranked by others but battling in my world.

#1.  Michael Jackson…The King of Pop and the music I started mixing long ago.

#16. Jimmy Buffett……..Nothing more than a lounge singer to most critics.

Winner  #16. Jimmy Buffett’s songs drew me to the sea and they still join me there every time I go.

#9. Bee Gees…….They were and still are all that was the Disco Era.

#8. Sam Cooke…Old tunes for an old soul. The best Motown had to offer.

Winner #9. The Bee Gee’s music made me a dancer and dancing turned me into a Club jock.

#5. Bon Jovi……………Arena Rock with talent.

#12. Kenney Chesney…Arena Country minus Garth Brooks.

Winner  #12. Kenny Chesney is Buffett with a cowboy hat and a driving cool edge.

#13. Travis Tritt….Best Ballads in country music

#4. Aerosmith…….The American Beatles

Winner #13. Travis has two decades of songs I know all the words to.

#3. Elvis……………….The King!

#14. Black Eyed Peas…Mixing it up in a way never heard before.

Winner #14. The Black Eyed Peas are doing what Elvis once did, teaching white folks how to move.

#11. Red Hot Chili Peppers….The best Alt. Rock Band of their time.

#6. Run DMC………………..Legendary Hip Hop pioneers.

Winner #6. Run DMC’s music holds up today if you want to Jam and have fun.

#7. Eagles……..Radio Superstars!

#10. Prince……Outlasted Michael Jackson!

Winner #10. Prince, the strange little man is a huge talent.

#15. Matchbox Twenty…….On my list because they connected with me.

#2.   Beatles…………………The Fab 5.

Winner #15. Matchbox Twenty fronted by Rob Thomas are modern day storytellers.

My Elite 8

#16. Jimmy Buffett…..Mother mother ocean, I have heard your call.

#9. The Bee Gees……..Staying Alive intro to Saturday Night Fever rocked the world.

Winner #16. Jimmy Buffett. The lyrics beat out the falsetto.

#12. Kenny Chesney……four-time (in a row) CMA Entertainer of the year.

#13. Travis Tritt…………Outlaw country mixed with classic love songs.

Winner #12. Kenny Chesney wins the battle of my two favorite country artists.

#14. The Black Eyed Peas….Today’s best group.

#6. Run DMC………………Hip Hop Trailblazers, almost were replaced by Sugar Hill Gang on my list!

Winner #14. The Black Eyed Peas. Their albums go deep with several really good yet very different songs. They remind me of Mothers Finest.

#10. Prince………………...Super talented musician and performer.

#15. Matchbox Twenty……Unplugged they have the soul of some of music’s legendary artist.

Winner #15. Matchbox Twenty….Prince is incredible but 3am may be my favorite song ever.

So my Final Four will be Matchbox Twenty,The Black Eyed Peas, Kenny Chesney and Jimmy Buffett. Maybe not even close to what you would expect from a longtime music man like myself but this is a list from my soul. Each artist has connected with me through their lyrics, their music and in some cases just to a time and a place in my life.

Next week I will sort it out and name my all-time favorite artist or Kahunaman’s National Championship of Music.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

To vote for one of these groups, to agree with or insult my lack of musical taste email me at kahunamedia@hotmail.com.

Okay. You probably know the drill by now. Every now and then I try to emulate my hero, Andy Rooney, and offer up pithy complaints about the events in my daily life that cause me consternation and concern. I don't claim to be as good at is as Andy is. I consider these "rant" columns to be an homage to the master...

...I'm typing this from the outskirts of Orlando, Florida. It was about 70 degrees and sunny here yesterday afternoon. I hear Chattanooga got snow today (Tuesday). Tough luck for you guys. I hate it for you. I left our Scenic City on a 5:30 a.m. flight yesterday morning and got to enjoy incredible weather here...

...I don't think anyone really enjoys flying any more. To me, it seems like the jetliner seats get a little bit smaller every time I fly. (I couldn't possibly be getting larger.) Airplane seats are never "comfortable," but they are particularly uncomfortable when you get seated next to someone who spills over beyond their allotted seat space. This was the case for me on my Charlotte-to-Orlando travel leg yesterday. A sweet, but large, African American woman had the middle seat. I had the aisle, which is my preference. I used to like window seats when I was a kid, but now I feel boxed in if I'm in either the middle or the window seat. And... if I ever have to get off the plane in a hurry, I want that crucial head start that I get with an aisle seat...

...The downside of an aisle seat comes when you get pummeled with other people's luggage while everyone is boarding. I hate those selfish bastards whose "carry-on" luggage is about twice the size of the official airline guidelines. Some of these turds have an enormous roller bag and an enormous briefcase. Inevitably, their luggage smacks into me as they try to wheel it down the center aisle. I wish I could sneak a small taser past airport security so I jolt these jerks after they clobber me with their oversized bags. Iceholes...

...I've ranted on this next topic before, but it's gotten worse... so it warrants a re-rant. If you've spent much time at a fast food restaurant counter lately, you might have noticed that most of them have exactly one person tasked with taking orders from those who have decided to "eat in." In comparison, they have a veritable army working to fill the orders of the drive-through customers. I don't mind this when I'm one of the drive-through customers. But it annoys the crap out of me when I'm trying to eat in the restaurant. Somewhere along the way, fast food chains have determined that those of us who have deigned to eat on the premises... are there for a leisurely meal. Not true. If I'm eating in a fast food place, I'm in a hurry or trying to eat cheap... or both. Some Krystals now have carpeted dining areas. The counter staff will hand you a number and (eventually) bring you your food. (I almost feel like I should leave a tip. Almost... but not quite.) Mickey D's and Taco Bell also have a casual approach to servicing the dine-in crowd. If they don't want to pay much attention to us diners-in, they should just yank the tables and chairs out... and put in some drive-through windows...

...I was watching a TV commercial the other night that featured some incredible stunt driving. Of course, they had to have a disclaimer. In this case, they had the words: "Professional driver on a closed course. Do not attempt this." At a time when they have to put "hot coffee" warnings on styrofoam cups, this is not surprising. People will sue other people and corporations for almost anything these days. The disclaimers at the end of a pharmaceutical commercial are often longer than the "pitch." And, in this case, I'm glad they are. It scares me that the side effect of an "anti-depressant" could be "thoughts of suicide." I thought they were anti-depressants... not pro-depressants...

...The funny thing is... there is one common product that does not have a warning on the package. Ammunition. Look at a box of bullets and try to find the warning. Of all the things that just might kill your ass... bullets are pretty high-risk. If you get hit with a bullet that has been used for its intended purpose, you are up the fecal matter creek in a chickenwire canoe. It's gonna hurt a lot... or kill you. Guns don't kill people. Bullets kill people. Well, guns do occasionally kill people... but only when they are used for pistol-whipping and such...

...So much for this week's bitching and moaning. I feel I have purged myself of at least some of my pent-up frustrations. I don't feel like pistol-whipping the people with huge roller bags on Thursday's return flights. But I do still wish I could find a non-metallic mini-taser... even if it is covered in disclaimers...

-- Mark Bedford

The winter Olympics was certainly interesting.

Here are a few things I learned.

Bob Costas needs significant wardrobe advice. I don’t think I have ever seen a worse collection of probably expensive suits.

Lindsey Vonn got more air time and ink than anybody else, and I still don’t quite understand what the big deal was. Vonn spun out in two of the big downhill events.

The Lindsey-craze apparently prompted some girlish sniping from other skiers, like Julia Mancuso who made the observation that the media was paying a lot of attention to Vonn.   Mancuso came into the games as the most decorated American skier. In one of those little incidents that make great TV and bad drama, Vonn fell during her first run, causing the refs to cancel Mancuso’s run after it had started, which got the folks in the NBC booth all a twitter.

But then I am not a women’s downhill aficionado, and apparently the telecast of the Olympics is designed for the expert fan.

It is as if NBC took a look at one of Brent Musberger football puke matches and decided they would just assume everybody who was watching the games knew all about the events, rather than, God forbid, try to explain why the curlers yelled and swatting the ice in front of the puck…er curl? Whatever.

There has to be a happy medium here somewhere. 

And while the addition of former Florida and NFL wide receiver Chris Collinsworth to the broadcast brought a little even handed observation between Costas’ bubbly blather and Scott Hamilton’s acerbic observations.

The media covering the games managed to call attention to itself fairly often with the biggest stink being raised over a couple of Australian commentator comments that some of the male figure skaters’ routines were a little too much “Brokeback Mountain” for their taste.

This in the context of U.S. skater Johnny Weir’s black and pink outfit.

Lugers had been complaining all week about the dangers of the luge course, naturally it took the death of a luger to get something done about the track. Sort of like the new red light that goes up after a fatal car crash at an intersection that has been dangerous for years.

After the death of Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili, the International Olympic Committee, IOC boss Jacques Rogge, when asked who was responsible for the death, smoothly pointed his finger at “everybody.”

The IOC is like the head office at a huge corporation that oversees the various sports federations involved in the Olympics, but seems not to exercise any real oversight over the day-to-day planning and construction of an Olympic venue like the luge track. Yet other than hanging out in blue blazers and eating fancy buffets in their five-star hotels, what exactly does the IOC do?

Nobody seems to know.

One thing the IOC has done is nearly double the number of events in the Winter Games since the last time the games came to Canada from 46 to 84. All this in an effort to gather in a younger audience. Most of the additions are all about speed and danger, a result, no doubt, of the focus groups the Olympic organizers convened to find out why audiences were dropping.

The IOC’s only active participation in the Winter Games this year seems to have been criticism of the Canadian Women’s hockey team for guzzling champagne after their gold-medal win. Gilbert Felli, the IOC's executive director for the Olympic Games, promised to “investigate what happened.”

All of which raises the obvious question, is the IOC putting athletes at greater risk with more and more dangerous contests in order to save its TV ratings?  It is one thing to create reality shows; it is another to sell real danger in order to get advertisers interested.

And this sets the stage for the Summer Games, which will feature a new high 300-odd events involving 200 countries.

The IOC constantly wails they can’t “affect larger issues”, but the IOC has shown they can be very effective if they want to. The IOC has been right on top of the doping issue, even banning some athletes when Mark McGwire was still a national hero in this country.

There is a considerable body of evidence that indicates hosting the Olympic Games is a huge financial burden for everybody involved in the host country.  Greece, for example is going through a terrible economic upheaval, which the Olympic Games there helped to foster.

The Olympics are fun to watch, and there are as many good stories as there are competitors, but both NBC and the Olympic bosses need to do a much better job of both oversight and journalistic hard work to get the best benefit out of the games.

NASCAR is hugely popular in the United States, yet there was only a fleeting mention in the four-man bobsled competition that former NASCAR driver and engineer Geoff Bodine was involved in the design and building of the gold-medal winning American sled.

Dumb.

 - Scorpio Jones III

Snow, snow everywhere, too cold to get the paper in my underwear.

I am a Southern Boy and Southern Boys love snow.

We love snow because snow is an event.

Up north snow is common and common is like a job. Like a long time girlfriend snow is part of life, they accept it, deal with it, get used to it and occasionally play in it but they sometimes curse it too.

Not down here, no sir, in Chattanooga snow is a holiday.

In Chattanooga snow is like a one-night stand with more than one person. There is no guarantee it will happen in your lifetime but when it does it is a mysterious long remembered memory. In the South, snow is a happening that catches you off guard and then ends too soon, leaving you wanting more.

Another reason Southerners love snow is because we drive trucks and real trucks have four wheel drive and four wheel makes snow that much better. Matter of fact snow is like mud without the $25.00 car wash bill.

These days a four-wheel drive truck says dumbass gets twelve miles a gallon. These days hybrids are cool until the white stuff piles up and then your truck becomes your “Mighty Steed”. Like Donkey in Shrek, suddenly you’re the toast of the kingdom! Lock the hubs and you are ready to rule the road, rescue the stranded ladies and pull your neighbors from danger for a reasonable fee.

Yes sir, snow turns the Dirty South into a land opportunity. A place where those with patience get to slap it in low, turn the fog lights on high and take to the roads looking for the one hill where no man has gone before, at least where no tracks are just yet. That my friend is the spirit of America, the spirit of the south and snow makes it possible for average Joes to become Kings of the Snow!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

GO MOCS!

What a season.

I have been a fan of Chattanooga basketball for over 30 years. The first few as a high school kid in the stands at Big Mac, the last 24 court side working as The Moc Maniac. I have seen the good (lots of winning), the bad (20 wins and no NCAA) and the ugly (Benny Green).

Some years we battled Marshall for the title and tourney, other years, ETSU and there was a spattering of other schools who enjoyed their moments, Davidson of late. However there was one rule in my Basketball Universe, it was UTC and somebody at the top.

Chattanooga was a Southern Conference Basketball Dynasty and the team, the coaches, the fans and the city expected The Mocs to win, and they most always did!

The Mocs won so much that when I was brought in as Moc Maniac I was not just there to pump the crowds up in tight games but to entertain during the many blowout wins.

Even when they didn’t win it all, the path to the Conference title came through the Round House and that was no easy task.

One of my proudest moments as The Moc Maniac was when in 1996 Sports Illustrated named “The Round House” as the decade’s third toughest place to play in America.

Think about that!

Even then many in Chattanooga couldn’t see what a great tradition lived in “Our House” right here in our town, but, many did and do know the pride of being a Moc.

Unfortunately this year has to date been the hardest season I have ever experienced as a member of the Moc Family. Coach John Shulman’s Mocs have struggled greatly this year. There is only one senior, multiple transfers and Junior Co players, talented but raw.

There has been no history making wins over The Big Orange at their place, fewer visiting teams shaking their heads as they boarded the bus home. Matter of fact, many teams and coaches seem to be really enjoying the feeling of breaking that almost mystical spell that was “Chattanooga’s Home Court Advantage”. Things have been so bad that for the first time that I can remember, the Mocs will not get a bye in the Southern Conference Tournament. Making a tournament Championship and NCAA bid almost impossible.

I did say almost.

As I write this the Mocs have won one of the last six games that includes Monday’s Big Win over Davidson.

Now I don’t have a crystal ball and when it comes to Chattanooga basketball I am a bit of a dreamer but I want to suggest that maybe this season will turn into one of Chattanooga’s most exciting ever, maybe even a Championship season?

No I am not drinking.

I have “Believed” all season that this Mocs team was very talented and well coached. I told a lot of people, people who now think I know nothing about basketball.

Maybe I don’t.

But this is my space and I choose to write that the 2010 Chattanooga Basketball Mocs are not dead and that they will prove that as we March to March Madness.

I warn the rest of the conference, all of the ones who think Chattanooga is a has-been program, you don’t want to play these Mocs in the tournament.

Young teams with little to no D-1 experience start the journey in November and start to ripen as they play, this group will have played 31 games before they ever step foot on the tournament floor. 31 games is a lot of games and a lot of experience.

I believe the Mocs will just look at the extra game as another chance to gain experience and maybe whip some of the teams that kicked them while they were learning how to win.

I Believe It!

Really, I do.

Chattanooga will play on ESPN for the Conference Championship!

Go Mocs!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass AKA The Moc Maniac

Tiger Woods.

It is clear the greatest golfer of our time, and maybe of all time has lost touch with the reality of the huge success, fame and money he has made as a golfer.

Last week Woods went before a select group of media before a golf tournament at the Sawgrass golf course in Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida.

During the fifteen-minute statement Woods made, which has been all over the video Web sites and commented on by every blogger in the known world, Woods acknowledged his transgressions against his family and his fans.

He even admitted his following of Buddhism would help him through this time of crisis, and that he had been treated as an in-patient at a private psychiatric facility, and still has a long way to go.

But the question remains.    Is Tiger Woods the golfer salvageable?  

Frankly, I don’t see how Woods, no matter how contrite he may be can ever be the titanic figure he has been since his college days.

The damage to the public perception of Woods is done, no matter how many apologies he makes, no matter how many long talks he has with his wife, his children and his fans, he has destroyed the cult-like following no other athlete has ever had before.

Tiger’s fall is not like a great player whose legs finally give out, or racecar driver who has just gotten too old to drive with greatness he used to have.

In fact, Tiger’s fall has nothing to do with his golf game; it has to do with his life game.

These days it is easy to say Woods fell prey to some inner demon, and that therapy will cure his need for lying, cheating and generally being a moral bum.

Life, whether you are a superstar athlete, or a guy who drives a garbage truck, is all about choices; clearly Woods did not understand the importance of making choices that don’t hurt others.

As he wound down his mea culpa at Sawgrass, Woods asked those who have continued to support him through this fiasco not to lose faith, and to give him a chance to salvage his career.

Woods clearly still does not understand the price a person pays for super star status in this country.   He even scolded the media, or at least parts of the media, for following his wife and children around following the revelation of his numerous affairs.

Woods clearly still believes he is entitled somehow to be treated differently than all the other celebrities who deal with the media attention as part of their daily lives, and understand it is part of the price you pay for huge success and wealth.

Woods says he may come back to golf, maybe as early as this year, but gave no firm timetable.

I hope Tiger has accumulated enough money over his career so he does not have to play golf for a living any more.  

His brief passage among the athletic greats of this world is over as far as I am concerned. No matter how many therapy sessions he sits through, no matter how strong his Buddhism, no matter whether his wife divorces him or not, now Woods is just another star who thought he was above the rules.

The damage he has done to his sport and his fans is irrevocable. Professional athletics, and golf in particular would be better off if Woods just fades away.

 - Scorpio Jones III

Fifteen years ago, at my then-significant-other’s week-long family reunion, I met a woman I thought was a bitch. There were a few in attendance so my odds of meeting one were really pretty good now that I think about it and things didn’t go too well right off the bat.

There was a croquet game underway on the front lawn of a cabin in the park where this get-together had, um…gotten together and I rode quietly up on a bicycle, parking next to some seated spectators, and began to watch.

My bad.

One of the spectators (a chubby one that at first glance appeared quite jovial) took immediate offense, turning her big bitchy face to me and snarling “Can I help You?”  just going to show that hey,… looks can deceive. We were in a public place; a place where creepy type people might possibly be wandering around and mainstream American men don’t have three foot long hair (I did) so some strange hippie dude riding up unexpectedly and parking close by could certainly be unnerving. I’m not arguing that.

I am saying, however, that I was a victim of profiling and profiling, as we all know, is wrong!

I suppose I should have calmed things immediately by explaining that I was an invited guest in casual search of my friend but I - terrible man that I am - chose differently and I am quite sure that most of you are shocked by this news. Any notion I might have entertained leaning towards a hippie-esque pacifism beat a hasty retreat before the withering glare of this bovine Gorgon that would one day become my cousin in-law and, blissfully unaware of this last fact, my evil nature prevailed. I decided to stir the pot.

“Nope. Don’t need no help” I assured Future Cousin Bitch, most thoroughly amused but trying my damnedest not to show it, and then fixed my gaze towards some other future in-laws who were taking a shellacking at a game too stupid for words, only these (I’m talking about generation upon generation of poor sports, here) were brandishing wooden mallets. Some of them didn’t appear to be wholly enjoying themselves and it occurred to me that there was possibly some small potential for ugliness to develop amongst them. I was also at least vaguely aware that I might soon be the victim in some bizarre clubbing ritual by this mostly drunk mob of German (historically a somewhat pushy and aggressive bunch) descent but I was on this bus for the long ride and there was no jumping off now, so I continued. asking “Lemme guess who’s losing…the guy in the Grateful Dead shirt and Hawaiian shorts who keeps dropping his beer?” again, blissfully unaware; this time that I had just referenced Future Cousin Bitch’s brother.

I knew it four seconds later.

Four seconds after that, I also knew that I was an unwelcome sonofabitch that had intruded into a private affair and things, at this juncture, were quickly going south. As my “Uh, oh” switch flipped itself, I was suddenly struck in the deepest level of my subconscious by a flute and tambour music accompanied, slow motion vision of my inert, lifeless corpse being savagely pounded by a relentless croquet-loving, hippie-hating, mallet-wielding horde over by the third wicket, the lot of them shouting things in German, I think.  Since the only German I know for sure is “achtung”, “blitzkrieg”, and ‘Wienerschnitzel”, I can’t fully commit.

I can tell you that for the next minute or so things got quite heated. Voices were raised and names (bad ones) were called and a couple of people were thumping their mallets into their palms in what I rightly construed as a hostile, threatening manner as I, now completely on the defensive, badly outnumbered and no longer the slightest bit amused, engaged in ever more hostile debate with FCB, her drunk brother and somebody’s drunk grandma until finally something had to give.

“Look ” I eventually blurted out to these mannerless barbarians, probably just a few seconds shy of a nasty cranial bashing, “I was invited to this reunion and just happened by here on my way to find somebody. I didn’t come here to interrupt your lives or your game, I just stopped by to watch.”  Feeding off of this shred of momentum and catching a quick breath, I skipped right past defensive and beelined straight to indignant with a quick ‘What the hell is wrong with you people, anyway?” on the gamble that I wouldn’t take a mallet to the back of the neck for an answer.

It all worked out, I suppose. Reason prevailed, halfhearted apologies were mumbled and an uneasy truce was declared by both sides, albeit grudgingly. A half hour later, though, on the inescapable knowledge that I had indeed been invited to attend this assemblage of nutballs, I had joined in and was entrenched in a furiously competitive but still stupid round of croquet myself, taking every available opportunity to blast my competitor’s balls off into the high weeds or the drainage ditch over by the road. I didn’t care if I won or not, I just wanted a chance to smack the crap out of them!  Unfortunately, the rules would only allow me to smack their stupid wooden balls and so I (hahaha) did, but as a handy little bonus I was now sporting a mallet of my own for defensive purposes, just in case.

Suckers.

The rest of the week was spent with me kicking the crap out of them or them kicking the crap out of me in various sports and games. It was seven days of undeclared war and it was fun in a juvenile, sociopathic kind of way. I know I took their canoe race trophy from them despite some blatant cheating on their part and it hacked them off to no end. I also know that at week’s end I left what ideally should and could have been a peaceful mountain retreat bearing a new title.

“That Terrible Man” they called me.

Hell, every family reunion has one, don’t they? The real question, though, is this: How terrible do you have to be to be the terrible guy to a gang of 140 drunk Germans?

Pretty Wienerschnitzel-ing terrible is all I can come up with but guess what? I’m not the one who started that bullshit; I came with the best intentions. And despite the fact that I’ve been arrested for assault with a water balloon and once taught the retarded kid down the street some dirty words when I was eleven (the kind of stuff you’d expect out of somebody terrible) I am not so terrible that my picture is plastered all over the walls at any post offices. And just because I annoyed her cousin for years on end by keeping motorcycles in the living room and using her pretty show towels, doesn’t mean that I didn’t eventually make peace with my nasty tempered cousin-in-law and her ilk, because I did.

I promise.

The last one of their reunions I attended they made me my own separate banana pudding from the one served to the masses one night, knowing that I had a huge junkfood habit. To know me is to love me, that’s my story. And whipping up a banana pudding with extra vanilla wafers and Cool Whip ain’t no way to treat an enemy.

My paranoid side keeps telling me that they might have done something funny with one of those bananas and that maybe that seemingly kind gesture was entirely hostile (befitting a terrible, evil creep such as myself) and I have only horrible acts of retribution to look forward to for all of my filthy, despicable ways. Maybe there’s nothing but misery and sorrow in store for bad guys like me who ooze through stop signs on occasion and leave the toilet seat up more often than not and maybe karma’s gonna get me for paying that goofy looking stripper to put her shirt back on that time.

Maybe.

Certainly, when you’re this kind of terrible you should expect the worst, shouldn’t you?

PS On a totally unrelated note: Welcome to the Scenic City, VWers. I’ve met some of you and look forward to meeting more. It’s going to be great.

I promise.

PSS Croquet, anyone?

I guess it should be cold when one watches the Winter Olympics. After a tantalizingly short warm spell, the chill is back in Chattanooga as I observe the Canadians and the Germans playing hockey on CNBC. I’ll confess that I am not the biggest fan of the winter games. I much prefer the boxing, sprinting, hooping, jumping, and other warm-weather sporting of the Summer Olympics. Head to head, I’d even take gymnastics over figure skating. Neither are the most macho of sports, but the male gymnasts don’t dress like Siegfried or Roy…

…The 2010 Vancouver games will climax this Sunday evening, but a dark cloud still hangs over them. The fatal training accident of 21-year-old Georgian luger Nodar Kumaritashvili just hours before the opening ceremonies was bad enough. The International Olympic Committee’s shameless ass-covering after the tragedy added insult to the fatal injuries. The luge run was undeniably fast, according to the competitors. The IOC was so concerned with avoiding the blame for Kumaritashvili’s death that it forgot its humanity. Shame on them…

…The luge run wasn’t the only Olympic venue in questionable condition. Unseasonably warm weather forced organizers to fortify ski ramps with bales of hay and have snow flown in from elsewhere. I remember seeing downhill racers screaming through nearly-blinding Austrian snowfall. I haven’t seen much snowfall in Vancouver…

…When I watch hockey, I sometimes get so hypnotized by trying to follow the tiny, black laser beam of a puck that I don’t stop and notice what amazing skaters those guys are. I just spent a few minutes watching how fast the Canadians and Germans get from one end of the rink to the other… and how effortlessly they stop and change direction. I can’t ice skate worth a crap. Maybe that’s one reason I don’t like the Winter Games as much. I at least have an athletic frame of reference for basketball, volleyball, running, soccer, etc. Kind of…

…I’m surprised there’s not any curling on television right now. Every other time I’ve tuned into the Olympics, I’ve seen little gatherings of semi-athletic people in team gear sliding big stones down the ice… and merrily sweeping a path ahead of the big stones with their little brooms. What an odd and yet strangely telegenic sport. Simultaneously boring and compelling without compromising either quality. I know that makes no sense at all. Neither does curling…

…I haven’t seen any of the ski jumping yet, so I’ll have to be sure and seek some out. Ski jumping is the paradoxical exception to my usual rule about not enjoying watching any sports that I can’t at least participate in myself. I would never jump off of one of those big-ass ramps. I won’t even jump off a tiny-ass ramp. In fact, the last time I put on a pair of snow skis, I wound up with a butt bruise the shape of Alaska and a cracked rib from falling into my ski pole… which wound up bent like a crescent moon. But I like to watch the ski jumpers achieve flight for their brief, shining moments. And I kind of like it when they wipe out at the bottom too…

…Television ratings for this year’s Winter Games have been phenomenal. Over half of Americans have watched at least some of the games. We’re ahead in the medal count… as of right now. At a time when our economy is a complete mess and our collective future looks a bit murky… it’s nice to come together as a country and pull for our fellow Americans in Vancouver. Even the ones dressed like Siegfried or Roy…

 -- Mark Bedford

While Valentine’s Day is a day of love and romance for many of us it was a day of sadness for me.  No, not because of love lost or a broken heart, but power pop icon Doug Fieger passed away after a lengthy battle of brain and lung cancer.

While his name may only be known by true audiophiles and the like, everyone and I mean everyone knows his band and at least the one song that defines its genre more than any.  Doug was the singer and leader of the power pop quartet The Knack.  And if that name still doesn’t ring a bell, unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past 30 years you know the song “My Sharona”.

The song may be one of the best known song with the exception of “Happy Birthday” and “Hey Jude”.  It has been parodied by everyone from Weird All Yankovic to Cheech and Chong (“Cheech & Chong’s Next Movie”). It has gone away for over a decade and re-charted (1994) thanks to Ben Stiller’s “Reality Bites” even being nominated for an Academy Award.  Today the song remains a staple in not only rock radio formats, but classic rock, college and alternative play lists.

The Knack basically paid tribute to the Beatles with their debut album “Get The Knack” not only in name (an homage to ‘60s albums like “Meet the Beatles”, but in dress (on their debut they wore suits similar to the British Invasion acts of the early ‘60s and performed in white dress shirts and skinny black ties) and even hairstyle.  Fieger wore a similar mop top style popularized by the Beatles that he wore from the late seventies until he fell ill.  And the Knack paid homage with their musical style which was power pop, three-minute songs mostly about love and love lost with sharp guitar work and tight vocal harmony.  The Knack was pretty much a New Wave version of the Beatles.  The album rose to the top of the charts in late summer of 1979 and the songs “My Sharona” was number one for six weeks.  The track was named by Billboard the best single of 1979.

The band followed up that hit with “Good Girls Don’t” that peaked at 11 on the charts.  It would take over a decade for the band to achieve another top ten hit with their “comeback” album “Serious Fun”.  The title track peaked at number 9 on Billboard. 

Three years later another generation fell in love with Fieger’s muse, Sharona when Stiller included the track on the soundtrack of his hit movie “Reality Bites”.  The single shot back up the charts and back into our hearts, a place it remains still to this day.

Looking at “My Sharona” one can argue it is the most perfect song ever written.  It’s a timeless classic that despite being 30 years old is sung regularly by the those that sa                                    ng it when it came out, their kids and in some cases even their you grand children.

The song has a universal timeless and tireless theme – unrequited love.  Songs of love and lust are universal and they are relevant to any and every generation.  It has the most recognizable bass and guitar parts of any song bar none.  And the into… when you hear the harsh drum beat begin you’re either awaiting the bass to start or you automatically start to sing “My Sharona”.  “My Sharona” is a song everyone that hears it sings along with, even if it’s only the bass line/chorus.  “My Sharona” is also one of those rare songs that you not only sing along with but dance with as well.  Most songs fall into an either or category.  “My Sharona” falls into both.  It’s a feel good song that quite frankly never goes out of style and is the perfect mood lifter.  I dare anyone not to be in a better mood after listening to the song.  Whether alone or with a crowd “My Sharona” is by far the best song ever written.

Doug Fieger and the Knack have left many a smile on my face and the people I have kept company since the first time I heard the song.  And I remember that day.  I knew my life was changed forever after hearing the simple melody and words.  Despite his untimely death Sunday, I can’t help but smile.  The world is a better and more fun place thanks to The Knack and their silly love songs.  And despite this busy and crazy world I will always have time for my, my, my, my Sharona - and with a song in my heart.

 - Dave Weinthal

The word is, NASCAR is losing audience. Is fans are trickling away to who knows where.   Some of this is because of the recession, stupid, but not all of it is because nobody can afford a ticket to a race anymore.

Jimmy Johnson, who last year won an unprecedented fourth NASCAR championship, has the personality of a floor mop.

One owner, Hendrick Motorsports, “owns” four or five of the top drivers in the game, and the folks who really love NASCAR-style racing tend to be anti-monopoly.

Dale Earnhardt, Jr., still the most popular driver in the game, has not won a race since before the war, yet somehow managed to make a reported $33 million about half way through the season last year but did not make the Chase for the Championship.

And Sunday, in a situation that must have had TDOT giggling in its oatmeal, a pothole on the track at Daytona stopped America’s race twice for a total of almost three hours while crews frantically worked to patch the hole.

It truly was America’s Race, complete with deteriorating infrastructure.

But Saturday it was Danica Patrick comes to the beach, and a frenzy of attention for the Indy Car driver, and I do mean frenzy.

Some folks were suggesting the state of Florida should change the name of the town to Danica Beach.

It has been reported the Fox crew mentioned Danica more than five times more than any other driver in the ARCA race on Friday.

ARCA, for the racing ignorant, is the functional equivalent of a lunchtime pick-up basketball game at your local gym. Yet the ARCA race had the highest TV rating of any ARCA race in the history of the world.

All because of Danica Patrick’s debut in stock cars. The diminutive Patrick has a career record of one lap led in the Indy 500, and one win in five years of Indy Car racing.

Tim Tebow and Sarah Palin visited the track on Saturday, not even Fox noticed, it was Danica mania all day, and the blabbering carried over into Sunday during the three-hour "pot hole delay."

Patrick was introduced to the media in the Daytona media center, and found the huge crowd of journalists far more intimidating that the 3500-pound car she would be driving later.

A reporter for a racing Web site handed her a rose.

Patrick is more marketable than Junior, and she has only won one race in her career.

Before finishing seventh in her debut, Fox commentator Darryl Waltrip, caught up in the Danicaitis, waxed grammatically incorrect about her “car control” during a slide through the infield.

Saturday, Patrick ran with the big boys, wandered around in the back of the pack for a while, then got caught up in a multi-car pile up which destroyed her car and sent her back to the JR Motorsports motor home.

Later in the same race, Patrick’s new boss for her NASCAR efforts, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. also got caught in a “big one” which also destroyed his car.

Junior’s tongue-in-cheek comment after climbing out of what was left of his car (and there was not much left) said JR Motorsports had taken a pretty good hit in the race and he was going to have to go back and look at the numbers to see what was going on.

Patrick’s services were the subject of much off-season speculation, with a joint venture between JR Motorsports and the Hendrick Racing cabal finally winning the bidding to pay Patrick to drive in most of the Nationwide series this season, making the move to the Sprint Cup cars next season if all goes well. What Patrick will be paid per race has been speculated as being somewhere in the range any regular driver would be paid….somewhere around $100,000 per race, although some speculation puts the figure much higher.

Look, I got nothing against Danica. In fact, I well remember watching her lead a lap at Indy and being thrilled…I loved it, being the underdog supporter I naturally am.

But I am afraid Danicamania is an indication of what is driving the real fans away from NASCAR. To the real racing fan, Danica gets way more attention than she deserves based on her resume.

And to the real racing fans, who wins what is still the essence of the game.

And I suspect the core NASCAR fan base is no more fooled by what, in essence, is a marketing ploy, than they are by Junior’s best effort in many a race, a second place finish in the pot-hole interrupted Daytona 500, as an indication Junior is coming out of his slump.

Jimmy Johnson may have the personality of a floor mop, but he wins races, and to the core NASCAR fan, trained at the knee of Dale Earnhardt, the senior, that’s all that matters.

If NASCAR is concerned about falling attendance and interest, maybe they can find somebody who can win races. Much as I like the idea of Danica Patrick, I don’t think she is that person.

 - Scorpio Jones III

As I have stated often, I typically type this drivel up on Tuesdays. It is first available on newsstands on Thursdays. So, here it is on Tuesday afternoon and I’m looking out my window at dry roads and overcast skies. Despite this, the over 40,000 students who attend Hamilton County Schools are home today. The over 6,500 employees in the system’s 78 schools are taking the day off. Why? Because Monday night flurries on Signal Mountain and three local ice-related traffic fatalities Monday morning combined to create a fear factor that scared the County Department of Education into shutting down the whole system…

…Before you get all spun up on me, let me say that the safety of the students aboard the County’s school buses and those who drive or are driven to school is the most critical issue. And I can see where last Monday’s fatal wrecks would make the HCDE decision-makers a bit nervous. But this cancellation was not the first (not by a long shot) where the day’s “severe weather” turned out to be anything but severe. County schools seem to close if one person thinks one bus on one route might be affected by bad road conditions. And, on the recent Friday when we did get lots of snow... Hamilton County was one of the few area systems that didn't close... despite the snow predictions. As a result, thousands of parents had to scramble to pick up or care for their kids...

…I wonder if the HCDE has ever thought about the economic impact of closing an entire school system.  On this particular week, a lot of parents took Monday off so they could spend time with their kids on President’s Day – an official school holiday. On Monday night, when the HCDE started notifying parents of its decision to close all of its schools on Tuesday, literally thousands of parents had to take another day off work and/or find a babysitter. Hundreds of parents who rely on the day care facilities provided at some schools… had to make other plans in a hurry. Thousands of kids who get their best meal of the day through the “free lunch” program… were deprived of that much-needed nutrition...

…A friend of mine with kids in the County system says he is way behind on work… thanks to all of the recent “weather-related” school cancellations. He is a self-employed contractor. His wife works for a major employer here in Chattanooga. It’s easier for him to take time off than it is for his wife to do so. But he’s weeks behind in estimating projects for his business because he’s been taking so much time off to deal with his kids. This issue is hitting him right in the wallet...

…I wonder what all of the German executives from Volkswagen think of our County schools being closed due to… cold weather? It snows a good bit in Germany. Life goes on. It snows a lot in Detroit, where some of VW’s competitors still have their factories. If workers at the Chattanooga VW plant have to keep taking days off because of unnecessary County school closings, I’m sure it will become a source of frustration for the company our city, county and state worked so hard to bring here…

…It’s time for the HCDE to start looking at partial closings that will only affect the areas where the weather is most likely to impact road conditions.  They should be able to close the schools on Signal Mountain without completely throwing parents in the rest of the system under the (parked) bus. They need to commission a study to fully research the economic impact of a system-wide school closing. That way they’d at least know the dollar cost of those decisions. Maybe we’d get fewer school closings for “cold weather” that way…

 -- Mark Bedford

It’s been a while since I’ve waded into political topics, so I’m overdue. This bowl of gumbo will be chock-full o’ politics, both national and closer to home… so here goes...

…The Recent Tea Party Movement gathering in Nashville and the media coverage of it didn’t really help me understand what the “Tea Party Patriots” really stand for. So I Googled their website and clicked it. Apparently, this is their “mission statement”: “A community committed to standing together, shoulder to shoulder, to protect our country and the Constitution upon which we were founded!” First off, I’ve never seen a conservative group dedicated to protecting all of the Constitution. Right-wingers love a little unlawful search and seizure, among other things. “To protect our country” is code for “We’ll keep funding all the wars we can find.” Third parties tend to form, flash and fade pretty quickly here in America. But I think the TP-ers will at least be able to exert some influence on the Republicans…

…Both parties are ripe for some influence at this stage of the game. The Pachyderms are gloating a bit now that they have put Scott Brown into Teddy Kennedy’s old Senate seat, but the fact that people are talking about the first-termer as a possible presidential candidate shows just how big the Republican leadership vacuum truly is. Whichever party loses a presidential election takes a while to get its act back together. The GOP isn’t quite there yet…

…The Democrats aren’t in much better shape. Brown’s election eliminated their senate “supermajority.” Brown’s Democratic opponent, Commonwealth of Massachusetts Attorney General Martha Coakley, is now widely considered to be one of the single worst political candidates in history. (She was even lampooned as such on “Saturday Night Live.”) House Speaker Nancy Pelosi wins new enemies every day. An awful lot of people who voted for Barack Obama would like to see him focus on fixing our economy and figuring out what we’re doing in Afghanistan and Iraq. Both parties have their work cut out for them…

…I keep wondering what long-term impact, if any, Sarah Palin will have on our political landscape. Bailing out of the Alaska governor’s job so she could start scheduling her book tour… might not help her chances of winning any other election… let alone the great big one. She revealed a certain lack of depth in that infamous Katie Couric interview. I’m being polite. But… and this is critically important… Sarah Palin is darn cute. Cute will get you a lot…

...Closer to home, I’ve been pondering Zach Wamp’s run at the governor’s mansion. The governor’s office often transcends party politics. A lot of Tennessee Republicans, for example, are a lot happier with the job Democrat Phil Bredesen has done, versus the job Don Sundquist (his Republican predecessor) did. Can Zach Wamp do more good for Chattanooga as Governor than his GOP primary opponent, Knoxville fat cat Bill Haslam, or a Democrat from somewhere other than Chattanooga? I told you. I’ve been pondering…

-- Mark Bedford

“How you gonna have fun with one of these? You gotta be f**cked up to do that” *                   

*Some drunk chick Saturday night holding a flyswatter

I was somewhere this past Saturday night where people - all sorts of them - were having some fun. Karaoke was being sung so my ears weren’t enjoying themselves but the rest of me was having a pretty good ol’ time. Take a bunch of beer, add some fat ladies and some guys to dance with them and top it off with a few hotly contested games of pool between a couple of fellows with names like Les and Peckerhead (Go ahead. Try and convince yourself that I’m making this up!) and who the Hell needs HBO?

Not Yours Truly, I assure you.

In the past couple of decades I’ve spent less than one night in a bar as a customer that I can think of and let me tell you, I think I’ve been gypped. There are all sorts of supremely entertaining things to see if you look in the right direction and don’t close your eyes, especially in a good old-fashioned neighborhood bar and I’m about to fill you in.

If you’ve ever been to an art museum, the opera or even a halfassed production of Viictor/Victoria of your own volition, skip over the rest of this and stop wasting your time. There’s nothing to appeal to you here.

If, on the other hand, you secretly attend every monster truck show within a 100 mile radius and incessantly flip to the TV Guide channel in search of more live wrestling, read on, and clear up your calendar for next weekend when the fat ladies will doubtless be back for more.

More beer. More karaoke.

More Peckerhead drinking beer and singing some victorious karaoke thing that I haven’t the nerve to call a song after dusting some chump at a game of Nine Ball or whatever the Hell it is that they were playing.

It sure was something. Just after thrashing a would-be challenger on the pool table, Peckerhead was summoned to the stage and handed the microphone and proceeded to bellow out some rap song that I was, of course, unfamiliar with and the babes began to just lose it, is the only way I can describe it. Chick standing next to me (who, by the way, is pretty hot) began dancing in a manner that caught my eye as she sung along with ‘Head and over by the pool table, the scene of the aforementioned thrashing, something completely unwatchable began to unfold.

One of the ladies in attendance– this one an absolute behemoth of a woman - bent over the table and began to gyrate enthusiastically and, before I could find something to jab into my recently caught eye to alleviate this sudden and unwelcome horror, things, as they are prone to do just when you think there isn’t a chance on God’s earth that they can, got worse.

Much worse.

Much worse as in some guy in a NASCAR tee shirt and matching cap moving in and making his frontal region available for some bumping and grinding and other “ing” stuff.

It was a nightmare in the making. The alcohol fueled equivalent of the Black Plague. The Wreck of the Hesperus.

 In summation, quite bad.

It was more grotesque than anything in my recent memory and well out of reach of my meager descriptive powers but I can tell you that I very nearly soiled myself from the shock of it. And as this lurid YouTube moment began its runaway, merciless descent into the part of my brain that knows no protection from itself, I looked on in dumbstruck, wide-eyed terror knowing that I had been suddenly and irrevocably scarred for life and that the nightmares would indeed be much, much worse than I could then imagine.

Briefly, I considered taking up drinking again but almost immediately rejected the idea based on the sure knowledge that even if it were possible to drink away the memory of this abomination I damned sure couldn’t afford it. Not even close. And just as suicide seemed my only realistic option, things, as they are prone to do just when you think there isn’t a chance on God’s earth that they can, got better.

Much better.

Before my very eyes- the ones that I rightly assumed had been seared for life- the YouTube (YouPorn?) couple fell assbackwards like a drunk into a fire, powerless to save themselves and, once again, The Universe had righted itself beautifully. What had been indescribably vile and nasty beyond words had suddenly and without warning become the funniest, most entertaining thing imaginable as roughly 300 lbs of drunken exhibitionist redneck woman mashed the crap out of 160 lbs of drunken opportunist redneck dude saving the management the obvious hassle of having to break out the hose in order to restore order to the joint. It was as if a train had mowed down a minivan on the tracks outside of town only to find out the passengers were a couple of skinheads, Osama Bin Laden and Martha Stewart. God I hate that bitch.

And Peckerhead never missed a beat.

You don’t see that just any old day, you know. At least not this side of a 2 Live Crew performance, you don’t and it got me to thinking. Maybe these people know something I don’t. Maybe acting like the ghost of your dear departed Grandma isn’t watching you all of the time and cutting way loose in order to have a big old night of it where the beer flows freely is important even if you’re drinking a Diet Coke instead of a Mich Ultra, also known as a diet beer. My eyes are still burning but those folks are probably planning on doing it all over again this weekend and maybe they should be. Maybe you should be too, even if you’d rather attend a symphony performance.

Get out this weekend and make a night of it. Visit your favorite hangout or go find a new one. Drink a few beers or root beers and shoot a little pool. Sing. Dance. Fall down and look stupid if you must, just have a good time. Grandma might be watching but she wants you to have fun. Trust me.

PS: Too late, as usual, I just thought of something to tell the chick with the flyswatter.

He likes to butt things... with his head.   How proud you must be.

Parenthhood The Movie

I wrote last week about how I hate the Saints and I hate New Orleans, after last night that has all changed.

It hasn’t changed because I am a bandwagon jumper - no not me, I am still a Falcon fan and hope the Dirty Birds bring home a title next year. I am not going to start wearing a Saints cap to be cool but I am now a fan of the spirit that surrounded the Saints last night.

New Orleans elected a new Mayor since I last wrote and won a World Championship in front of the biggest TV audience in history. That history making television audience for the first time in my life included me and my three kids.

My 11-year-old is my shadow at UTC games with his blue and gold hair and his arm waving motion that helps bring Moc Fans to their feet. He is my star point guard that makes me look like a better coach than I really am and he sits on my men’s team bench and reminds me to “block out and take the charge”. Watching the game with him is a Man Cave activity so he sat on the far left of the loveseat.

 Then the door opened and we both tried to figure out how we could possibly watch a game with the destruction that had just entered the room. ( See above picture)

My little girl controls her daddy’s heart and kisses and she sat snuggled on my left. Did I mention that at four she has the vocabulary of a talk show host and uses every word every hour of the day?

My one-year-old who turns two on Valentines Day is the destructor! He will climb seven feet in the air for some bite bites and anything that has moving parts will be tested in his presence.

Toyota should hire the kid for quality control.

Christian is his name chaos is his game. He sat in dad’s lap, pointing and saying fooball, fooball! I became his recliner and this little guy who never sits for long found a happy place with his brother and sister watching the Super Bowl with dad.

Now we were pulling for Peyton and the Colts but I think we found ourselves drawn to the emotion of Drew and his Saints. I could tell my kids liked the “Who Dat” fans, my little girl thought they were crazy like daddy at a Mocs game. She was right!

I was actually emotional about the pain Katrina had caused the Gulf Coast and could see what this game meant to the fans so as the game started going the Saints way I was good because they were not playing my Falcons and their fans enthusiasm was contagious.

Then with my kids by my side and my little boy in my lap Drew Brees lifted his little boy up in his arms and I will forever be a Drew fan.

That was a great moment that was married to my three hours hanging with my tribe. Drew said on Letterman tonight that he told his boy “Little man you just don’t understand how cool this is”. I held my oldest on the floor of The Round House when he was 5 in front of 10,500 people and made the same comment.

Last night I hung out as part of 106,000,000 watching the game and it was just as special.

Drew and his son will be the cover of Sports Illustrated and I think its one I will buy despite it being the Saints, class is class plus it represents a lot more to me.

It was the night when somehow video games, cartoons and make believe were put aside to hang with daddy and daddy couldn’t have been happier.

2010 has started off pretty good for Saints fans and the Kahuna Family. I hope your year has started well also.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

PS. Just how far has the city of New Orleans come? After Katrina, the city became a war zone. After the Super Bowl win not one car was turned over, not one light post destroyed. It seems they have worked too hard and seen enough destruction. Last night they celebrated with class. Congrats New Orleans!

 Like many people are prone to do, I’ve almost completely slipped up on my New Year’s resolutions again this year. I say “almost” because I have kept one of them out of a fairly sizeable list. I haven’t yet, as of this writing, gotten any tattoos and don’t plan on it any time soon. Not that I have anything against tattoos, mind you, I just don’t like the idea of them on me. I woke up a few days ago and found my face right next to one that looked pretty danged good and was quite pleased, to tell the truth. To tell the whole truth, one of my hands had a boob in it and it was a pretty danged good one also so I should have been pleased.

I was.

Like I said, nothing against the right tattoo on the right person. Heck, my buddy Matt is covered in them and looks just fine as such but we’re talking about a biker guy who has been known to bounce idiots out of bars on more than one occasion. Putting a tattoo on me would be a cheap, sleight-of-hand trick that nobody would fall for, even with a doo rag and a badass pair of shades. I own a Harley, but nobody- and I do mean nobody- is falling for it.

You could put a tattoo on a baby and it would be more credible.

I have kept the No Tattoos resolution only because it was easy and I knew it would be and I needed that. I blew a couple of others right out of the gate, not even making it a week, and it sucks that I did, but I by gosh kept one of ‘em, shoring up my claim that I am not a complete loser. Lucky me, I needed some help there.

I did manage to actually stop by the gym and ask about a membership and, to my credit, came close to signing up. There is an old saying that goes “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades” and it applies here, I guess. Either way, it’s been a month now and I’m still as weak and flabby as I was on New Year’s Eve. Probably flabbier seeing as how my No Sugar resolution went straight to hell over a piece of cheesecake in a matter of a couple of days, too. Since then I’ve been guzzling Cokes and tearing up Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts to the point that I’m considering flashing lights and a siren for the Park Avenue.

Failed resolutions and I go hand in hand. There’ve been plenty. Chief amongst them, for years upon years, was to quit smoking followed closely by the Gotta Do Something About This Drinking Thing resolution.

Failed and Failed, thank you very much, and did so for over a decade – a decade during which I adopted the strategy of making at least one New Year’s resolution that I knew I could keep in a feeble attempt at God knows what…possibly laying the ground work for some future hoped-for success. As a result, the following resolutions have been well kept:

1 I’ve not robbed any liquor stores. Patronized them, yes. Robbed them, no.

2 No piercing. Again, nobody would buy it.

3 No line dancing. Not a damned step.

4 I have not eaten any oysters. Not a damned one. Oysters are for crazy people.

5 I have not been to Disney World and would not, even to save a baby from a tattoo-ing.

All this, and more, the end result of firm resolution on the part of Yours Truly. Well, firm resolution and a modicum of common sense. The point is that I would always make a resolution that I knew I could keep along with the ones that I knew or suspected would be a bear to keep. Ones like the drinking or smoking or going bear hunting, for instance.

“Try, try again” they would say and I did.

The big stuff I never managed to pull off anywhere close to New Year’s, I have to admit, but I at least tried every year for a long, long while. I kept trying at different intervals until finally something worked. I perennially had the shit kicked out of me by that damned Jaegermeister deer (it still stinkeyes me from the bottle labels, issuing it’s silent threat) until I finally gave in and got some badly needed help and it’s been a while since I woke up feeling trampled by a whole herd of deer, thank God.

It used to be ritual, though, and I must have seriously tried to stop a couple of hundred times before I found out how it needed to be done. I was lucky. And I know a couple of hundred ways to fail as an added bonus, now.

The smoking thing was a little bit different. After twenty years of heavy smoking I had worked my way up to five packs a day on a bad day and was gasping for breath more often than not. My chest hurt and I was screwed and I knew it and still I continued, despite repeated failed attempts to quit and a diagnosis of early emphysema. My wife - not usually given over to sentimental displays - had written me a letter begging me to quit and I had tried my absolute best and failed. Again.

Two years later, alone but sober, I made another try.

What were my chances, really? I’m talking about a guy who smoked during meals, took smoke breaks during sex and wouldn’t go to church because somebody had stolen all the ashtrays. I had an upturned Buick hubcap as an ashtray on my nightstand and even kept one in the freaking shower and that’s the truth. I swear it. I had kept ashtrays everywhere you could think of- and even places you couldn’t - for years, including those half empty beer bottles on my nightstand that I was too drunk or too lazy to throw away until I’d accidentally get a swig from one, thinking it was my current tasty beverage (that’ll curb the urge to smoke for awhile) and gag half to death.    

I was a true hardcore smoker and I didn’t have a prayer, or even a sorry excuse for one, but I tried again anyway and this time something worked, I’m not sure what. Maybe it was the nicotine gum or the lollipops. Maybe it was the two trips to the hypnotist, the double dosing on Zyban or the nicotine patches I had stuck all over my body to the point that my skin was blistered and peeling like a week-old sunburn. All I know for sure is that I was nine days into it and it was Saturday night at work in a smoky bar and I was losing what was left of my mind. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I was going to smoke.   

And as I was about to light up a crazy thought that may have been an answer to a sorry excuse for a prayer hit me like a freight train and I grabbed a half smoked butt from the nearest ashtray, dipped it in a half empty beer and popped it into my mouth. And gagged half to death.

It worked. For however long I needed it to, it worked. It was godawful and I wouldn’t want to do it again but it got me through an insane moment of temptation when nothing else was working and I’d do it again if I had to.

It’s been ten years, now. I didn’t quit on New Year’s like I’d planned to or wanted to but I quit and I’m alive. If you have something that’s been whipping your ass and/or your New Year’s resolution didn’t quite take, try again.

You can do it.

A man rolls over in bed, and gives his wife “that look”. She gives him “that tragic look” and says “Not tonight honey”. “I have a gynecologist’s appointment tomorrow and I want to stay fresh and clean”.

The man rolls over feeling rejected.

But after a few sleepless frustrated moments of creative thought he asks his wife.

“Do you have a dentist appointment tomorrow”?

That man is a prime example of the greatness of humanity. Forget Nobel Prize winning theory. Creativity and Problem Solving is what sets humans apart from animals. And our hero deserves a Noble Prize and if his wife didn’t give him one then she has no appreciation for the pure brilliance of human desire put to reason.

Speaking of reason, why do some people not have that ability?

I am an Atlanta Falcons fan and I hate the New Orleans Saints. The Saints gave me one more reason to hate them this week, they are staying in New Orleans. Now I know that many of you think The Big Easy deserves a team, I am not one of them.

Not since they reelected Mr. Chocolate City.

The Mayor of New Orleans proved he was a racist jack-ass and was still reelected.

Any city that stupid deserves what it gets and despite the success of last season, New Orleans deserves the “Aints”.

How can a man charged with leading a devastated city back from historic ruin make comments about “too many Hispanics” taking part in the city’s rebuilding?

How can a black man on MLK’s official day make comments about New Orleans returning as a chocolate city?

A city made up of African-Americans.  

Oh and God wants it to be that way and God is pissed at America so he is sending storms to kick our butts back into line.

WHAT?

Then he lost his balls and he spun into a damage control mode with comments of “Do you know how they make chocolate”? “You mix milk and chocolate together”.

Sorry good brother, that’s called Nestle’s Quik and if God wanted a Nestle’s Quik or chocolate city it would be in Pennsylvania.   

Think…Think… You guys with me? Okay!

I called for this man’s resignation in 2005 because I was caused great physiological distress.

Matter of fact I may still sue.

I have always thought that I might retire to the Gulf coast and now I feel that I am unwanted because of the color of my skin. What better place was there for a retired perve like me to spend my golden years than a city known for drunken women who show their goodies for plastic trinkets?

The good mayor shattered my dreams!

Even after his remarks the citizens reelected him?

I still believe I may form a contracting firm and bid on some very expensive rebuilding projects in the New Orleans area. Even though I am not very qualified I will sue if I am not rewarded the jobs because I would be competing on uneven ground in a racist city.

If I was the mayor of New Orleans and I said that God wants the city to become a Vanilla city, I know exactly what I would get.

I would be a disgrace to my race and to the city and citizens that elected me their leader.

I would be forced to resign!  

I would be finished and the good mayor should have met that same fate.

But he didn’t, why is that?

Thankfully all of New Orleans gets the Saints and that is punishment enough, wait and see.

So now that I have vented I say “Give Em Hell Mr. Manning”.

Colts 38-Aints 31

Put that in your Yoo Hoo and sip it.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

“I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, that one day, right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I HAVE A DREAM TODAY”!

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Idiots first: I met an idiot in a bar last week, which should come as no surprise, seeing as how I work in a bar and bars are generally good places to find people of temporarily compromised intelligence. I, personally, have drunk myself stupid on more than one occasion and may or may not have completely recovered. There’s been some doubt.

But this hose head I ran across last week was something else altogether and rides close to the top of my all-time list of morons. Also, he was a redneck.

He was a stupid redneck with a pocketful of cash, though, and obviously felt that the second factor over-rode the first. In some instances it might have; I’ve been swayed in the past. Heck, idiots come into money all of the time through insurance settlements from walking out in front of busses or slipping in their own pee at the Krystal after a big Saturday night out and the Universe generally sees to it that they don’t keep that money for very long, occasionally using a local bartender to help the process along.  

Enter Yours Truly. Enter Yours Truly refusing to sell Mr. Dumbfuck a pitcher of margaritas.

This decision was based primarily on two facts, those being 1) We did not sell margaritas by the pitcher and 2) Even if we did sell them we would not sell them to already intoxicated knuckledragging buffoons, even ones with a fistful of dollars.  He insisted on buying a pitcher of margaritas though, all the while stupidly waving money in a valiant but doomed attempt to change my already made up mind. Eventually he got tired, I suppose, and wandered off.

Four minutes later he was back wanting to buy steaks and lobster tails, even after being informed that our kitchen had been closed for two hours, and I was starting to get a little annoyed. Our conversation went pretty much like this:

Idiot: Do you mean to tell me that I can’t buy steaks and lobster tails in this place? What kind of place is this, anyway?

Me: The kind of place with a closed kitchen and no lobster tails on the menu for starters. Anything else you want to know?

Idiot: Sell me a pitcher of margaritas and lobsters, damn it!

Me: No.

Do it!

Me: No.

Idiot: Do it!!

Me: No.

Idiot: Do it!!!

Me: No.

Idiot: Do it, goddam it!

Me: No. (short pause) I can do this all day, just so you know.

The idiot walked off fuming. Four more minutes later he was back and the conversation went pretty much like this:

Idiot: Fuck you!

Me: Back atcha.

Idiot: Let’s arm wrestle!

Me: Go away.

Idiot: Let’s arm wrestle for money!

Me: Go away.

Idiot: Are you scared?

Me: Go away. You are an idiot.

It went on for some time beyond that but, printing costs being what they are, I’ll leave it to your imagination. Idiot guy was dragged out of the place shortly thereafter, though, and did not, in fact, wait outside to kick my ass after work, as threatened. Just my luck.

Beavers next: I stumbled onto, of all things, a beaver last week although I did not immediately recognize it as such. I’d never seen a beaver before and It wasn’t moving that I noticed and at first I thought “Hey, it’s a large furry hat!” ….the natural consequence of having been raised closer to a K-mart than a beaver dam. Had I been raised a pioneer in the great northwest, I likely would have thought “Hey, it’s dinner and a large furry hat” and run up and clobbered it with a stick.

Lucky beaver.

Upon realizing the exact nature of what I was seeing, though, the urge to get a closer look immediately took it’s hold on me and I began to sidle up for closer inspection. My companion for this outing- no pioneer either- began to warn me away, on the feared possibility that beavers might just be carnivorous and I was in imminent danger of a really bad beaver bite.

Man eating beavers?  That seemed a little backwards to me and it occurred to me that I wasn’t exactly sure what a beaver might eat but it looked like this particular one was munching some grass and having a pretty good time doing it despite being in close proximity to a couple of confused city slickers.

“Look at those teeth” she said. “You don’t know what beavers eat but I bet they can hurt you. I’ll Google it later and you can chase some other beaver if you have to, just get away from that one.” I might not know everything but I know a beaver can chew through a log the size of my arm so I decided that- on that particular day at least- the beaver hunt was off and it’s probably just as well. I’m behind on my tetanus shots.

Now Guitars: I had a little money burning a hole in my pocket, so I bought a new Stratocaster last week and it’s a beauty. It’s black and shiny and it can do all sorts of things that I can’t yet make it do and might not ever be able to but it sure is something. It’s the top of the line model from the best name in the business and the privilege of owning it has left me close to broke. When I got it home and took it out of its box, I looked and drooled for several minutes before plugging it in and picking away. I spent the next hour or so in what could have been a blissful musical experience if I could play worth a damn but I can’t. Even so, I enjoyed it thoroughly and, finally satisfied, I unplugged my new masterpiece and set it on the stand that will be its new home.

Right next to my old, white Stratocaster.

The old one is a lesser name brand without all the fancy stuff of the new one but I’ve played it for the last year or so and it’s done me just fine. I love the contrast of the old and new ones together and figured when I bought the new one I’d occasionally fire up the white one just for the heck of it. For old time’s sake.

There is no time like the present, I reasoned and my fingers not quite worn out from playing my new dream guitar, I pulled the old one down, plugged it in, and began to play.

And as I lost myself for a bit in an old favorite by The Who, the sneaking suspicion that I’d screwed up began to snake its way into my consciousness. Most musicians might be able to discern a marked distinction between the two instruments but not me. They sounded right about the same to these old, tin ears. As I played on I began to realize that paying sixteen times what my old white guitar had cost for my shiny new black one had been a staggering lapse of judgment.

In a down economy, with a perfectly serviceable guitar at my disposal, I had gone and paid a war pension for another shiny new guitar and I could have kicked myself in the ass for it. It was the act of man gone temporarily insane, or stupid. The act of a man not in control of himself.

A man who might sneak up on a beaver. An idiot.

I think I need a pitcher of margaritas.

"You don't understand. I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it. It was you, Charley." - On the Waterfront

It’s a cloudy Tuesday, the Mocs are in the middle of a four game losing streak, my poker buddies are away playing in the WSOP while I stay here and I just saw myself naked in the mirror. It’s been a bad day!

When I did my TV show and I wanted to escape from a crappy news day or if I just wanted to have a good show and a good time, we would play with some movie quotes. So this week I will write a quote and give you two choices as to where it actually came from.

 “I’ll sleep with you for a meatball.”   Victor/Victoria or Paris Hilton’s bedroom?

“Follow me, or perish, sweater monkeys.” — Bring it On or Jessica Simpson’s Twitter account?

“I can’t believe I just gave my panties to a geek.” — Sixteen Candles or Bill Gates’s first girlfriend?

“I haven’t been boinked like that since grade school.” — Fight Club or Conan O’Brien?

 “I was born a poor black child.” — The Jerk or Bill Clinton?

 Next time someone asks you if you’re a god, you say YES!” — Ghostbusters or Obama’s advisors?

"I'll be back!" - Arnold Schwarzenegger as the terminator or American Idol’s Adam Lambert?

"My mother always said, life was like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get" - Tom Hanks as Forrest Gump or The proposed health care plan?

"Lawzy, we got to have a doctor. I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies" - Butterfly McQueen as Prissy - Gone With the Wind or Octomom’s plastic surgeon?

"You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? Then who the hell else are you talkin' to? You talkin' to me? Well, I'm the only one here. Who the *&%$ do you think you're talking to? Oh, yeah? Ok?" - Robert DeNiro as Travis Bickle - Taxi Driver or that Verizon guy?

"You can't handle the truth." - Jack Nicholson as Col. Nathan R. Jessep - A Few Good Men or Tiger Wood’s to his 19 mistresses?

"You're gonna need a bigger boat" - Roy Scheider as Police Chief Martin Brody in Jaws or The Captain of the Biggest Loser Disney Cruise?

 “I used to boink guys like you in prison” — Roadhouse or Bernie Maddoff at the age of 212?

"There's no place like home" - Judy Garland as Dorothy Gale - The Wizard of Oz or America’s ten million unemployed?

"I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?" - Clint Eastwood as Harry Callahan - Dirty Harry or chapter 11 of the Redbank Police training manual?

"Show me the money" - Cuba Gooding, Jr. as Rod Tidwell - Jerry Maguire or Volkswagen America to the Chattanooga City Counsel?

"Thank you sir! May I have another!" - Kevin Bacon as Chip Diller - Animal House or GM after their first government bailout?

"My precious" - Andy Serkis as Gollum - Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers or Tiger Wood’s pet name for both his drivers? Wink wink.

"Aye, fight and you may die, run, and you'll live... at least a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willin' to trade ALL the days, from this day to that, for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take away our lives, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM!" - Mel Gibson as William Wallace – Braveheart or just one of Kahunaman’s  favorite quotes?

"You're a lean, mean, fighting machine!"- Bill Murray as John Winger – Stripes or President Obama’s name for the new underfunded military?

"I wish I knew how to quit you" by Jake Gyllenhaal as Jack Twist in Brokeback Mountain  or Brett Favre to the NFL?

"I'm the king of the world" by Leonardo DiCaprio as Jack Dawson in Titanic or ironically President Obama while jumping up and down on Opra’s couch?

"Yeah, it's a cure-all. My buddy Jonah broke his elbow one time. He just smoked some weed. It still clicks, but it's cool." by Seth Rogen as Ben Stone in Knocked Up or The Tennessee Vol’s sports trainer?

"Houston, we have a problem" Tom Hanks, Apollo 13 or Tiger Wood’s after Elin found his text records?

"Ladies and gentlemen…I give you…Kong! The eight wonder of the world!" Jack Black, King Kong or President Obama introducing the federal budget?

"Look at me…underestimated from day one. You’d never think I was a master of the universe, now would you?" Al Pacino, The Devil’s Advocate or George W. Bush whittling on a Texas bus stop bench?

I know what you are thinking.

Is that all?

Yeah!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

My dog Smegal, a Mexican Hairless that had clearly seen better days, died right about this time last year. We had gone for a short walk during which he succumbed to a rapid series of surprise gunshot wounds to the head. He was an old, old dog, in terrible shape, and the time had come to help him along, and I did.  And he rolled over, dead.

 It was not pretty, or anything remotely resembling such, but it was definitely quick and - I hope - completely painless.  Certainly, he deserved a quick end to what had been an obviously worsening physical ordeal. It was a heartbreaking thing to have to do but it was the indicated thing and it was my place to see it through. And while I managed to get it done I’m awfully glad that jobs like it don’t come along for me every day. I’m not that kind of tough. I’m too old.

I don’t know that I’m any kind of tough at all, come to think of it, but some of the people I’ve worked with over the years might have a different opinion.  “Demanding” or “Perfectionist” some of them also might say. “Sonofabitch” might say some others.

 But they are mostly slackers who’s parents probably never made them cut firewood or play on the little league football team for the local Orphanage/Home for Wayward Children -  a team that would go winless the entire season and score only twice, once on accident. Orphan athletes (and their drunk coaches) apparently have very poor organizational skills and, as a group, display an overwhelming lack of team spirit but I took to heart the implied threat that I might be joining them shortly and played my skinny ass off anyway, under the daunting possibility of a pending worst-case scenario.

Heck, they whip them kids with Hotwheel tracks and feed them spinach three times a week, don’t they?

I prefer to think of myself, inspired as I was by this and other similar experiences, as driven rather than demanding or aggressive, but I’ve been accused before of being quite adept at self-deception and prone to delusional thought as well as being a perfectionist or a sonofabitch.

My accusers might be right. I will at least entertain the possibility that they are and lately I’ve become quite interested in various opportunities for self-improvement, some direly needed. Patience, I am fully aware, is an area in which I have generally come up lacking but, seeing as how I’m not a buzzard and have no aspirations to be, I never really considered it a problem. I’ve got other, more important shit like Male Pattern Baldness and six busted motorcycles making me lose sleep already and just because I’m not the most even keeled guy around doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m fretting about it. I’ve tried to be a little more patient with people, though, just because I thought it couldn’t hurt and - once again - my tendency towards delusional thought has backfired, effectively kicking me right in the balls.

Hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. You can’t and I knew it and I shouldn’t have even tried but patience isn’t everything and the hypertension that my miserably failed attempts at it had triggered demanded some sorely needed attention recently. I might not be able to improve my demeanor much but I can at least exercise, another equally desirable form of self improvement, and become a (hopefully) healthier, if not kinder and gentler man.

I’d been talking with a friend of mine lately about going to the gym with him and having him teach me to box. He’s an accomplished fighter who knows his stuff and is willing to teach me and I’ve taken him up on the offer. I hope it works out.

Really, all I know about boxing I learned from the best; Mike Tyson. Somebody kicking your ass, but good? Bite his damn ear off. Hey, it might not win you the bout on points but you won’t be forgotten any time soon either! Unfortunately this is the type of combative strategy I’ll have to forego, come training time, and it’s a damned shame ‘cause biting somebody who is pounding on your head’s ear off seems perfectly workable to me.

 Let’s call it plan “B” for now.

After one session of training me and another friend, my boxer buddy has decided that I have at least some small bit of potential at this. I don’t know how he reached this conclusion but he’s the professional; what do I know? Maybe it was how I repeatedly tripped over myself as we studied on footwork or how I nearly collapsed after the second three minute round on the heavy bag (I thought for sure I was going to drop dead. It seems I’m not that kind of tough, either. I’ve got a bad heart, for starters and I’m in terrible shape) that has convinced him of my inevitable fistic prowess. Possibly it was the way my other trainee friend, a girl no less, had in minutes mastered drills that left me baffled halfway through them that has swept away any doubt as to my suitability for a sport best suited for those less grizzled than yours truly.

Regardless, I’ve been informed that this week we’re going to step up the intensity of my training and make a fighter out of me whether I think we can or not and I’m game to try. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll work off some flab and some of those aggressive sonofabitch tendencies while I’m at it, too. My buddy will do his part, I’m sure. He’s going to guide me and help me along, as needed, and I will eventually become a boxer of sorts. After all, I’m driven, aren’t I?

I am. And maybe… just maybe… this old dog can learn a new trick after all. I know, though, that one more round on that heavy bag and I might roll over and play dead.

Here’shoping I’m playing.

“Get out of the house”.

Finally the sub-freezing days have given way to a more normal Chattanooga winter. Temperatures are back in the mid fifties making afternoons good for the spirit, so get out of the house people.

We are bombarded by news stories about Fat-America and with The Krystal Challenge and Biggest Loser overeating and being fat have turned into sports.

I am not hating, but if we could somehow figure out how to gather all that static electricity being created by people’s thighs rubbing together in velour we could fuel America’s future.

The Wii promises to turn couch potatoes into athletes but so far all that seems to really be doing is causing out of shape gamers to strain parts they have never really used.

What’s next virtual porn star? Can you really be a PORN STAR on a game system call a Wii? Maybe a system called Yippeee.

Wii Sport works, Wii Fit, okay. Wii Porn Star, not so much all though if I were in adult movies that would be my format.

If something doesn’t change the current generations only real social skills will come from their ability to be witty with their thumbs. Get them out of your keysters lol and go look someone in the eye will ya?

Did you hear about the World Texting Championships?

How proud mom and dad must be! If I were the Cyber Sheriff I would break their figures like they used to do to the gunslingers in those old Western movies. WTF as in Whack The Fingers!

I coach little league basketball and my kids give it a good go, they try pretty hard my kids but I am old school. I question any ten-year-old that can’t run and play all day and then get in trouble when their mom calls for them at dark to come home and they stay and play some more. Kids are supposed to have boundless energy but today’s kid’s idea of energy is to stay up all night playing DS.

What has happened to us?

I suck at social networking, my Facebook friends page never gets updated because I can’t stand the idea of sitting at a computer for hours when I could be out shooting hoops or even engaging in a dramatic hard fought game of Wi Tennis with my son, anything but engaging my ass to a swivel chair when I am not getting paid to do it.

Sorry folks, that’s preachy and insensitive.

Let me just say enjoy your cyber isolation, it beats allowing people to see real life up close, un-photo-shopped images of your mushy butts. And as you allow your kids to avoid living in the moment as they are spending time with you and others ask yourselves, what will they do when the time comes to look someone in the eye, shake their hand and ask for a job?

Hope you have plenty of room for them in your basement their going to be there for a while.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

With the beginning of a new year we not only bid adieu to the last decade, but usher in a new era as well.  For Mike Robb it is more or less a homecoming.

Robb is one of the partners of the new Midtown, Chattanooga’s newest dance club.  Rob worked his was through school in the very same building located on Patten Parkway downtown when it was Yesterday’s, a legendary live music venue.

Over the years Robb spent time in the cabinet making business as well as being involved with T-Bone’s Sports Grill and the recently opened Mike’s Hole In The Wall located on the Northshore.

Recently Robb along with partner John McClellan decided to take on the task of converting the former Midtown Music Hall into Midtown, a modern era dance club.

How exactly would you describe a dance club?  It is a drinking, dancing and entertainment venue that does its primary business after dark.  It distinguishes itself from bars, pubs and taverns by the inclusion of a dance floor and DJ booth.

Under Robb and McClellan’s supervision, the former live music venue was remodeled, which itself had gone through a major renovation when it originally opened five years ago.

Dance clubs or dance halls as they were commonly referred to back in the 1950s used a jukebox or live bands to entertain.  In Paris at a club called the Whisky a Gogo (not to be confused with the legendary Whisky A Go-Go in Los Angeles), run by famous nightclub pioneer, Regine Zylberberg suspended lights above the dance floor and replaced the jukebox with two turntables, which Zylberberg operated herself, ushering in the first modern day discotheque (French for nightclub).

The former live music venue upon entering offers a unique party atmosphere.  To the left upon entering there is an elevated V.I.P. area with all the comforts once comes to expect from a V.I.P. room.  The V.I.P. runs along the entire length of the building along the Georgia Avenue side and overlooks the dance floor.  There is a second area towards the rear corner of the building that can also be utilized as a V.I.P. area as well, that McClellan says is available to host private parties, intimate enough to host a party separate from club activity.

State-of-the-art lighting and sound was installed by Sound Force Entertainment, one of the region’s most recognized audio-visual outfits with praise from publications such as Modern Bride.  Sound Force embellished on the sound system already existing from Midtown’s live music days as well as adding lighting and visual effects not seen anywhere else in town.

“Mike has done a lot of work to convert this club into a one-of-a-kind dance experience,” says McClellan.

The club, open Wednesday through Saturday will feature five revolving DJs spinning the best dance music according to the charts and customer request.  “We will also from time to time bring in national and celebrity DJs and personalities to make Midtown the ultimate dance and party experience,” says McClellan.

Midtown reopened on New Year’s Eve receiving overwhelming praise from the crowd that packed themselves into the club.  “Initial reaction has been great,” says McClellan.

Some people do miss the live music aspect, but easily over nine out of ten prefer the new format downtown.  “Live music is great, but with current economics involved, we can cater to a greater crowd letting them dance and party to music they want to hear instead of trying to turn them on to music they may or may not like,” McClellan says.  “Live music is great, I’m a big fan, but we saw a void in the market and we are filling it.”

 - Dave Weinthal

Writers are an interesting species.  Many are ego or agenda driven.  Anyone that reads the pages in this publication knows that quite well.  I am about to indulge a personal agenda myself right now as well.  I’m giving you fair warning so you can turn the page and go on to the next story if you wish. I am about to write a non-abashed attempt to get you to attend an event Saturday night.  Not because of the entertainment, but the purpose behind the event.  A number of veteran Chattanooga bands are gathering to help raise money for Marsha Moss.

Who is Marsha Moss?  Let me tell you.  Before anyone reading this gets their pants in a wad, there are a ton of people that have known Marsha longer and better than me, but I speak of my experience of knowing her for over 20 years both as a patron and as a fellow businessperson.  For the uneducated, Marsha was the manager and then owner of the Brass Register located on Georgia Avenue.  The last incarnation of that location was called the Tin Can.  I can remember going in there as a kid and later when I went to college making the usual rounds there along with other places like Yesterday’s, David’s, Scrappy’s, Michelangelo’s and everything that occupied the location before Parkway Billiards and even there.  Before Jack’s Alley became trendy and there was an Aquarium, the majority of downtown clubs and restaurants tended to be closer to the university.  Where Taco Mac and Panera Breadand places like that stood there were empty storefronts, an old army store, and not much else that part of downtown.

The Brass Register was one of the jewels of downtown nightlife.  It along with Yesterday’s was one of only a few venues that supported live music of any kind.  And Marsha was there just about from the beginning.  Before I go any further I guess I should tell you the reason for the fundraiser Saturday night at Rhythm and Brews.  While I haven’t confirmed the exact details, I have been told Marsha is seriously ill with what one person has described as a usually fatal form of cancer.  While most cancers can be fatal, things don’t look good.  And if you knew or worked for or with Marsha you know this is unfair.

Marsha Moss may be the most universally loved or liked person ever in Chattanooga.  I have never met anyone that has ever had anything bad to say about her.  Well, maybe one doctor, but I think he was run out of town years ago.  That incident made news and it went like this.  The original Brass Register was owned by a collective group of almost a dozen people at one point.  They fell behind on taxes and the place was closed.  The business went on the auction block and was bought by a local doctor.

The biggest question asked by everyone at this juncture was, “Is Marsha coming back?”  The new owner reopened the Brass Register with Marsha as manager.  Not long after the place reopened Marsha was relieved of her duties. No one knows the exact reason why.  To protest her dismissal the entire staff walked out during lunch one day.  The incident made the news that night as well as both daily papers.

After the initial closing the Brass Register never regained its luster or attraction.  Less than a year later the doctor sold the business to another family.  The first act carried out by the new owners was to hire Marsha to run the place for them.  Within a year from that happening the business was sold again.  This time to a familiar face – Marsha.  Marsha along with Cookie Penland purchased the Brass Register.  It seemed only right that a person so closely tied to the location become its owner.  The pair ran the Brass Register for a number of years until both were ready to get out of the business.  Marsha had been associated with the business for a quarter of a century and decided she needed a break.  New owners came in and it folded within six months. 

That was over ten years ago and nothing has lasted very long in the location.  Murphy’s Ale House lasted about two years, but no one else has lasted over a year.  That location at 618 Georgia Avenue is vacant now after the Tin Can closed during the summer.

Nobody knows for sure why nothing has remained in business there.  A lot of people point to development near the river and now Main Street, others erratic business owners with no real business plan and others, because it just isn’t the real Brass Register any more.

Back 15 years ago or so most venues had someone who everyone knew, kind of like their frontman.  Yesterday’s had Denny Hennen, David’s originally had David, then sons David and Troy, the Sand Bar had Mike Dougher, and the Brass Register was synonymous with Marsha Moss.  Now everything is corporate chain or quirky no-name owners hiding behind a veil of secrecy like a high school clique.  In the “old days” it was common to see the above mentioned names socializing at each other’s establishments.  Today, that is considered a cardinal sin amongst some restaurants and clubs.

That being said the Brass Register under Marsha’s management was the place to be and the place for bands to play.  At one time it was the only place that allowed bands to play original music.  Other clubs such as Yesterday’s  hired bands whose playlist was majority covers of popular songs at the time.  Bands such as Overland Express, Musical Moose, The Beaters and blues acts such as Tinsley Ellis got their start performing at the Brass Register.  On Fridays you were always guaranteed a crowd as they had the city’s largest happy hour crowd with a majority staying to listen to the music.  The Brass Register got so popular at one point in the early ‘80s, they opened up a second location in Four Squares.  The Four Squares location did not last long and was taken over by restaurateur Charles Siskin before it closed its doors a few years later.

Despite all the change and up and downs of the restaurant and music business one thing you could always count on was a smile on Marsha’s face and a kind word.  She’s one of the few people I know without a prejudice bone in her body, befriending and offering work to everyone black, white, straight gay or handicapped.  From that standpoint she was years ahead of her time.  She is the kind of person that puts you at ease and makes you feel comfortable no matter what the situation – even if it was at her expense.

I remember a little over ten years ago she was in an accident while mowing her property.  While on her riding mower the mower threw her and rolled on top of her.  She put her hand up to fend off the mower blade.  She ended up losing part of her hand in the accident.  She missed a few days of work and then returned to running the restaurant and never said much about the accident to many people.  It was one of those things that happens. I remember seeing her for the first time after the accident.  I probably felt worse than she did.  She didn’t bring it up and still had a big smile on her face.  From time to time she would joke about it in passing but she didn’t let it slow her down or her outlook on life.

And now her life is in jeopardy.  I don’t know how much a chance of beating her illness doctors are giving her, but the community in which she supported for many years needs to come to her aid as she is without insurance and her medical bills are piling up.  Even if you don’t like the bands that are playing, and Lord knows we’ve all seen these guys more times than we can remember try to make an effort to come down and pay respects to one of the true original Chattanooga icons.  She’s been there for everyone else, so it’s time to return the favor.  Festivities start at 6pm Saturday.  For more details about the event call 423-276-4644.

 - Dave Weinthal

I got thrown out of Walmart a few weeks back and I’m kind of proud of it. Not everyone can say that, you know. Getting barred for life from the IHOP, barred for life from a local golf course and barred for life from Sir GoonY’s was obviously just a warm-up, now that I think about it.

You can have a semi-naked whipped cream interlude with a waitress in a Ladies room, drive a golf cart into a creek and ram an overweight go-kart track attendant for blocking your pit lane departure and they can all be chalked up as isolated and unfortunate occurrences if you drink about it long enough. But to get kicked out of a place that panders to America’s societal dregs, on a holiday no less, should have any reasonable individual questioning certain things, chief among them their personal social aptitude and I am nothing if not reasonable. I stand firm on that particular bit of personal self assessment, although some (screw ‘em) would argue the point.

I had decided, though, in the light of personal self scrutiny, that my approach may have been a bit harsh at times, and I should resolve for this New Year to be a kinder, gentler man. To begin with, I needed to give up sugary junk food as I am told it will make you jittery and irritable and I might never have told the Walmart manager troll all those horrible things if I hadn’t snarfed down those three banana splits at the DQ earlier. Come to think of it, I had licked up quite a bit of the whipped cream at the IHOP that night and had just been to see my Baskin Robbins employee girlfriend before the go-kart fiasco, so goes my defense.

The golf cart in the creek thing was a simple case of DUI but that Dr. McGillicuddy’s MentholMint schnapps does have an assload of sugar in it, just so you know. I was quite irritated about getting booted from the golf course, they tell me.

I’m not trying to sidestep responsibility for all these incidents, just so you know. It’s what came out of my irritable mouth, not what went in it, that got me blacklisted from these fine establishments. I can complain all I want that restaurants should not give cans of whipped cream to patrons at 4:00 am, that go-karts should have loud horns and that Beware of Creek signs should have been conspicuously posted but that’s not the issue. The issue is that I would get irate at times and call people bad things that maybe I really shouldn’t have. It might not have been necessary to call every obstacle with feet that I encountered a godless, bedwetting creep just because I thought it. I had to hit the brakes on my approach to life and its hazards, human or otherwise.

Easier said than done.

I was doing great, I really was. I hadn’t blown the car horn at any idiots parked at green lights, rammed any shopping carts parked sideways in the aisle at the Bi-Lo or even screamed any obscenities at the fools next door that are always doing something scream-worthy. Until yesterday.

I found myself, in a moment of weakness, at the Brainerd Rd. IHOP staring at the Rooty-Tooty Fresh-n-Fruity breakfast platter, otherwise known as dessert, and telling  the waitress - the one with the perky nipples – that I would be needing some more whipped cream which was how all of this bullshit got started in the first place. I had halfway expected to see my picture in the lobby with an admonition to call the local authorities upon sighting but decided that might be just a bit egotistical. “How much security does a pancake joint need, anyway?” I reasoned and let it slide. But then they’d gone and gotten all chintzy with the Reddi-wip and I was starting to get a little miffed.

When she brought the can to me and handed it over asking if she could get me anything else, I had to fight off an urge or two but I managed quite nicely. Later, though, when the pancakes and half a pitcher of blueberry syrup were all done, I called their customer service department and told the son of a bitch that answered that, frankly, they were beginning to coast.  He then said a little something and then I said a little something and, before you knew it, things at the IHOP had gotten out of hand again.

I think I’ll try again with that nice guy/no sugar crap next week.

Right after putting practice.

Someone had a birthday party and I wasn’t told.

Last week while caught up in the demands of the end of 2009 and the excitement of the beginning of 2010, I missed my deadline and didn’t write an article. Next thing I know, its Enigma’s birthday and I missed the party. Now my buddy Dave was nice enough to include me on the cover but I didn’t reciprocate with an article on the inside.

Sorry Dave, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Fifteen years, fifteen years? Fifteen years of weekly publishing, 15 years of weekly deadlines, 15 years of dealing with hacks like me is enough to make a person, well, make a person into Dave. Happy Birthday Enigma!

To the average person this may not seem like a big deal but take it from someone who has published a monthly paper which is 4.3 times easier than a weekly “print is tangible and forever, screw it up and it will stare at you from the bathroom floor of every restaurant and home in town”. Happy Birthday Dave!

Honestly 15 years is a long time and a lot of content. I started thinking about what has happened in the last fifteen years in the world and in my life and here is a very brief and incomplete summary.

1995

Terrorist bombing kills 168 people in Oklahoma City and O.J. Simpson is acquitted of murder.

On January 8th, Elvis’ birthday I launch my TV show Chattanooga Live. I also sported an impressive mullet and broke my back skydiving on the show.

1996

Bill Clinton is re-elected which helped fuel live comedy shows everywhere and the Unibomber was arrested. No not the poker player the real letter bomb guy with the hood. 

In my world my TV show grows legs as more and more drunk people come home early from clubs to watch.

1997

Princess Diana is reported dead as we sign our late show on the air and Tiger Woods becomes the youngest golfer to win The Masters.  Chattanooga discovers just how exciting it is to have our Chattanooga Mocs in the Sweet 16 and my buddy Mack resigns as head coach of the team.

In October my partner Dutch and I elevate the fear factor around town with the first ever Haunted Carnival.

1998

Prosecutor Kenneth Starr pursues President Bill Clinton for “alleged” lying about extra-marital affairs.  Apple introduces the iMac,

 Microsoft introduces Windows 98, Google launches and people are starting to believe computers are here to stay.

The Atlanta Falcons loose in the Super Bowl which was more excitement than they had ever given us in the previous twenty something years.

I take my first computer class and the mullet is replaced by a Punky Spike cut given to me by a topless chick in a trendy South Florida salon called Bare Hair.

1999

Y2K scare is a joke, Prince’s 1999 is the commercial song heard everywhere. My fav, a commercial for denture cream where the old folks are bobbing for apples while the song plays.

 I ring in the new millennium live on TV with a shot gun under the desk just in case the anti-Christ stories where true.

2000

US Supreme Court decides in favor of George W. Bush in an incredible election. Comics breathe easier knowing that the joke material will keep coming.

In June, I give Chattanooga a healthy dose of Beads, Beer and Babes as the first of 5 years of Wild Wednesdays with The Big Kahuna starts at The Governors.

2001(The World Changes Forever)

AOL announces agreement to buy Time Warner for $162 billion, the largest corporate merger in history. This computer thing is for real.

Terrorists hijack 4 US airlines, and crash them. World Trade Center in New York City destroyed. Patriot Act becomes law in the USA.
And while we are terrified, a prelude to a future scare is brewing as Enron files for Chapter 11 bankruptcy.         

 I now have a TV show, a radio show, a monthly paper and a chance to audition for Turner Broadcastings Dinner and a Movie and other gigs. I still miss my mullet.

2002

Comics can’t believe their luck as President George W. Bush faints after choking on a pretzel. We are at war.

Scandals engulf Enron, WorldCom and other US businesses, yet we never say enough.

My world changes permanent when my mom dies and I realize that not even the fantasy world of The Big Kahuna is exempt from a reality check.

2003

Iraq and its dictator are toppled.

What the hell? Michael Jackson is arrested by police on charges of child molestation (he is later acquitted on all charges). But Beat It and Thriller are seldom heard afterwards.

I leave TV and radio for good after the death of my co-host, Cathy.

2004 (Busy Year)

George Bush defeats John Kerry in the US presidential election, no one laughs this time.

What The Hell? Martha Stewart goes to jail.

HELLO! Something is a little wacky on Wall Street, hello is anybody paying attention.

An earthquake in the Indian Ocean off the west coast of Sumatra creates a tsunami wave that sweeps across much of the coastlines killing at least 290,000 people. Oh my maybe the Y2K thing is late arriving?

Finally some good news the first democratic elections are held in Afghanistan. Glad this war is over.

Personally, I spend entire year digging bunkers in the basement of my studio and stocking up on nourishing Infant Formula just in case this is it. Later I gave it to my dad who has been trying to drink it before it ruins, its making his back hair and nails grow. He looks like an Ewok.

2005

North Korea announces that it has nuclear weapons.

Over 1,000 are killed, and severe damage is caused along the Gulf Coast, as Katrina strikes, New Orleans floods and another huge burden is placed on the US economy.

I buy a house, get married to the best girl in Chattanooga on the Southern Belle Riverboat, leave Governors after 5 crazy years of Wet T-shirts, bikinis and Wild Wednesdays and my first biological child is born, my “Little Angel”, Christina. What the hell? Is the world really ending? The Big Kahuna has been tamed.

2006

Former Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein sentenced to death. Crude oil prices begin to rise and there are whispers that maybe our economy is in trouble.

I buy a bigger house but the deal on my old house fell through sure hope I can sell the old one quick.

After 29 years the legendary Governors Lounge closes.

No going back now, my wife and I run Sir Goonys which means more family fun, less naked chicks. It’s cool.

2007

After 13 months of being caught in the real estate crunch I sell my second house in the nick of time, by year’s end all Americans are seeing their home values tumble and jobs are being lost at alarming rates. We are in 2 wars and crude oil has gas prices over $3.00 a gallon. I start digging bunkers at my new house but this time I am stocking up on Apple Juice and Fruit Roll ups, I have kids….I find out that I have another on the way.

2008

On Valentines Day my son Christian is born so I start digging bigger bunkers.

Gas prices soar, jobs are getting lost faster than Pop Stars clothes and the foreclosures are rocking those who have bought more house than they can afford. Some black dude named Obama has decided he can beat Hillary Clinton for President and the Atlanta Falcons finally draft a real franchise quarterback Matt Ryan. Mike Vick went to jail for fighting dogs, OJ went to jail too.

Then Obama wins and the country is left watching in shock as we face a rocky present and future. 2008 and 2009 were years more like out of a Jimmy Stewart movie or our grandparents stories than out of the computer and HDTV.

Through it all, Enigma has survived because of General Dave and his bunker mentality of the show must go on or at least the paper must be delivered.

Happy Birthday Enigma!

As for me, I finally have what I always wanted, a hot young wife and a family. I sometimes miss the Vida Loca but only for a minute or two and then its back to digging these damned bunkers. I mean, if we go to mattresses well be fine, I’m installing a pole and a kick-ass sound system in our private bunker.

Got to go, shot gun shells and can foods are on sale at Sams.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

“People who don’t tip and a fire about that (hand at hip level) high just burn my ass” *

* C. Case, bartender extraordinaire

Back in nineteen-ninety something I wound up predictably impaired one wintry evening at Michael’s on Brainerd Rd. and things, as they were prone to do back in those days after a couple dozen shots of Jagermeister, began to go poorly. If history is any good indicator, I’d probably paid and repaid my tab to some less-than-respectable bartender(s) and pissed off most everyone I came in contact with for the last couple of hours by being no more or less than my drunken idiot self. A few of my buddies and I had been politely asked to relocate ourselves to some other – any other – establishment by some guy who could have easily kicked our asses and rather than push our luck we did the non-idiot thing and complied.

It would be the last rational act out of any of us for awhile.

I was left sitting by the fire in the lobby, wobbly for sure but ready to go, while the others of my party tended to the last second loose ends that any self-respecting drunkards might need to tie up before bodily ejection might be threatened. Loose ends like finding the car keys, a shot for the road or getting a business card and a discount coupon from the Vietnamese “masseuse” at the table in the corner that had been quite agreeable to the idea of flashing her coochie in exchange for a cold Coors Light.

I’ve found better bargains from guys in chicken suits at used car lots but my friends, who have no class to speak of, seemed to think that a tattoo of a dolphin diving into her, um, crevice was something worth seeing repeatedly. Two hours and nine beers later, the un avoidable result had been one squinty-eyed drunk whore and four pie-eyed drunk guys with severe coochie déjà vu symptoms and now we were being asked to leave for the good of all concerned.

Hey, a good idea is a good idea!

The local titty bar was one lousy block away and we’d all been primed and ready, so to speak, so the decision pretty much made itself. We would leave this lame-assed dump, willingly or not, and set out on an inspired quest for more dolphins or other fishy types of amusement. It was a plan without flaw – a wonderful, perfect plan but, before it could be properly executed, some obscenely drunk doofus fell assbackwards into the fire and began, slowly, to burn to death.

Once you have smelled your own flesh being charbroiled you will never look at a Burger King the same way again. Fourth of July cookouts will make you spontaneously cringe and trigger PTSD symptoms that would get any wartime veteran full disability benefits. You might also take to boiling your hotdogs and not toasting your Pop Tarts depending on the severity of your flame trauma. I know that I was lucky enough to have one friend with the presence of mind to pull me from a preview of what might be my afterlife - if I didn’t stop double parking or buying cold beers for certain women – before I could do anything more than begin to burn my way to Hell.

It’s a hard thing to teach a drunk, though, and we all arrived at the nudie bar a short while later, as planned, one of us sporting some badly singed clothing and an ear that just begged to be smeared with mustard, covered with cheese and slapped between two pieces of Wonder bread. The balance of the night remains a blur but I allegedly paid one of the dancers (an unlovely thing, she was) to put her clothes back on and also told another that I was the Designated Queer that night to avoid having to give her any money for showing us her dolphin area.

There remains no proof.

Fast forward to this past New Year’s Eve and the same friend that pulled me from a certain fiery mutilation was standing at my bar slamming shots of Jaegermiester to the point of insanity and I wanted to say something but it’s a hard thing to teach a drunk.

I know I couldn’t be taught a damned thing in the worst days of my own addiction and I’m not the type to get preachy but I’d like to say this:  For all the people who put up with me and looked out for me when I was beyond helping myself, I can never thank you enough. I’m alive today, thanks to your care and attention and lately I’ve noticed a developing, burning desire to help some of you folks who are following a path I’d rather forget. Maybe I can’t teach you anything yet but I will at least yank you out of the fire, if I’m there to do it.

I wish I’d have said something to my old buddy the other night but I didn’t so I’m going to say it now.

Thanks. The scars barely show at all these days.  

As a prologue to my larger article on EMF I will discuss some risks inherent to ionizing radiation exposures during daily life activities and during radiological examinations in medicine.  There are many sources of radiation and unavoidably we are exposed daily.  Some sources are natural such as cosmic radiation from the sun and other distant stars, there is radiation that is under our feet as the earth contains radioactive material in our soil from sources such as uranium and thorium.  There is probably not a thing we do today that will not expose us to radiation from the food we eat, cigarettes we smoke and television we watch.  The man-made radiation is one we may exert some control over.  We will cover the sources and come up with an estimated annual radiation dose that would be considered safe, tolerated and not to be exceed.

Cosmic radiation comes from our Sun and other stars in our galaxy.  Fortunately for us, our Earth's atmosphere blocks much of these damaging rays.  The closer we are to sea level the better protected we are.  At sea level we received annually about 25 mrem.  To clarify; a mrem is a measurement of radiation.  Roentgen Equivalent in Man (REM) is a rather high dose of radiation exposure, so millirem (mrem) which is a thousandth the dose is used.  Those living a mile above sea level will receive twice the dose.  When we fly in an airplane the lack of atmosphere between the solar rays and our bodies will increase our exposure drastically, but typically flights are short and a the usual dose rate is 0.5 mrem per hour in flight.

On average we will be exposed to about 30 mrem a year from the soil around us that contains radioactive material.  Some places are safer (such as coastal areas) while the state of Colorado can expose an individual to an annual dose that is twice the average (60 mrem).  Radon gas (a radioactive gas) that is inhaled gives us an average of about 200 mrem per year per person.  Again some areas of the world have higher Radon exposures.  There are towns in India and Brazil with rates as high as 1,000 mrem per year.  If you are in a high risk area it may be worth you while to have your home checked for this gas.

Even the food we eat has some naturally occurring radiation.  Almost all the food we eat contains carbon.  Carbon-14 is radioactive as is some small amounts of Potassium which are present in our diet.  There are also some plant and animals that accumulate radioactive materials making our intake even higher.  On average our dose is around 20 mrem per year.  If we are introspective and look at ourselves, believe it or not, we are also radioactive beings.  Because we contain within our bodies potassium and carbon-14 and other radionuclides we in turn produce 40 mrem a year, so if you are around other people you expose them as they expose you.

The simple act of watching TV gives you a 1 mrem per year dose.  Porcelain teeth and crowns give a dose of about 0.1 mrem/yr.  Counter intuitive would be the idea that one is exposed to more radiation living close to a nuclear power plant, but the fact is that this would only raise your risk by 0.01 mrem while those living near a coal fired power plant will receive 0.03 mrem per year on average.  This fact is due to the release of uranium and other radionuclides when the coal is burned.  For those who have a plutonium powered pacemaker you receive an annual dose of 100 mrem and if your spouse has one you will get a dose of 7.5 mrme from them per year from just being around him/her (don't be alarmed there are less than 100 people in the USA with this type of device).

Iatrogenic radiation (that generated by the medical field on their patients) is probably a major radiation exposure to those that require frequent radiological studies.  For example, according to the American Nuclear Society some typical doses from studies are as follows:  An x-ray of the arm or leg will yield 1 mrem.  Dental x-rays will give you a 1 mrem dose.  A Chest X-ray will expose you to 6 mrem.  A skull x-ray results in 20 mrem.  A CAT scan will dose you up with 110 mrem and a barium enema will give you a whopping 405 mrem.

On average you will probably receive around 300 mrem per year and perhaps more if you are a frequent flyer or unfortunate enough to require a lot of hospital visits and x-rays.  Typically naturally occurring radiation gives us a larger dose than our man-made radiation sources in most cases.  To put things in perspective, our chances of dying from cancer increases 10% if you accumulate 250,000 mrem over your lifetime.  It is estimated that over 3,000 mrem per year over an 80 year period would be required to achieve the accumulated amount to cause this risk.  That is a lot of radiation considering in the USA we on average get a dose of 360 mrem a year.  So the typical annual dose is still pretty low for most Americans.

 - JP Saleeby, MD

JP Saleeby, MD is an integrative practitioner and emergency room physician.  He staffs the ED at Marlboro Park Hospital and operates a house call service.  www.CarolinaMobileMD.com for more information.

Greetings, and a Happy New Year to most all of you. My sincere hope is that it will be measurably better than the utter dogshit one that has just passed. I’m going to do my part by implementing a few key resolutions such as not throwing half-empty Dr. Peppers at hitchhikers (keep America beautiful!), supporting small business by buying my footwear from the tennis shoes-and-porn guy down on Rossville Blvd. instead of, say, Walmart and focusing on getting things done in a timely fashion. Things like submitting mindless drivel for publication on deadline, perhaps.

This, then, is last week’s intended drivel….

I used to drink a lot. More than I should have, for sure, and the Christmas Holiday was, in my estimation, an excellent time to overindulge. And so I usually did.

Put another way, I know a thing or two about how to f**k up a perfectly good Christmas.

So, too, does my dog and my erstwhile True Love.

The dog thing first, in condensed form:  Woof, The Giant Black Dog who is a complete asshole but I love him anyway, peed all over everyone’s presents one Christmas Eve while the children were all snuggled away in their beds. These, it shall be noted, were not my children and this was not my house.

I am still somewhat welcome at my sisters’ but Woof…not so much. On the plus side, I had to endure far less womenfussing from my mother, sisters and nieces as the baby’s’ new outfits were unwrapped than I otherwise might have. Seems it’s hard to get too enthused about baby clothes that reek of Giant Black Dog pee, even if they do have pictures of bunnies or windmills on them.

Bad, bad dog!!

The erstwhile True Love thing:  Two years ago, TL and I went to spend Christmas at the home of the same sister, no dog this time (Surprised, aren’t you?).The invitation went something akin to “We would love for you and TL to come for Christmas. This time, no dog, okay?”  I accommodated, as I rightly should have, and Woof spent his Christmas locked up with a bunch of  yappymouthed beagles in a kennel in Goat’s Ass, Fl instead of stretched out on a blanket in front of a fire with a nice baby outfit featuring pictures of bunnies or windmills to chew on.

 Or pee on. Whichever.

My family, in their ignorance, considered themselves and their gifts, at this point, to be safe.

Silly Fools.

My erstwhile True Love is some kind of wonderful if you ask me or anyone else who really knows her but she is not without her quirks and habits and one of those quirky habits had made its self manifest this year at a neighbor’s Christmas get-together the night before. An abundance of wine had rendered her The Life Of The Party, I must admit, but rousing her out of bed the next morning for the trip to my sister was unpleasant at best. I would have been better off poking a bear awake, probably.

Showered and dressed after a torrent of vomit, profanity and irritable bear-like noises, TL was finally as ready to go as she was going to get. With the car seat in full recline, amidst a fresh tirade of curses at the sun for it’s audacity to shine, we were on our way to my sister’s house an hour away.

She was snoring like a Kodiak inside of twenty seconds but wide awake and hurling down the side of the car inside of twenty miles. “It could be worse” I mused. “Could have been inside the car”. A fistful of quarters would take care of the problem at any car wash worthy of the name and I knew it, so, passing up a golden opportunity to be a smartass, I drove on. I pulled up in front of my sister’s house a short while later and left my heart’s treasure passed out and snoring in the driveway as I went inside and exchanged holiday pleasantries.

“Where” somebody finally asked “is TL (not the name they actually used but you get the idea)?”

“Passed out in the driveway, I reckon” I replied. “A little too much of that grape juice stuff last night, I think” came the reply and they all sort of gently shook their heads with that Good Christian head shake that says “Oh, the shame” without actually saying it.

If TL had been aware of it she would have been quite pleased, I think. She’s a recovering Catholic and doesn’t quite cotton to that church people stuff.

A couple of hours later, with my True Love roused from her juice inspired state of near death, we all gathered ‘round the tree to get on with the serious business of unwrapping gifts. TL, pale as a ghost, kept a death grip on a can of ginger ale and some soda crackers as the merriment ensued, despite the fact that there were several gifts under the tree marked “To TL(again, not the actual name used) From Santa” or some such nonsense. Someone was bound to notice that she was not unwrapping like everyone else and, eventually, someone did. “Here’s one for TL” one of my nieces volunteered “would you like for me to unwrap it for you?” and TL, put on the spot as she was, acquiesced with a sickened nod. 

Figuring that maybe poor old TL could use a good old-fashioned dose of Holy Scripture (duh),  my sister’s kids had gotten together and bought her a bracelet – a lovely golden trinket – inscribed with that “Love is….” Passage found somewhere in one of those Corinthian chapters in one of those testaments if I’m not greatly mistaken.

I guess I don’t cotton much to all that church stuff (surprised again, aren’t you?) either.

After the obligatory “ooh”s and “aah”s that are a given upon the presentation of such a piece of jewelry in a church-going household, one of my nieces made a greatly misguided attempt to fasten this well-intentioned doodad around TL’s lovely wrist and I still, to this day, cringe at what happened next.

All Hell broke loose, is what happened next or, rather, all Hell spewed forth. Spewed forth in the form of projectile vomiting the likes of which I’ve never seen and I’ve done thirty years in the bar business. I’ve seen some puke.

It was heinous. Anything and everything in the immediate vicinity took either a direct hit or splash back of the vilest substance ever known to emerge from a living organism as people, presents and furniture all were sprayed indiscriminately. And as twenty something people looked on in stunned, vomit soaked horror, TL got up and stumbled crazily down the hall towards the bathroom, still retching amid muffled cries for my help.

Gentleman that I am, I followed after her with a shrug and an impotent, mumbled attempt at an apology to the victims of this horrid disaster, not knowing whether to help hold her hair as she purged herself into the bowl or just go ahead and drown her and put her out of my misery.

In retrospect, I am almost entirely convinced that I made the right choice.

If any great lesson is to be garnered from all this, I’m not sure what it might be. I do know, however, that gifts should fit the recipient and the ‘Love is…” bracelet was one Hell of a poor choice. I once bought my first wife a thirty foot long Slim Jim for Christmas and wrapped it long ways(top that!) but I also bought her the Triumph convertible she’d asked for so I’m not a complete asshole. She got what she wanted and that’s important.

Last year, TL got the big screen plasma TV she’d been wanting for some time, despite some misgivings on my part. She loves watching her football and the seventeen year old “19 RCA we had just wasn’t cutting it any more. I sympathized but still hesitated, figuring that maybe that big new kickass TV would get watched enough to possibly cut into naked time things, if you know what I mean.

 Still, she got what she wanted and seemed to love it and that made me happy.

A year later, my True Love is no longer my True Love, she’s somebody else’s. The way I’ve got it figured, they’ll be snuggled up(probably naked) together all Christmas in front of what was once my fireplace, having a big old time, while Woof, The Giant Black Dog chews something into oblivion. I like the idea that she’ll be watching that great big old TV of hers and enjoying it thoroughly. I really do.

It chaps my ass to no end, though, that he’ll be enjoying her gift, too. 

It could have been worse, though, I suppose. Last year, I almost bought her a boob job.

I hope my dog chews up his shoes. Or pees on them.

Whichever.

PS Merry Christmas

And, in fact, that sounds delicious.  The best gumbo I ever had was at Spondivits, down by the Atlanta Airport Hilton.  I will say that Spondivits’ insanely good gumbo has ruined all other gumbo for me.  In this case, however, I’m not talking about the literal bowl of seafood, sausage, okra and other assorted stuff… but rather about my own rambling verbal mixtures.  This week’s batch is devoted to the traditions of New Year’s…

…New Year’s Eve parties are always popular, obviously.  There are three major types of New Year’s Eve gatherings – the “home” parties, the “bar” parties and the “enormous” parties.  In reverse order, the enormous parties are the ones where a promoter rents out a big piece of the Convention and Trade Center or a major hotel, hires some bands, charges a cover charge and takes on a good bit of financial and legal risk.  Bar parties are big hits among the bar regulars and a bit of a challenge for newbies.  Home parties are great for smaller groups, but still present a bit of a liability issue for the host.  You have to be careful about such things these days…

…Regardless of which kind of party you choose… if you choose to get out and celebrate the rolling over of the years… and choose to consume alcohol while celebrating… getting to the party and back home safely is one of the big challenges.  By all means, get a designated driver or take a cab to and from. There’s a good reason why veteran partiers call New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day and (now) Cinco de Mayo “amateur nights.” Infrequent drinkers often overindulge on New Year’s Eve. Law enforcement officers will be out in droves trying to keep drunk drivers from running into things and other people. Get a DD or take a cab…

…Champagne is a proud New Year’s Eve tradition.  Unfortunately, most people buy really cheap and bad champagne for New Year’s parties. Cheap, bad champagne will give you a nasty hangover. It also once made my friend, Will, think that the floral centerpiece at our table would make a nice snack.  Will later deposited both the cheap, bad champagne and most of a floral arrangement all over his date's mom's fox fur jacket. Stay away from the cheap, bad champagne...

…Kissing at midnight is also traditional.  Presumably, one should have a date if one is hoping for a midnight kiss… but a lot of people wing it and hope for the best.  I spoke to one female friend who decided to leave her (relatively short-term, so far) boyfriend behind and head up to a home party in Knoxville. “But who are you going to kiss at midnight?” I asked, jokingly.  “Oh, I can always find someone to kiss,” she replied sassily. Enough said…

…One reason I won’t be eating real gumbo on New Year’s Day is that I will be eating black-eyed peas and turnip greens.  I don’t know where the Southern tradition of black-eyed peas on New Year’s Day came from, but my dad always used to tell me I’d get a dollar for every pea I ate.  I ate more than I wanted to.  Fortunately, I’ve found ways to make black-eyed peas more flavorful over the years… but it's still kind of like taking medicine.  I bet the country's black-eyed pea farmers love New Year's, though...

…New Year’s Day is also the time when people share their New Year’s resolutions… if they have any.  A lot of people with New Year’s Eve party hangovers resolve to give up drinking… or at least cut way down.  Others resolve to eat better, lose weight, ditch that loser boy/girlfriend or almost anything you can imagine.  I have been using the same resolution for years… and I have been able to stick to it.  For the millennium, I resolved to give up... giving stuff up.  I have trimmed myself down to a nice variety of bad habits and some mainly manageable vices.  If your resolution is looking a bit too strict now, feel free to borrow mine.  Happy New Year to you…

-- Mark Bedford

Let’s get one thing straight… right from the start.  This rambling seasonal rant will address assorted Christmas topics. This is not a “holiday” column. While I have Jewish friends who celebrate Hannukah at this time of year, African-American friends who observe Kwanzaa, and religiously/seasonally challenged friends who just celebrate getting some time off from work… this has been and always will be Christmas season for me. Without further ado, I’ll stir up the soup…

…Have you noticed that ugly Christmas sweaters have become a cult phenomenon? (Check out www.uglychristmassweaterparty.com, for example.) People are throwing “ugly Christmas sweater” parties and trying to out-gaudy each other. A feature story on “CBS This Morning” last Sunday showed many colorful examples of ugly Christmas sweaters, including a particularly tacky one that had a dozen panels detailing each of the “12 Days of Christmas.” The experts from the aforementioned web site believe that truly ugly Christmas sweaters are “three dimensional” – that is, they have something attached to them or hanging from them. “Ugly” is always in the eye of the beholder, of course, so if you happen to love your Rudolph sweater with the light-up nose and jingly bells hanging from the bottom… good for you…

…I’ve noticed a measurable decline in the amount of mistletoe people hang for Christmas. The old tradition of stealing a kiss under the poisonous white berries has faded. I blame it on the current legal environment… and the H1N1 virus. Kissing someone unexpectedly could have dire legal consequences these days. Getting a “mistletoe kiss” waiver signed in advance would suck all of the spontaneity out of the moment. The presence of “swine flu” in our area also makes sneaky kisses risky. Stealing a fist bump under the mistletoe seems unromantic and pointless…

…Lots of people make fun of fruitcake.  It has become symbolic of the ultimate bad Christmas gift. Well, I happen to like fruitcake. Always have. My dad typically buys a good stash of small gift fruitcakes to use as Christmas presents. These particular fruitcakes are made by a bunch of Benedictine monks… who infuse them with liquor after baking. (Go to www.mondofruitcake.com for fruitcake reviews. There’s a website for everything.) Small fruitcakes are great because even the best, liquored-up fruitcakes truly suck when they dry out…

…Is it just me… or does the ritual of modern Christmas gift-giving often seem to turn into the equivalent of ordering from a catalog? When I was a kid, I’d make my Christmas list for Santa… and I might find one or two things from that list under the tree on the big morning. I’d also have several presents that were total surprises… because Santa knew what I liked. Nowadays, kids and adults seem to pick their own presents. It cuts down on the rate of returns, but it takes away some of the fun…

…In summary… I’m a fan of ugly Christmas sweaters, but don’t own one. I’m also fan of mistletoe, but haven’t kissed under it in many years. I like fruitcake… as long as it’s liquored-up and moist. And I think the concept of Christmas presents would be more pure if we put more effort into the selection and stopped letting people pick their own gifts. All that being said… Merry Christmas to you all...

-- Mark Bedford

Any time my neck of the woods makes national headlines, it’s always for something horrible.  More than likely, when I tell people I’m from Small Town, North Georgia, they generally have no idea where it is.  Such was the case when meeting lots of people from all over American on our high school senior band trip to Disney World.  But when we said, “hey, did you hear about the Noble Crematory Scandal? That’s less than ten minutes away from our school.”  Every single person was like, “oh yeah!  Oh….”

I’ve had to describe my place of residency as “10 minutes from the Noble Crematory Scandal” for years now.  Don’t know that one?  How about the famed Battle of Chickamauga, the most significant defeat by the South on the Union?  Well, that’s where I work! And no, we’re still not over it.  Most people ’round these parts still totally think we’re gonna RISE AGIYUN!

But now, I can describe my whereabouts as being “where that drunk four-year-old in a dress was stealing neighborhood Christmas presents.”

From News Channel 9 Website:

“He runs away trying to find his father,” [April Wright said of her 4-year-old son, Hayden]. “He wants to get in trouble so he can go to jail because that’s where his daddy is.”

The Hamilton County Sheriff’s Office report says Hayden rang the doorbell a few houses down and the neighbor answered, finding the child holding a partially consumeed 12-ounce beer.

Wright said, “He got it out of my father’s cooler in the back and how he got it open I don’t understand because it was one of those tab beers.”

But it doesn’t stop there. The report said Hayden then snuck into a neighbor’s house through an unlocked front door, and stole five wrapped Christmas gifts.  One was a girl’s brown dress which Hayden was wearing when police found him.

If this were happening in a movie, I’d probably laugh. And maybe if it was something I’d heard on national news about a place far from here, I might grimace at how sad it was, but probably still smile a little.  But this is here in my back yard, and it’s horrible.  I don’t have any children of my own, but I know what they can be capable of.  My three-year-old nephew, Zeke, was just at my house yesterday, and he totally succeeded in tackling me, making my head thwack against the kitchen tile and then kicked me right in the lady parts.  A couple of visits ago, he locked us out of the house.  Children are smart, and they’re going to get into stuff.  And what they see grown-ups do, that’s what they are going to do.  I mean, if you tell a child, “Don’t say shit!”, what’s he going to say?  So, does the blame lie with Hayden’s mother, who is only 21 and not too far from being a child herself?  The story said she had “childproof” locks on the doors, so it seemed she was taking some sort of precaution.  This is a child who is going to have to have therapy and a lot of it, maybe for the rest of his life.  I would love some more insight on this.  Thoughts? Comments?

So, if you ever need to look me up, I’m thirty minutes from the drunk four-year-old in a dress.  Also, have you seen Squidbillies?  I’m pretty sure that’s my town.

See, who needs Mapquest?

 - Jessica P. Wallin

Jessica P. Wallin is an office drone, blogger, and model in the greater Chattanooga area.  You can check out more of her ramblings at thejebbica.com.

Dear Santa

I know this is the season of all things good and I wanted to thank you for answering some of my Christmas wishes. It has taught me to be patient since many of these requests have and will take some time to be granted and they really don’t fit under the tree. Still I wanted to thank you for giving me these special gifts and remind you of a few that you have not given me yet.

Could you give UTC Basketball Coach John Shulman a couple of days where he forgets about basketball and just enjoys his family? Maybe you could make him think he is Santa? I won’t tell!

Even better, make him an elf, the team would get a kick out of that.

Please Santa stop the Congress from passing healthcare. If it turns out to be healthcare rationing I am pretty sure they will give my family $4,500.00 bucks and scrap me.

Santa I just saw Avatar and Polar Express in 3-D. 

Since it seems I have to take my 10-year-old to every “3-D Event of the Year” how about one for me?

Can you have them digitize Demi Moore’s Strip Tease? Nothing like tassels and jubblies that fly out into the audience.

Santa, Atlanta has gone and built a bigger Fish Tank and they are stealing business from ours.

Could I get a little of your “Magic Dust” for our Chattanooga Sharks? Let’s see the ATL. Beat flying man-eaters.

I can see the billboards, “Death From Above”!

I am pretty sure that would draw a few tourists our way. It would probably be bad news for the butterflies and small unattended children but it would really piss Atlanta off.

Santa, I think we are getting a Wii at my house. Please tell me it’s not so, the last thing I need is some video game whipping my butt and making me feel old.

Finally, Santa can you send special gifts to our troops, policemen, firemen and all the people who volunteer at food banks, children’s charities and work with sick kids and old folks? They can have my gifts, they deserve them more.

And Santa, you need to lose some weight or quit wearing bright colors. Now that Phillip Fulmer is gone from the Vols you’re the brightest Fat Guy on TV.

The Democrats say it sets a bad example for the already chubby children of America. Talk has it Obama may penalize you on your heath care plan if you don’t give up cookies and start eating Tofu.

Merry Christmas Santa

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

The nature of print publication deadlines will render much of this column content a bit “dated” by the time some of you start reading it. The paper hits the streets Thursday afternoon. The Football Championship Subdivision (FCS) national championship game is Friday night. If you’re reading this before then, I’m telling you to get your butt down to Finley Stadium. Villanova and Montana are facing off in the final game of a winner-take-all college football title tournament that should show the Bowl Championship Series (BCS) guys how it’s done. Championship Game Night is one of my two favorite nights to be a Chattanoogan. (Bessie Smith Strut night is the other. The Brewfest is working its way into contention.) The FCS title game brings a big-time bowl atmosphere to our city…for a night… 

…Tailgating can’t officially start in the First Tennessee Pavilion and the stadium parking lots until 2 p.m. But you can count on the most devoted of fans to get an early start. When you drive from Montana or Pennsylvania (like most of the championship finalists’ students do), you’re ready for some adult beverages. I have no idea what to expect out of the Villanova fans, but the Montanans have been fun on their prior visits. A lot of Chattanoogans were pulling hard for Applachian State in their snowy semifinal in Missoula, Montana. The Mountaineers travel strong and are usually the favorite among locals… when they’re here…

 …Which brings me to an important point. If you go to the National Championship Game on Friday night (and you should), you need to pick a team to support. The game is a lot more fun to watch if you have an emotional investment in it. I’ve been an Appy State fan several times. I was a James Madison fan one year. I was a Montana fan one cold, rainy day when two fraternity brothers from Missoula gave me a free ticket. (Good thing there were no flask friskers that day.) I’m really not sure if I’ll jump on board the Grizzly train again or pull for Nova. That, as they say on TV, will be a “game day decision.” I often pull for the team with the coolest tailgaters…

…Chattanooga has hosted the former Division I-AA national championship game since 1997 and is one of three finalists for next year’s game and beyond. Little Rock, Arkansas, and Frisco, Texas would like to steal our big Friday night from us. We really do need to think of it that way. The economic and public relations impact of the NCG are huge. Neither Montana nor Villanova are expected to bring huge amounts of fans. The citizens of Chattanooga will need to fill Finley and make Friday night’s game look great on national television. Think about those two words again for a minute. National. Television. When else is Chattanooga on national television for three to four hours? Never. That’s when…

…A few tips for first-time NCG-goers. Stop at T-Bone’s before or after the game. It will be crowded, but they are good at dealing with the huge throngs of their busiest day of the year. Don’t worry about bringing your adult beverages to the pavilion. They won’t be selling drinks there, but you can tote you own… if you do it without causing undue attention to yourself. As for tickets… buy them early if you’re risk-averse… but I always snag some on the day of the game. See you there… unless you’re reading this after Friday night… in which case I might have already seen you there… or not. Enjoy the game... if it hasn't happened yet, that is...

-- Mark Bedford 

Twas a week before Christmas in my little world, I needed to write a column but my mind was a swirl.

How about healthcare, Iraq or Iran or those kids from the Jersey Shore who all have such great tans?

So I sat at my keyboard, with nothing to say, my mind a wash thinking about Santa’s sleigh.

I thought about Pop Culture and the White House, but my usually creative mind was as quiet as a mouse.

So I flipped on the TV looking for something to write, and there was Bad Santa as high as a kite.

I thought, that is sad, Billy Bob used to hang with Angelina but now that’s Pitt’s problem he shouldn’t have listened to his weina.

So I grabbed the remote and started my journey when there was an ad for some ambulance-chasing attorney.

ESPN I landed thinking Bowl Games with a grin, only to see Tiger and the mess he is in.

The world’ s greatest golfer and pitchman he was, little did we all know that he was one horny cuss.

To TMZ I went thinking it couldn’t get any better, there was Britney Spears in a really low cut sweater.

I must admit that I stopped for while, and suddenly I noticed a strangely placed smile.

Now I’ve been around, to these things I’m no rookie and I swear to you all, I think I saw her cookie.

By now I am thinking TV has gone crazy, what happened to Charlie Brown and Driving Miss Daisy?

The night is racing by and my deadline is near, but I keep thinking about those eight tiny reindeer.

I love the Holidays so I search for something innocent like an old holiday movie or even reruns of that Butler Benson.

When what did my wondering eyes fall upon, but an ad for a pill that causes hard ons.

Smiling Bob or Bill or a pervert named Timmy, bragging about the effects that blue thing has on his Jimmie.

I flipped to the movies, hoping for something better suited for the season, but it was Broke Back Mountain for some unexplained reason.

Oh Lord, where’s the kids?

I don’t think I have an answer, except Santa fired Blitzen for humping on Prancer.

I have no excuse for this week’s column, I guess my ability has hit rock bottom.

I really don’t think it was meant for me to write, so Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

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Mesmerized by the beauty of our family Christmas tree I can only muster random thoughts for you this week.

Our family recently received a gift for the kids, the Elf on the Shelf. Seems this little stuffed elf has the magical ability to get into mischief while we sleep and ends up hidden the next morning for the kids to try and find. A cool, creative new twist to our holiday season. You have to name the little guy and since he gets into stuff while you sleep I wanted to call him Tiger but my wife didn’t think that was as funny as I did.

What if Ms Woods were to try the same concept on Tigers privates called, Lil Tiger in a Jar? I mean Tiger is getting into stuff while she sleeps. Maybe she could just hide his goodies around the house for him to find? Now that’s a tradition worthy of passing along to your grandsons. Keep your putter in your pants because once the media gets a hold of it there are no Mulligan’s.

I hate to sound like “one of those parents” but my kids look like a Hallmark commercial while decorating the tree. Maybe I should go whack their mom because there is no way I should have created such awesome kids.

Thinking of buying a new holiday album? Try A Very Special Christmas 7, it’s a really good collection of contemporary versions of old standards.

Colbie Cailat’s version of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” shows why she is nominated for four Grammys I only wish it had video she is sexy without trying.

Dave Letterman is busy making fun of Tiger and himself with jokes like “I wish he (Tiger) would quit calling me for advice.

I thought granny had been into the “Magic Dust” again when I heard one of my favorite holiday tunes “The Little Drummer Boy” sung with a Jamaican edge by Sean Kingston, it is “Beaauutiful” mon.

Speaking of magic dust, the Tiger scandal has overshadowed Josh Harnett getting busted with another woman and being left by his HOTTIE Scarlett Johansson. Hey guys, you have the Swedish Bikini Team at home waiting naked for you, I know what Hank said about having women we never had but damn. I mean I like Krystal at 4am too but not if there is sirloin on the grill at home.

The Elvis Christmas album is still a great way to celebrate.

You guys remember Lionel Richie’s old lady beating the hell out of him for cheating? Once, Twice, Three Times in the buddies and I love her.

I wonder how Brad Pitt feels about his decision to leave his “Friend” and marry that hot chick who hates her dad, wears the blood of her lovers around her neck and French kisses her brother?

Bon Jovi’s Please Come Home for Christmas is a great song to slow dance to at holiday parties.

Speaking of rockers, Dave Navarro got busted doing porn star Jenna Jameson by then wife Carmen Electra. Tough call Dave. Porn Star or girl who married Dennis Rodman? You may be safer with Dennis Rodman.

Manheim Steam Roller has several of my all time favorite holiday albums. Their named after a German musical technique so I am pretty sure Robert T. Nash hates them.

Celtic Woman has some good stuff too. That sounds dirty, of course they were fashioned after the Pussy Cat Dolls.

Finally, Good Ole Charlie Brown. In December of 1965 Charlie adopted that little tree and since that day I can never walk by a scraggly evergreen without reaching out and saying Merry Christmas Charlie Brown.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass  

As I mentioned last week, it was my full intent to pull for Florida in last Saturday’s SEC championship game. I was a little bit sentimental about the notion of Tim Tebow ending his stellar college career with one more national title and a shot at one more Heisman trophy. And, on an intellectual level, I thought the Gators would be able to handle Alabama with relative ease…

…When I agreed to meet up with JD for the second half of the game last Saturday, I also agreed to give up any temporary loyalty to Florida. He’s a manic Bama fan and I couldn’t very well hang out with him and pull for the Gators. I clapped when Alabama did something well and moaned when a call went Florida’s way. It was like I was in an alternate universe or something. It must have seemed that way to Tebow and Gator coach Urban Meyer, too. By the time the Tide had rolled to a 32-13 win over the top-ranked defending national champions, I was a believer…

…Everyone expected the Alabama defense to deliver the goods in the title game. No one expected the Tide offense to run rampant over the Gators. Super soph running back Mark Ingram scored three touchdowns and ran for 113 yards. Junior quarterback Greg McElroy, unbeaten as a starter in both high school and college, passed for 239 yards and a touchdown on 12 completions. All told, Bama rung up 490 yards total offense on the nation’s top-rated defense. It was a southern-fried butt-whooping…

…So the pressure was on the Bowl Championship Series (BCS) in last Saturday’s Big 12 title game. Just as Alabama was lucky to get past Tennessee and Auburn, Texas was incredibly lucky to beat Nebraska and “earn” a Rose Bowl shot at the national title and the Crimson Tide. The Longhorns may or may not have gotten one more play than they deserved, but the Cornhuskers certainly had their chances to win the game outright. Texas quarterback Colt McCoy was sacked nine times, threw three interceptions and almost mismanaged the Horns out of the game by holding onto the ball for too long in the closing seconds…

 …We’ll get a matchup of No. 1 Alabama and No. 2. Texas in the first-ever BCS title game between 13-0 teams. People are already writing off the Horns. Texas went 13-0 without really delivering the kind of marquee performance Bama had in beating Florida. The Horns’ highest-ranked opponent (in the final BCS standings) was No. 19 Okie State. Bama, on the other hand, beat three teams in the top 15 – No. 5 Florida, No. 11 Virginia Tech and No. 12 LSU. Four years ago, Vince Young and the underrated Longhorns went to the Rose Bowl and upset seemingly invincible Southern Call. McCoy’s total of 45 wins is more than any college quarterback in history. It’s too early to write Texas off… but I’ll still be pulling for Bama. I’m starting to feel like a real Tide fan now. If my cousin lived closer, I’d ask her out…

-- Mark Bedford

Thanksgiving has always been a favorite holiday for me and scores of other gluttonous folk I know, and rightly so. I’ve had some memorably bad ones, I must admit, though, like the time when I had found myself rapidly and unexpectedly homeless and had taken up temporary digs with my fellow bachelor party guy and boon companion Larry. He had gone to chomp the bird with his family while I was laid up on the couch trying to watch TV and getting walleyed drunk on cheap bourbon and trying to forget about the bowl of plain boiled potatoes I’d just hurled over the ledge of the balcony because, dammit, this was Thanksgiving! There should at least be butter, salt and pepper for the Thanksgiving boiled potatoes, if that’s all there is to eat in the place (it was), even for a bachelor without a party to go to.

 Unable to properly anesthetize myself with that stuff in turkey that makes you sleepy and that I couldn’t spell on a bet, I thought “screw it”, and had another few belts of bourbon, curling up for a short coma. All the while, the TV blared as some football team I didn’t give a damn about kicked the crap out of another football team I didn’t give a damn about in a game I didn’t give a damn about in a stadium filled with multiple thousands of feverishly excited people who did.

Hours later, the ringing of the phone roused me back to consciousness as a girl I’d been seeing called from a visit to family far away to ask how I was doing. I didn’t pull any punches and told her exactly how things were, including the flinging of the ‘taters.

A bad day it was. And a lonely day.

And a bad memory, but a story worth telling on occasion and a permanent reminder to be grateful on the Thanksgivings to follow that would suck far, far less.

Eighteen years (the majority of them sober) later, it is Thanksgiving once again and I’m having a little trouble being grateful. With a relationship of eighteen years mortally wounded but still twitching strong on my mind, I again found myself alone, and not particularly wanting to be, on a day on which I am supposed to be thankful for my blessings.

It wasn’t all bad, really. I’d had all I cared to eat at the Thanksgiving dinner for charity that had been put on where I work and a full stomach and a job is something to be thankful for, for sure. I know people-plenty of them- who don’t have as much.  

In order to while away the remainder of a day I still just wasn’t feeling quite right about, I decided to go walk off some of my excessive pie consumption at the track at my old high school. Trying to stave off or reverse the ill effects of a lifetime of poor living habits has become a recent obsession of mine and I’ve been putting in quite a few miles on my feet lately as a result. I don’t know how many miles it takes to walk off a solid hour of eating things that are very, very bad for your health but I had to start somewhere and I did.

Five brisk, fat-fighting miles later, my mind in a higher gear than my feet, I had come to the conclusion that broken hearts are for suckers and, if I wanted to do something about it, there was no time like the present. I could go home and hide away by my lonesome self on some crummy couch and try and fill an empty spot that can’t be filled with pie by eating a bunch of pie, or……I could get my ass in gear and take part in a ritual of madness that comes about every year as a testament to the mental illness of these United States. I could join the throngs-the multiple millions -of feverishly excited people who make this country at once the laughingstock and envy of people the world over.

Black Friday was coming. And there was a Wal-Mart right down the road.

I’d lost a computer in my recent split that I had been doing most of my work on for the last few months. Given up the damned thing, if the actual truth were to be told, and I was still a little ticked off about it. My erstwhile True Love had been using it for internet job searching and I had even offered to buy a replacement if I could have our communal laptop – one she had even admitted to not liking very much - back. But I liked it so I really didn’t have to guess as to the eventual outcome of this particular little property, um, disagreement. It was no big deal in the great scheme of things, I suppose. I could buy another computer. And, if I kissed her ass enough, maybe she would even share the 16,000 song music collection off of the old one with me.

Maybe.

Grabbing up a newspaper to scan the Black Friday sale ads for a suitable replacement was, I thought, a resounding success. Just what I figured I needed was on sale at the nearby Walmart and, casting my unease with large crowds and crazy people in general to the winds, I sallied forth on a holiday shopping adventure with high hopes, a pocketful of cash, a newspaper ad, a Taser and a .357 magnum revolver in case some crazy person brought a Taser.

“Be prepared” they’d taught us in Boy Scouts.

 I had thought that showing up eight hours early on the busiest shopping day of the year to wait for a kickass deal on some electronic convenience was a pretty good idea but I’ve been wrong before. Thinking I’d outsmarted those poor dumb bastards camped outside the Best Buy on the sidewalk out in the cold, waiting for a chance to buy a similar sale item while I cruised around, doing a bit of shopping and crazy-people watching in a heated store with a bathroom had done my spirits some good. I would find the line for my selected intended purchase whenever it appeared that the real crowd was beginning to form and hope that I wouldn’t be forced to give up my spot for any needed trip back to that bathroom. I was getting a little thirsty with six hours to go but decided to man up and deal with it. A dry mouth in public kicks hell out of wet pants in public. Most everybody knows that. But this was Walmart at 10:00 pm on Black Friday Eve and there were, as you might well imagine, some crazy people nearby. I’d already talked at length to the drunk guy in sporting goods selling rifles and ammunition and hoped that if anybody were to go nuts that night it wouldn’t be him. I hoped that the worst insanity the evening might produce would be that some poor soul might gamble on that needed trip to the restroom in order to preserve their place in line. Maybe they would lose that gamble and have an hour or so of the PeePee Dance end in dismal failure and the need for a Wal-Mart associate with a bucket and a mop.

Regardless, the Taser was set on ready and the strap was off the holster. I was taking that “Be Prepared” stuff seriously tonight. As more and more crazy looking people began to filter in and more and more pallets of merchandise were being set out in the aisles wrapped in black plastic and tagged with Do Not Unwrap signs that the crazy people mostly ignored as they began to swarm over them, I decided it was high time to find out where I needed to be come computer buying time.

Easier said than done. Asking the first Walmart associate I could find in electronics as to what the procedure was and where any line might be forming brought me a vague reply as to how they thought the line might be in Housewares. Strange as it seemed, I was seeing a toolbox display set up outside electronics and reasoned that I should just go with the flow, so to speak, and keep my eyes peeled for a stack of computers being set up over by the curtain rods. I am nothing, if not gullible. An hour or so later, convinced that I had been entertaining the babblings of an idiot, I asked another Walmart associate and was given an entirely different answer. “Sporting Goods” I was told. ‘They’ll be in Sporting Goods”.

“Great” I thought to myself as I recalled my earlier conversation with the gun salesman hammered on Wild Turkey. “Guy with access to a whole bunch of guns next to what would probably be a long line of unpleasant people waiting their asses off when they’d all rather be home in bed, drunk guy included”. “This is going to be great”.

Off I went to Sporting Goods to set up camp, hoping that the gun dude had somehow misplaced his flask. After nothing that looked like a pallet of computers had showed up for a while, I began to get suspicious so, again, I asked. The answer this time was “Paint Department” and now I was nearly dead certain I was being suckered. Two more questions to two more Walmart managers brought two more different answers and now I was absolutely sure of it. I’d been hoodwinked.

Tell me you don’t know or tell me you don’t want me to know when I ask you a question and I’m good with it. I may not like it but I’ll deal with it, albeit amidst some grumbling and complaining. But these no-good blankety-blank blankers had pulled a fast one on me and I was more than a little hacked off. After berating WalMartian #5 for a while the truth came out. They were purposefully trying to keep a crowd from forming ahead of sale time for what they thought would be high demand items!

‘For safety’s sake” hissed the little troll of a woman Walmart manager, as she rubbed her hands together in a nervous lying troll-like manner. “Last year, sir, a Walmart associate was trampled to death by an unruly crowd. To Death!” she emphasized this last statement just a bit too much, I thought, and it annoyed me quite a bit. Then, troll that she was, she began rubbing her hands together even faster and, at this point, I just lost it.

“Listen to me you miserable little cretin” I hissed back at her, thinking a good hissing might strike a familial chord. ‘Lying to people who show up way early wanting to spend money is a good way to make them unruly. I’ve asked five of you where the line will be and gotten five different answers. That means that at least four of you are goddam liars”. Still hissing, only louder, I continued. “Sow me where the line will be and I won’t have to push and shove to get there later. I’ve been here for hours and you owe me that. As to your associate getting trampled” I blurted out in a moment of lapsed lucidity, “I Don’t Care!”

I was met at this point with a stare that would peel paint until, finally, she hissed back. “How”she managed to sputter “would you like it if you were the one being trampled… To Death??!!”

“Not too worried about being trampled” I responded in a second moment of lapsed lucidity as I reached into my jacket pocket and, the next thing I know, I’m showing her my Taser.

Next thing I know, I’m showing some cop my Taser .

Next thing I know, some cop is showing me the door. Lucky for me it wasn’t the back door of his patrol car.

At this point, it is not quite midnight and so, technically still Thanksgiving. “Fabulous” I think to myself as I drive away, only briefly considering joining the campers freezing their butts off on the sidewalk at Best Buy. I am not Nanook of the North so that consideration was very brief.

So, what now? Where does all of this leave me? In possession of a worn out old desktop computer that hisses at me more than the Walmart troll and only works sporadically and an abiding hatred for Walmart and its’ liarmouthed associates. I would urge everyone not to shop there but, if you happen to find yourself in immediate, dire need of some ammunition, a tool box and some curtains, they might be your best bet and I’ll certainly understand. I’m just some brokenhearted sucker with an opinion, is all.

I also have a new entry on my Holidays That Sucked list. I sure would have liked that new laptop, though. Then maybe I could have retrieved my music collection and played a few of my old favorites this holiday season to cheer me up but it looks like that’s not going to happen.

Maybe my erstwhile True Love will, though. Maybe she’ll go searching through all that music for something to listen to and happen across an old favorite. One that used to get played quite a bit and still does, only now it’s only in my mind.

Rod Stewart. “The Final Acclaim”. It was something we shared for eighteen years. It was our song.

Now its’ just hers.

PS. I wish I’d have zapped the troll.

PPS Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving.

I   

Happy Holidays, or can I write Merry Christmas?

I am not sure what is going on in this “Politically Correct Holiday Season” but this anti-Christ thing is pissing me off. It has been going on for a decade or so and got worse as retailers like Target made their very “public decisions” to drop Merry Christmas from their ads. They could have done it quietly and most people would have never noticed. I figure some just out of college puke convinced them that their hipper than Walmart customers would see this as just another cool reason to shop with them.

Or maybe they thought they could corner Hanukah? Maybe they thought all those folks would flood their stores, Silly Rabbits, my Jewish friends say never pay retail.

Do they really think non-Christians care if they don’t say Merry Christmas and only say Happy Holidays?

Silly college pukes.

No they don’t! No more than I would get upset if they had a Hanukah sale or any other sale. Sell me a Wii bundle for under two bills and this Jesus freak is celebrating with my Hebrew brothers. I know Christians who think Happy Halloween means “Celebrate the Devil” but they still shop where Halloween candy is sold. Come on Bubble Boys, what are you thinking? This campaign is about as smart as Coke deciding the world needed “New Coke”. If it isn’t broke don’t fix it. They just alienated their core shoppers for the biggest shopping season of the year.

Maybe they can replace the Easter Bunny with “Maybe He Came Back, Maybe He Didn’t Bunnies”.

To stay neutral on abortion they could have the “Allowed to Grow Full Term Fetus” department.

To keep from upsetting the British “Independence Day” will be replaced with “Just Needed A Change Day”.

To not offend draft dodgers, Veterans Day could become “Survivors Day”. 

American Indians may not want to celebrate the first meal that ultimately became their last. Thanksgiving will now be called “We Helped Feed The Bastards And They Stole Us Blind Day”.  

Orphans may be offended by Mothers Day or Fathers Day so let’s change those to “Bitch didn’t Keep Me Day” and “Sperm Donor Appreciation Day”.      

Black people don’t stay away from Washington’s Birthday Sales or the JC Penney “White Sale” and you can bet if I am shopping for a car and there is a deal to be had at the Martin Luther King Birthday Sale, this white boy will go there and I might drive off in a Black Cadillac.

Finally, it just doesn’t matter to the people who matter most, “We The People” would really like “You People” to quit complicating our world.  

MERRY CHRISTMAS CHATTANOOGA!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Tuesday night’s cold snap made me want to fix another batch of my rambling, diverse semi-literate gumbo. The main ingredient this week is football. I don’t have anything to say about Tiger Woods’ short (but spectacular) neighborhood drive that hasn’t been said anyway…

…I’ve seen an awful lot of football games over the years. And I’ve never seen a quarterback more “dialed-in” than Drew Brees was in the Saints’ Monday-night butt-whoopin’ of the Patriots. New Orleans took New England to school, pure and simple. Brees delivered pass after pass into the only spaces they would fit for a completion. The former Purdue star completed 18-of-23 passes for a season-high 371 yards and five touchdowns, en route to a perfect 158.3 passer rating. The Saints join Indy at 11-0 – the first time two NFL teams have opened so strongly. The Pats gave up five touchdowns for the first time since Bill Belichick took over in 2000. New England signal-caller Tom Brady was a mere spectator as Brees staked his claim to the league MVP trophy…

…But Brady is like Jason or Freddy Krueger. I don’t count him out until the closing credits are over. Brady and Belichick looked lost on Superdome sidelines Monday night, but you can bet they’ll figure some stuff out and be back stronger. In fact, Brady, Brees and Peyton Manning are all capable of playing the game at the highest possible level. In an era of unprecedented edge rush and corner speed, all three of those guys make incredibly quick reads and have super-fast throwing releases. We could be living in the golden age of NFL quarterbacks…

…Those who counted Titans quarterback Vince Young out are eating some serious crow lately. (They’re right. It does taste like chicken.) VY’s game-winning 10-yard pass to Kenny Britt capped an amazing 99-yard drive that beat the Cardinals last Sunday. It also made a lot of people wonder why Coach Jeff Fisher waited so long to give Young a shot when greybearded Kerry Collins was faltering? Young is nowhere near ready to be named in the same sentence with the elite trio above, but he showed real guts in the clutch during that scoring drive. Tennessee fans are truly behind him… for now…

…Tennessee Volunteer fans should be behind Lane Kiffin by now. The brash, former Raiders coach and Southern Cal offensive coordinator has the Big Orange bowl-bound again. It was time for a change in Knoxville and Kiffin has the Vols headed in the right direction. They shouldn’t have needed overtime to beat Kentucky last Saturday, but at least they won. Kiffin should have the Vols back in the SEC title game in two to three years…

…This year’s SEC championship game could be amazing. Or not. I’d be really surprised if Alabama beats Florida. The Crimson Tide were lucky to get past Auburn and Tennessee. They scheduled three patsies – Florida International, North Texas, and our own FCS Mocs. Bama fans wear their cockiness proudly this year, but it masks their inner nervousness. Why would anyone bet against Tim Tebow to win a big game? Tebow wants to leave college football in a blaze of glory and earn one more national championship for Urban Meyer. I’m no Gator fan, but I’m pulling for Superman to finish strong. I could say I’d like to see a close game, but I really want to see the Tide get put in their place on Saturday…

…Bobby Bowden quit and Charlie Weis got fired this week. Neither one of these developments is a huge surprise. Bowden stayed at Florida State a couple of years too long, but earned the right to script his own exit. Weis stayed at Notre Dame at least one year too long, but his athletic director made that decision at the end of last season. Both FSU and ND are programs trying to reverse multiple years of decline. Jimbo Fisher, longtime offensive coordinator for Bowden, takes over in Tallahassee. So far, “big-name” coaches are avoiding the “opportunity” in South Bend like the proverbial plague. I’m even less of an Irish fan than I am a Gator fan, but it’s time for Notre Dame to make a good hire and regain their respectability. They have become a bit of an embarrassment to their own proud tradition. On that snarky note, I bid you a fond adieu. Go Gators! Damn. That was really hard to type…

 -- Mark Bedford

Kahunaman Sez:

I have always had fun making people laugh and shake their heads at me in disbelief. I like to walk up to that invisible line and peak over while other people panic and grab at me as if I was just going to jump off into the media and cultural abyss. You know the land of The Dude from Seinfeld, Don Imus and Parker Smith. That place where even your best friends and supporters have to say, Kahuna Who? Me not know him.

I have toed the line but so far avoided it, mostly because I really like people and wouldn’t want to hurt someone’s feelings just for ratings or readers.

If I have any gift at all it’s the gift given me by my father. My dad and I are in no way the same when it comes to being outgoing and crazy, dad is actually kind of quiet. Dad is from Sand Mountain, Alabama. Dad came from there when that place was really not a very understanding place, however my dad never taught me to hate people who are different.

My dad didn’t understand James Brown, Malcolm X, “Pot Smokers”, The Beatles or that “kind of funny guy” Elton John but he never “hated” on them. So as I grew up I learned to just live and let live and then to actually grow fond of the world’s characters. Today I probably am one of those characters to some people out there.

My point is surviving life in the public eye isn’t really all that hard as long as you don’t hate. If your heart is good people will figure it out and they will ride with you, however the public eye makes a lot of people’s hearts turn ugly and that is where the problems start. We all have bad habits, rough spots and make bad choices but when you make them with the world watching, watch out.

Thanksgiving 2002 I was doing my one time TV only show on Talk FM. It was good to be on The Talk Monster in the company of several of my good radio friends and despite the shock of having a lot fewer listeners than I had TV viewers I was enjoying it until one day I was called on the carpet by program director Bill Lockhart.

My sin according to Bill “I made fun of homeless people’s plight on Thanksgiving”. Seems a listener wrote a letter about one of my comedy routines about Spam. Spam to me and my crew was the “Miracle Meat”. Stew it, bake it, fry it, or spread it raw, Spam is the meat that does it all! At least we used to joke about it with a producer of mine who loved the stuff.

So I joked that since turkey was being replaced by the LA Food Banks with Spam that maybe they could shape the “miracle meat” into a delightful bird and carve it up. That’s it! That was all it took.

Suddenly I was a bad guy to Lockhart. My listeners understood the humor of the miracle meat turkey but I guess Lockhart just isn’t down with alternative meat sources. My viewers found him being pissed even funnier than Carved Spam Turkey and Thunderbird Wine. Bill and I are good, but I must say where is the concern now?

How is it Bill that you and Talk FM don’t find Robert T. Nash at least as upsetting as Turkey Spam?

This paper’s publisher is a big fan of the man and the personality. I like what I know of the guy on the street, appreciate his vocabulary and preparedness, and really don’t give a dang about the great Turkey Spam event of 2002. However today I listened as Robert T. Nash Spammed on my Turkey.

Today as I rode around town in my new Volkswagen I listened in horror, maybe that’s dramatic, I listened in… horror as Robert T. decided to assault The VW plant, the executives who are moving here and the entire German race. This was after he accused elected officials of being crooks or stupid. Also requesting a count of said official’s teeth, which was non specific and a bit funny.

I have long understood the debate about “at what price was Volkswagen brought to Chattanooga”?

Not interested in debating that anymore, they are here and many if not most of us are damned glad to have them here.

I am more interested in seeing their presence here be a long and successful one.

I want all the people that they bring here to know the warmth and quality of our people.

I want them to feel the gratitude and see the pride that we have for our city.

I pray they don’t listen to Robert T. Nash for if they do, they are probably asking themselves why Chattanooga?

Go out and rent Gung Ho the 1980’s flick about a Japanese auto plant in the US and the bigotry that the citizens show to them. It’s a comedy about culture shock with a good ending; this is the beginning of a large part of our cities future direction, no place for someone with such visibility to show such irresponsibility.

I know Nash has the bully pulpit and I sure don’t want to get into a pissing contest with someone as vindictive as he is. I know outrageously busting balls is his thing but today I missed the humor because there wasn’t any as he questioned “Germany’s human rights record”. According to the American Indians and Africans ours isn’t the best either Nash yet the Germans are here.

Nash referred to our guests as “Krauts” which is a derogatory word.

Much the same word as some of the above mentioned media types have met their end with. It was mean just to be mean!

 Robert T. may have crossed a line today.

I may not in any way represent the best and brightest that Chattanooga has to offer. I may not even be an intellectual match to Mr. Nash and his vast repertoire of slogans and big words but like Forrest Gump I know when someone has insulted someone else.

I know when someone whose station claims to be on the pulse of the city embarrasses us all with his insensitive comments. I know I felt shame because of what was said about people who are coming here to join us in a venture into our future. I hope our German friends and all VW people know that Mr. Nash is not the final word of our community and that maybe those should be his final words to our community.

Welcome to you all, get to know us before you judge us and we promise to do the same.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

kahunamedia@hotmail.com

Happy Holidays  Everyone!

I know that technically the season starts next week with Turkey day but this has been a crazy year for all of us, so why not start a little early, we could all use a “Great” Holiday Season.

I hope 2010 is a year to remember because of all the positive things that happen in the next 365. I am a goal oriented person and I resolve often. This year I am resolving early!

Sometimes I stick with it and sometimes I don’t, but even when I fall short it is better than if I never tried at all.

Here are a few Santa list wishes and resolutions for the New Year.

Dear Santa, I finally got myself some “Chattanooga Gugci”. Yep, I bought myself a 2010 Volkswagen CC and Santa, this is one cool sleigh. How about some chrome tips for the exhaust and maybe one those little pine tree deodorant things to hang beside the furry dice on the rearview?

How about some snow this winter? My babies will love it, not a Super Storm but a couple of four inch snows?

I wish for another Championship season for the UTC Moc Basketball teams.

Hey Santa, don’t interrupt if you drop down the chimney and find me and the lady engaged in some hardcore snuggling under the tree. Matter of fact, if you see a neck tie on the chimney just leave all the stuff on the porch and I will put it under the tree for you.

I resolve to workout more than ever so I can squeeze a few more seasons out of body.

At my age my best b-ball and softball are behind me and soon I will be stuck playing golf, I suck at golf.

Hey Clause Clause (That’s what my two-year-old calls you) how about giving those Taliban types another cause and maybe Osama could be captured and declare that “I was just F*#*in with you guys, America is cool dawg”.

I resolve to not be so passive this next decade. Since 2000 I have chilled out and have not gotten so fired up when someone let loose in my Wheaties, it didn’t work.

The next 10, if you have it coming then I will let you know what a giant wanker you are and then hand down your sentence in a swift and absolute manner.

I also resolve not be so dramatic.

I wish for a nice spring season. Something about the early warm weather that makes me work and play hard.

Did I mention the horny part?

I resolve to work with more children’s charities. Maybe not in the spring.

I resolve to laugh at myself more.

I wish everyone else would do the same.

Hey Santa how about some lower gas prices, honest politicians and peace on earth. I know, I’m a greedy bastard.

Thanks Santa for all the past memories and if I get that Wi Fit, could you throw in some Icy Hot just in case a video game kicks my butt?

I resolve to count my many blessings.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

It’s been a long time since I’ve done one of my twisted travelogues.  Frankly, I haven’t been anywhere new and interesting in a while. This past Tuesday night (present tense as I write this, past tense by the time you read it), I found myself in Virginia Beach – “Va Beach, Va,” as former Chattanoogan Klondike Mike calls it. The last I heard, Mike is still living here. I have not been able to verify that because I can’t seem to find a phone book in my hotel room…

…The absence of a phone book is a minor inconvenience.  The absence of any hot water in the hotel this morning was a major pain in the butt. I was a bit concerned when I couldn’t get the sink water to heat up. But I’ve shaved with cold water before. I could cope. I turned the shower on. Ice cold. Left it on for five minutes. Ice cold. Ten minutes. Same temp. I really didn’t have any choice at that point. I had to be down at the Va Beach Convention Center. I sucked it up and jumped into the cold shower. Instant flashbacks to cold showers after high school gym class. Sudden affirmation of the mysterious and magical way that a cold shower can pre-emptively chase away randiness. It was the coldest and briefest shower in recent memory. When I went down to the front desk on my way out, the hotel clerks were being hammered by cranky customers… in person and on the phone. If my morning was miserable, theirs had to be a little slice of hell…

…Rewind to last night. My flight into Norfolk got in a bit late, but I managed to secure a rental car in time to beat most of the navy traffic to Va Beach. I checked into my room in time to see the sun go down on the beach. After a nice hot shower (not fully appreciated until the next morning, when I could compare it to the shrinkage-inducing bathing experience previously described), I headed down to Mahi Mah’s… a dining spot recommended by the hotel clerk and several online sites. I wouldn’t ordinarily expect much out of a restaurant attached to a Ramada Inn, but Mahi Mah’s is the exception that proves the rule. Cool décor. Nice St. George’s IPA (from nearby Hampton) on tap. I started with a delicious crab bisque and picked the Chesapeake Bay flounder as my entrée. I was pretty hungry. I’d had an overpriced, barely edible airport sandwich for lunch. I was on my second St. George’s IPA when my fish came out. Two enormous fillets of fresh flounder, lightly pan-fried with fresh-made piccata sauce. It was freaking amazing… and a great contrast to that heinous lunch. The “twice baked” potatoes should have been baked just once and been left alone, but the broccoli was perfectly crunchy. All in all, it was a solid “8.5” on the scale… with the flounder itself a “10.” I’d go back tonight if I didn’t want to explore some other options. Which, actually… I am about to. I will resume my rambling upon my return…

…Back from dinner… and a good one it was. I took the Facebook-suggested advice of longtime Chattanooga radio pro and all-around good guy Art Sanner and made a 15-minute drive to Bubba’s Crabhouse & Seafood. At a time when the peak tourist crowd is a distant summer memory, Bubba’s had a nice core group of locals. That’s always a good sign. I started with a dozen East Bay oysters. Delish. The Boathouse often has east coast oysters, but most Chattanooga restaurants get their bivalves from the Gulf. Eastern oysters are usually smaller and a little more flavorful. I ordered a crab cake sandwich without the bread. It was one of the top three crabcakes I’ve ever eaten… and I’ve eaten more than a few. I would have to sample my top three side-by-side in one sitting to come up with my gold, silver and bronze medal winners… so Bubba’s has a damned fine crabcake. The slaw was amazing and the locals at the bar (where I always sit when dining alone, so I don’t feel like I have a giant “L” on my forehead) were as friendly as can be. If I come back to Va Beach… I’m going back to Bubba’s to try the oysters Rockefeller and she-crab soup…

…I haven’t seen much of Va Beach by daylight. My work mission will take me back to the convention center bright and early in the morning. I’m going to get up not long after the sun and at least dip my toes in the Atlantic. Maybe a couple of the fighters from Oceana Naval Air Station will scream by while I’m wading. Maybe there will be hot water in the morning, too...

-- Mark Bedford

A week before the time of this writing, I had never heard of Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan. Now the whole world is trying to understand the motives of the Army psychiatrist and lone suspect in the November 5 Fort Hood shootings. Thirteen dead. Forty-two wounded. The finger-pointing has begun in earnest…

…Hasan was investigated last year by an employee of the Defense Department’s Criminal Investigative Services, assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force. His communications with radical cleric Anwar al-Awlaki were intercepted by terrorism investigators who were monitoring the cleric’s communications. The CIS investigator ultimately dropped the investigation. Given the gift of hindsight, that looks like a really bad decision…

 …The Fort Hood shootings are frightening on a number of levels. We consider our military the most powerful part of our national and personal defense. When that line of defense is attacked from within, it’s a bit of a jolt. Hasan’s role as an Army psychiatrist is also (obviously) being meticulously examined. I worked closely with several shrinks a few years ago. I can tell you that a lot of them are one unhinged laugh away from being on the other side of the examination room…

 …The Fort Hood investigation was playing out on television at the same time John Allen Muhammad was executed. The “D.C. Sniper” and his accomplice, Lee Boyd Malvo, were responsible for ten deaths and the critical injury of three other victims in the Washington, D.C. area. The three-week October 2002 shooting spree terrified Beltway residents…

…Times like these… and Columbine… and Waco… and Ruby Ridge… make me wonder if making guns so easily available to lunatics is in the best interests of our country. We are such a firearms-friendly nation that it would be impossible for us ever to be gun-free… and I’m not even beginning to advocate that. I do think the Second Amendment evangelists would do well to actually read the words of it: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” The authors of the Constitution wanted to protect the people’s right to keep and bear arms so they could be part of a “well regulated Militia.” They were also talking about muzzle-loaded muskets as the most lethal form of firearm…

…I’m not trying to pry any guns out of anyone’s hands. I’d just like to see us do a better job of keeping them out of the hands of at least some of the people who have no business owning them. The scary part is… Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan was an Army psychiatrist… and potentially one of the people who gets to decide if other people are sane enough to own a firearm. Hasan was investigated by the Defense Department and considered not to be a threat. Thirteen dead Forty-two wounded. We’ve got to do a better job. We’ve got to make it harder for nuts to get guns…

-- Mark Bedford

Be Loud, Be Proud, Go Mocs Go!

Well it’s that time of the year again, basketball season is here in the Scenic City. I have followed UTC sports since the days of the Division 2 National Championship in 1976 and the days when former New York Giant Joe Morrison was the coach of the football team.

The Football Mocs have already started the Moc Mania with a new coach, a new attitude and something new to Chattanooga Football, WINS!

It has been a long time since people stopped me and asked me about Chattanooga Football and an even longer time since they stopped me and I didn’t say “Football”? “We still have a football team”? Funny how quick a few wins can start a buzz, even funnier how a new plan executed by some new people can lead to something like…..winning.

Last Saturday marked the beginning of my 24th season as the unofficial crazy guy/mascot of the masses/monkey on the mic character known as The Moc Maniac. And even now I get pumped to be hanging with my peeps at McKenzie.

I can still remember my first night on the floor of “Our House”, The Round House. The school made a big deal out of my introduction that night and I had promised that I would be the craziest fan in the building and insight or inspire rabid reactions as I manned my then corded microphone and got wild!

There was actually some good pre-game buzz as the newspapers and TV Sports guys teased this new atmosphere designed to make games more fun and “Our House” an even more hated place to play for opposing teams.

The KZ 106 Morning Zoo had me on their show and we yakked it up as if I were the then San Diego Chicken.

I was telling my son as we walked into the arena last week how cool it was for me the first time I ever entered the arena and how special I felt when the school had me a handler to help me find my way around.

Randy Price, the former PA guy introduced me with the fanfare of a Blue Chip recruit.

Chief Mocanooga lead me onto the floor and the crowd went wild as this maniac on roller skates rolled from end to end of the floor, painted face, blue and gold clothing and a pillow strapped to my rear end for comic relief and just in case I got tripped up by the mic cord.

Some people’s mouths dropped while others decided why not get up and raise a little hell.

I gave my best Jimmy V. meets Vince Lombardi pep talk about how we as fans are a part of the atmosphere and atmosphere can influence outcome.

 I then proceeded to practice what I was preaching, pumping it up on the mic, shooting t-shirts, running the sidelines and stomping the bleachers.

That was over 400 games ago and I consider myself the luckiest guy in the world because of the friends I have made and the memories we have shared.

They don’t ask me on a lot of radio or TV shows anymore, no one has to show me around McKenzie, it is like home. The PA guy doesn’t announce me with a big Tractor Pull Voice, I am more like a fixture. No need to introduce the scoreboard, but people miss it when its not there. Besides they have replaced the scoreboard, have cool video boards, a new Scrappy and a new floor but I am still hanging on. I hope they don’t decide to sand and refinish me. Ouch.

Why this story this week?

Because times are hard, this last year and maybe the decade has been tough, even depressing. Now with hope for a better future for our nation and especially Chattanooga, there is no better time for you guys to join me as Moc Maniacs.

More and more I see people getting excited about our city and the future we have here. Volkswagen’s arrival has people feeling proud that the “World’s” number one automaker chose us as the site for their USA headquarters.

Out of all the cities in this great country VW said yes to our city!

VW believed in us and you and all of our citizens should be very proud.

I am one of those people. I love our city, I love our people and I have always believed that this was the best place anyone could ever live anywhere. Nice job Volkswagen, no wonder your number one.

My point, the Mocs are Chattanooga’s Team! At this time of great pride in our town who wants to worship Knoxville or Athens?

I wear the Big C, almost everyday win or loose because to me it stands for our “Community”, our area, our teams, our fans and our city, the place I choose to live and raise my family and run my business.

As for UTC, get to know this University and these Athletic programs and you will find an organization as deserving of your support as Chattanooga is deserving of Volkswagen. Like our city has a plan to be a first rate place to live and work, UTC has a plan just as ambitious to be a first rate place to learn, play sports and yes to be fans.

I know these people at UTC, they are dedicated, smart, and hungry to succeed and they want to be Chattanooga’s Teams and Chattanooga’s University. They will not stop and they will grow as the city grows so jump on now, this train is already leaving the station and I expect the next 24 seasons to be even more exciting than the last.

I would not trade anything for the memories I have of following Chattanooga’s Team, our Chattanooga Mocs. You can make your own memories this season.

Get tickets to all sports at gomocs.com or call 266-MOCS. I guarantee you won’t be disappointed.

Kahunaman AKA Moc Maniac

I wonder if President Obama ever says:

 “Turn loose of my ears I know what I am doing!” 

Not sure why I wonder that, I guess its because I just watched about four Will Smith movies and he and “The Prez” have the same ears?

Hitch may be my second favorite W.S. Movie after The Pursuit of Happiness, so I am writing about.      

One of my old friends called me the other night and asked me if I knew any nice girls that were looking for a nice guy. Seems he just got divorced and to beat all his girlfriend broke up with him too.

Go figure!

It’s amazing, every time I run into some old club friend of mine they act as if I am their pimp. Like, Holy Crap it’s  “Kahuna, The Date Doctor”.

Now there was a time not too long ago that I knew a lot of hot, young, fun girls and I guess its kind of cool that I can be associated with anything young and hot, but I am a family guy these days and if I wasn’t, I sure as hell wouldn’t be sharing.

No offense, but I finally learned that in relationships, if you make your bed, you have to sleep in it!

Or have some really good stories!

Below are the biggest bad excuses given by people for cheating.

Remember, the truth can set you free, a good story can save your equity and the lines below can get you shot!

I love you like a sister.

I love her like my sister in Alabama!

You were never really there for me when I needed you.

So I called Pizza Slut Delivery!

You never listened to me.

At least not like 1sexyhoinutah did.

I needed to find a place where I fit in.

I am sorry that it just happens to be between her thighs.

“You catch me playing one innocent game of naked Twister and all Hell breaks loose”. “Where’s the trust”?

You work too much.

So I turned Lesbian.

She was Lesbian and I tried to save her from the dark side

I was never in love with you.

But now I get half your shit.

It just happened.

And it wasn’t a big deal until you found out.

You deserve better, you should just leave me.

Do think you could live with yourself if we just hook up every now and then?

Ever since I was a kid watching Batman I had dreamed of being tied up by Cat Woman. I guess it was the kid in me coming out.

I felt trapped.

She felt nice!

You put on too much weight.

She took off to many clothes.

You aren’t good in bed, you never were. What’s a girl to do?

But I figured I could get enough action from the pool boy to keep me happy.

You aren’t good in bed, you never were. What’s a guy to do?

But I figured I could get enough action from the pool boy to keep me happy.

All you do is bitch, bitch, bitch!

So I screwed your best friend!

I don’t love you anymore.

It only got in the way of my cheating on you.

Finally

I want to see other people.

Naked!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

This past weekend was a good one for a lot of area football fans. The Vols won. The Mocs did, too. So did the Titans. It was also Halloween, with the requisite parties and a good excuse to dress in costume. I actually saw a dog dressed in a superman shirt at the Graham Street bash. It was a cool, family-friendly crowd with a typically solid performance by The Pool. I saw some people I hadn’t seen in ages. But after I found myself checking my phone every two minutes to check on the Tennessee-South Carolina game, I headed home and hit the sofa…

…The Volunteers’ 31-13 win over the Gamecocks was a “statement game” for first-year UT coach Lane Kiffin. I always like to see Steve Spurrier lose and watching his vaunted offensive genius be completely stymied by Monte Kiffin’s defense was even better. I am warming up to Lane’s coaching personality after watching him do numerous pre-game, halftime and post-game interviews. Kiffin the younger presents himself very well in those situations. On the sidelines, he looks completely dialed-in to the game at hand. In contrast, his portly predecessor often looked totally zoned out…

…Lane’s dad, Monte, is one of the best defensive minds in (college or pro) football. He does have the benefit of all-American (and projected #2 pick in this year’s NFL draft) Eric Berry at the back of his defense. But none of the Vols’ four losses have been a blowout. They lost by two points to Alabama… by four to both UCLA and Auburn… and by 10 to top-ranked Florida. Kiffin the senior is taking the SEC’s offensive coordinators to school…

…Lane was mentioned in a Lil Wayne rap song and got some media coverage for renting a helicopter to scout multiple Friday night high school games in Atlanta. Recruits notice those things. He looks like yet another solid hire for UT athletic director Mike Hamilton…

…Speaking of good hires… I will say for the dozenth time (or so) that Rick Hart’s hiring of Russ Huesman was the best thing to happen to UT-Chattanooga football in decades. This past Saturday’s 24-20 come-from-behind victory over Western Carolina took the Mocs to 5-3 for the season. Holy crap! It’s like waking up in an alternate universe or something for the long-suffering Chattanooga fans who suffered through the dismal final years of Rodney Allison. Huesman is whipping up strong support from his former teammates, other onetime football Mocs and those of us who spent some of our college years with him at UTC…

...Huesman’s Mocs get a major test this Saturday in Boone, North Carolina. Appalachian State is one of their division’s true powerhouses. Finley Stadium is a virtual home field for the former national champions. ASU quarterback Armanti Edwards racked up 461 total yards in the Mountaineers’ 52-27 rout of Furman last Saturday. We’ll see if Huesman can dial up a defense capable of slowing Edwards down…

…The first seasons of Lane Kiffin and Russ Huesman are great news for Vol and Moc fans. But the potentially last season of Titans coach Jeff Fisher is big news, too. Tennessee’s 30-13 whipping of Jacksonville bought Fisher a little bit of breathing room, but just a little. One win against six losses is not what you expect from the NFL’s longest-serving head coach. Nashville running back Chris Johnson, who had two spectacular scoring runs vs. the Jags, thinks his team can run the table and finish 10-6. I don’t know about that, but Vince Young looked surprisingly solid at quarterback. At this point, 8-8 looks pretty good…

…Coaching changes are a huge part of college and pro football. Job security is pretty precarious at both levels. Fisher has been a huge part of the Titans’ past success. I think he gets one more year to right his ship. Lane Kiffin and Russ Huesman will get several years to insert their recruits into their respective lineups. I think we can look forward to some great Saturdays at Neyland Stadium and Finley Field. I just hope Fisher can bring some luster back to LP Field…

 -- Mark Bedford

Ovarian cancer is the fifth most common cancer in women after lung, breast, colorectal and pancreatic cancers.  It accounts for only three percent of cancer in women, and fortunately there has been a decline in incidence of this type of cancer by about 1% over the last twenty years.  Unfortunately, diagnosis is usually late as there are very subtle and often protean symptoms and signs.  Ovarian cancer is not just a cancer of old age, it can occur at any age, even infancy, however, the incidence of this cancer does rise significantly after the age of 50.

There are certain risk factors for ovarian cancer, chief amongst them is family history and some associated genetic syndromes.  A blood relative with ovarian cancer raises the risk for their female relative by 5 percent for this cancer.  There is a syndrome of hereditary breast and ovarian cancer which occurs in one out of every 500 women and being an autosomal dominant genetic disorder results in BRCA1 and/or BRCA2 gene mutation.  The other is Lynch II syndrome a hereditary non-polyposis colorectal cancer syndrome, again autosomal dominant, which increases risk for ovarian cancer by 12 percent.  However, the majority of women diagnosed with ovarian cancer have no family history and the etiology remains unknown.  When ovarian cancer occurs and is not detected early when localized to one ovary, the cancer will usually spread to the unaffected ovary and uterus first, but can spread to the liver, lungs, adrenal glands, spleen and other intraperitoneal organs.

Some things that reduce risk are the protective effects of oral contraceptives, late menarche, early menopause, multipariety (having more than one child) and breastfeeding.  Progesterone appears to be protective, but there is controversy as a 2009 Danish study suggests that all HRT results in increased risk (the study was performed with estrogen alone (unopposed) or estrogen & progestin (progestin is a synthetic progesterone compound).  Further study in the use of natural bio-identical hormones for prevention will need to be performed to clear up this controversy as earlier studies showed HRT to be protective.  There are modifiable factors such as reducing weight (avoiding obesity), smoke cessation, reducing a high starch and fat diet that can reduce risk of this cancer.  It has been shown that a well balanced diet high in carotene, vitamin C and E and unsaturated fats with moderate physical activity all help reduce ovarian cancer risk.

There is much difficulty in making an early diagnosis due to the fact that signs and symptoms are very often subtle and non specific, and unless you go looking for this disease with specific diagnostic lab and radiology tests you are not likely to find it early on.  Some symptoms include abdominal pain and fullness, back pain, nausea, constipation, diarrhea, fatigue, pelvic pain and urinary symptoms.  Laboratory testing should be considered in women over 40-years of age if these symptoms persist as they are a higher risk population for ovarian cancer.  Testing usually involves a CBC, metabolic panel and serum CA 125 levels.  CA 125 is a cancer marker that is rather sensitive and specific for ovarian cancer, however there are some other conditions that can elevate this marker such as pelvic inflammatory disease (PID), endometriosis, ovarian cysts and pregnancy. CA 125 is a good test but not perfect since it is elevated in 90% of patients with advanced disease, but only upwards of 50 percent with stage I tumors.  Additionally, there are other markers that make themselves useful, and they include the beta subunit of human chorionic gonadotropin (Beta-HCG), serum alpha-fetoprotein (AFP), neuron-specific enolase (NSE), and lactate dehydrogenase (LDH).   Diagnosis is also made by diagnostic imaging, such as the Doppler transvaginal ultrasound (ultrasonography or US), often used as an initial evaluation for a pelvic mass.   US is helpful in determining benign ovarian lesions such as simple cysts from those that appear more malignant such as complex solid tumors.  Other modes of radiological imaging useful to the diagnostician are CT scan and gadolinium-enhanced MRI.

Treatment usually includes (after thorough diagnostic testing and staging) excision of the mass/tumor by surgery.  Depending on the stage of the disease other organs may also be removed, for example the appendix is generally removed due to its potential target for metastasis.  Following removal of the tumor, chemotherapy is typically initiated with a combination of platinum and taxane-based agents. Carboplatin and Taxol are two chemotherapeutic agents that are often used.  For those women beyond their reproductive years, a total hysterectomy is often considered, while radiation therapy is reserved for palliative and persistent disease that reappears after a regiment of chemotherapy.

Prognosis is a bit complicated as it is based on the staging of the disease as well as the histological grade (type of tumor etiology) that typically plays a role in recurrence rates.  For example, an epithelial ovarian cancer (histologically) has a low malignant potential if diagnosed at stage I and has a 95 – 99 percent survival rate at 10-years.

Screening for ovarian cancer should include annual physical examination and directed exams by markers and imaging only when warranted.   Routine screening with CA 125 yield too many false positives and misses too many tumors early on to be a good general screening test.  BRCA analysis should be reserved for descendents of those with mutated BRCA1 & BRCA2 genes, it is not recommended as a general screening tool.  The current recommendations for women meeting criteria for high risk or very high risk for ovarian cancer is to be screened with a transvaginal ultrasound and have a CA 125 measured every six months during days 1 through 10 of their menstrual cycle beginning at age 35.

The take home message here is that women need to be diligent with regard to their annual physical examinations and to not ignore persistent symptoms that may point a finger to an underlying more serious condition.

 - JP Saleeby, MD

JP Saleeby, MD is director of Carolina Mobile MD, a “house call service” offering integrative general medical services to clients in the Carolinas.  For more visit:  www.CarolinaMobileMD.com

References:

Roett, M. Evans, P., “Ovarian Cancer: An Overview”, American Family Physician, Vol. 80, Num 6, September 15, 2009, p.609-616.

http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10933270 (Accessed 10/8/2009)

http://www.medicinenet.com/script/main/art.asp?articlekey 3822 (Accessed 10/8/2009)

Boo!

Ah, fall. The leaves are turning brown and all over town it is beginning to feel a lot like Halloween.

It is once again time for the freak in me to come out and I am not talking about the return of Wild Wednesday, but Haunted Carnival.

Time to use this space as an advertisement for my Halloween production at Sir Goony’s and share a few funny stories that have come from my 13 years of producing over 24  haunted attractions here and in other cities.

Chattanooga has an unusually large number of haunts for a city this size. I guess people see someone like me being successful at it for 13 years and they think anybody can do it. However with so many fly by night operations popping up in town, beware or the only scare you’ll get is having to look yourself in the mirror and ask why did I go to that rip off joint.

Also, how is it that about half the places say they were “Voted #1”?

I always thought Haunted Carnival and Ruby Falls were the top two in town so I called some of these pretenders and asked them “who voted you number one”? Most just hang up on me but one explained that they “surveyed the people leaving our place and they all said that our place was best”. That’s scientific?

Attention Chattanooga, this just in, I just surveyed myself and officially voted myself, best new porn star in an action movie involving one person. Wow, that was scary! Sorry, I get a little off topic sometimes, back to Halloween.

We have had hundreds of rooms over the years and our cast may be the best in the country, but along the way we have had a few exceptions.

One year early on we had a dark passage where Zombies lurked, hungry for flesh. I manned one spot with a new guy who “just didn’t get it”. I explained how he should grunt and growl and sniff after slamming the wall with his 2x4.

No good, he was bad!

So I, the master performer, writer and director was going to give this newby one on one rehearsal. I explained how his character should call for patrons. How he should alert the others like him that there was “food” in the passage. He should convey to his victims that he had a hunger and that only “they” could satisfy his hunger. He seemed to get it and I thought, “I was the man”.

Then about three hours into a Saturday night show I reentered his area and as I often do I hid and listened to my newest flesh eating zombie. He slapped the wall as only a Fear Engineer can and what came next was terrifying to a Haunted Attraction Producer. In a voice that sounded one part Jethro and two parts Jerry Lewis I heard “Hey Lady”! Immm Huuungrry! Come Hare! You got a hamburger in your purse? Hey Lady! How about some Fries? Immm Huuungrry!

Humbled, I decided a slap on the wall was progress enough for that one.

Over the years I have scared tens of thousands of people. Some flinch, some do nothing. Some scream and hit the floor. I have had people drop to their knees and some will just run to their cars and drive away. Some draw back while some will cover up and I have even induced flatulence on occasion. My favorite being the jump, scream and laugh combo, known as Fear and Fun!

But in my business the ultimate story of “GotCHA” is the ever-illusive “urination”.

Now I am a pretty good Fear Engineer. I spend over an hour in makeup each night to get the look that can withstand any up close encounter. I work hard stalking my victims and like any good hunter I show patience, waiting for just the right moment to get the perfect scare.

However I had to my knowledge never caused anyone to wet themselves. To me urination was the Haunted Carnival equivalent to an “Urban Legend”. Most cast members have a story about it and I would entertain the story, laugh and think “If this happens why don’t I ever see people leaving with wet spots?

Now I can say, I have!

While traveling through one of our many scary passages one young lady found herself face to face with something she didn’t know was there, ME!

A flash of light and an evil growl later and her friend says “Oh my, Carrie just pee-ed herself”.

Then she said “Carrie its splashing on my sandals, stop”! I was trying not to laugh while in character as I walked away in victory.

FINALLY, I had reached the mountain top!

Kahunaman AKA Boo-Daddy

www.sirgoonys.com

I admit it. I picked the above headline because I know at least 80% of average American males will read at least this far based on those two topics alone. And I felt like tossing out a few random observations about carbonated grain beverages and the current collegiate gridiron season… without fully committing my attention to anything for very long. So… here goes…

…In talking with fellow beer buffs, I have noticed that many of us have the same seemingly paradoxical preferences. We are part-time cerveza snobs… when the budget and inclination lean that way. But we’re just as likely to quaff a PBR in a local watering hole or drain a couple of Natty Lights after mowing the yard. A true gourmet can appreciate the subtle flavors of a really nice trout almondine or a big, juicy cheeseburger. Likewise, a true beer aficionado can go highbrow or lowbrow with equal aplomb…

…Tennessee claimed another “moral victory” in Tuscaloosa last Saturday. Bama’s 12-10 escape should have been a loss. Two blocked Daniel Lincoln field goals and some blown red zone opportunities kept coach Lane Kiffin’s Vols from upsetting the top-ranked Crimson Tide. Lane’s dad, Monte, dialed up a great defensive scheme and his lads executed it perfectly. The younger Kiffin found himself fined by the Southeastern Conference for suggesting that Alabama defensive lineman Terence Cody should have been penalized for “excessive celebration” after he blocked Daniel Lincoln’s potential game-winning field goal try. More on penalties and the men who call them in a bit…

…I was lucky enough to be at Tremont Tavern one night when the Terrapin rep was in town. As I’ve stated before, I am a big fan of Terrapin’s Rye Pale ale and Big Hoppy Monster. On this night, Tremont owner (and frequent Monday night trivia target) Dustin Choate and I sipped some BHM and Terrapin’s collaborative Depth Charge. The latter is the end result of a “midnight brewing” side project teaming the Athens, Georgia-based Terrapiners with their friends at the Left Hand Brewing Co. in Longmont, Colorado. Depth Charge is an espresso milk stout. If you’re a true brew fan, just that description made your mouth water a bit. It’s hard to find, but worth finding…

…Back to penalties and the men who call them. One SEC officiating crew found itself sidelined this past weekend after being involved in controversial penalty decisions on back-to-back Saturdays. In both instances (and the non-call Kiffin complained about), the sketchy penalty decisions helped a high-ranked team beat a lesser conference opponent. Conspiracy theories are already springing up. The SEC has a vested interest in seeing its teams make it to the premier BSC bowls. But would the league officials tilt the scales in favor of those marquee teams? I’d like to think not, but it’s hard not to wonder. This year, especially. It’s also time to question our regional bias toward the SEC. When Bama can barely beat Tennessee and Florida narrowly escapes Mississippi State, there are two possible answers. 1. The SEC really is as good, top to bottom, as us Southeasterners claim it is. 2. Bama and Florida are both really vulnerable this year. Time will tell. I just hope the remaining SEC games will be decided by the players, not the officials…

…Questionable penalties are enough to drive a football fan to drink. Which brings me back to the beer topic. On the flip side of the ever-expanding gourmet beer selection is the interesting reverse chic appeal of decidedly nonpremium beer. The aforementioned Pabst Blue Ribbon is incredibly popular in local watering holes. Schlitz is even making a comeback. I haven’t seen Southpaw on tap anywhere yet, but it could happen…

…This Saturday should be great for both beer and football. The Vols host South Carolina in a coaching clash between the SEC’s newest bad boy (Kiffin) and its first true bad boy (Steve Spurrier). It could be a night of dueling visors. Tennessee might be getting out the black jerseys again… or so it is rumored. Georgia and Florida square off in one of those rivalries where you really can throw out the records. Many beers will go to their great rewards during these and other Halloween weekend games. And if you managed to read this far, then my headline trick worked like a treat…

-- Mark Bedford

It’s entirely appropriate that I am sipping a Rogue Brutal Bitter as I start to type this epitaph for the Tennessee Titans’ 2009-10 season. Fans of the Music City’s NFL franchise have been treated to a brutal 0-6 start… and they are understandably bitter. In a season when the Titans celebrated their history as the Houston (and Tennessee) Oilers by donning various “throwback” jerseys, they should pay tribute to another moment in history… and name this year’s team after the doomed White Star passenger liner that sank so famously in 1912. The Tennessee Titanics didn’t hit an iceberg last Sunday night at Gillette Stadium, but I think the snow was a factor in their 59-0 skunking at the hands of the New England Patriots…

…Tennessee looked flustered by the weather from the opening kickoff. The Pats looked like it was just another day at the office. A snow-covered Foxborough field rendered the Titans almost invisible in their all-white Oilers’ gear. Their defense was almost invisible for the whole first half. New England quarterback Tom Brady rung up 45 points in the first two quarters. Our home-staters looked like they just plain gave up. The Patriots finished with 619 total yards to the Titans’ 186 and 32 first downs to Tennessee’s nine. Titans quarterback Kerry Collins completed just two of 12 passes for minus-7 yards. (Yes. Really.) In his defense, he saw at least six good passes dropped by his snowblind receiving corps…

…Going back to the end of last season – when the Titans started 10-0 – they’ve lost eight in a row. Jacksonville, Indianapolis and New England have outscored them by a combined 127-26 the past three weeks. Tennessee coach Jeff Fisher insists he is more worried about fixing his team than keeping his job, but you can’t help but wonder if owner Bud Adams will make a change after the season grinds to an agonizing end. Fisher is the NFL’s longest-tenured coach, with 15 years under his belt and a contract through 2011. His overall record is 128-108, but he is just 5-6 in the playoffs… including an 0-3 record since his last post-season win back in 2003. Make no mistake. Fisher would not be unemployed for long if Adams hands him his walking papers. But it might be time for Fisher to go…

…You can’t blame this disaster of Titanic proportions entirely on Jeff Fisher. But when you’ve built your reputation as a “defense-minded” head coach… and your team gives up 59 points (while scoring none), you have to expect a certain amount of accountability. I don’t know who decided that it was better to take Washington’s money than ante up to keep Albert Haynesworth, but it was a terrible decision. The former Vol and current All-Pro is wasted on the Redskins’ roster... and the Titans’ defense can’t pressure opposing quarterbacks without him. Haynesworth created mismatches and double-teams when he was in the lineup, freeing his teammates up when he couldn’t break through himself. Brady (and Peyton Manning the week before last) had too much time on his hands against Tennessee’s weak pass rush…

…With running back Lendale White up for a new contract and greybearded quarterback Kerry Collins looking more like the ghost of Christmas past than the quarterback of the future, the Titans are in deep doo-doo. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Tennessee should have drafted Vandy alum Jay Cutler instead of Vince Young. VY is a highly-paid clipboard carrier this season… and there are no indications that he’s anywhere ready to lead the team. Cutler had a built-in Nashville fan base and a gun for an arm. Young… well, he won a national title with the Texas Longhorns and apparently peaked that night…

…Jeff Fisher has been around pro football a long time. He knows this year’s team is in trouble. He has a bye week to try to keep his ship from sinking to the darkest depths. But he hasn’t lost his sense of humor. When he introduced former Indy coach Tony Dungy at a Lipscomb University fund-raiser this past Tuesday, Fisher showed up in a Colts blue Peyton Manning jersey. “I just wanted to feel like a winner,” said the NFL’s longest-serving head coach. He’d better start looking like a winner… or he’ll be the league’s next former coach...

-- Mark Bedford

“What have I gotten myself into”?

Well it’s started.

What will surely be the undoing of me has started.

My little girl has suddenly become a freakin’ teenager at the age of three years, ten months and five days.

My 10-year-old son just came home with straight A’s, says “Yes sir” and “No sir”, plays kick butt defense on the court and is working towards being my very own Grasshopper complete with spinning back fist.

Not the little blue eyed, blond haired angel with mommy’s good looks and daddy’s bad habits. No sir, she already understands the posing of hands on her dimpled little cheeks as she bats her long lashes. Oh, and a vocabulary more vast than some bikini models “I used to know”. Did I mention, a wit that is both quick and targeted to make a point and play daddy as a sucker?

All this before four.  What happens at five?

“Daddy I need the keys to the car!”

Honestly, this is crazy, or am I just so paranoid that I am making myself that way already?

As I have written on these pages I have tried to take “The Big Kahuna” out of my family life. No Wild Wednesdays, no Spring Breaks, no radio or TV shows just as normal and happy a family life as I can provide for my little ones. The last thing I want is to find myself acting like “The Balloon Boy’s Dad”. What an ass!

Back to this parenting thing.  Raising a little girl is a whole lot different gig than raising a boy. My son will never want to dress like a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader for Halloween complete with halter top and short shorts. I mean I don’t think he will. If he does I’ll still love him but the answer will be the same…..NO!

Media efforts to sexualize children and turn young girls into little Lolita’s is very real in our society, and toy makers and marketers continue to target young girls.

I am still laughing and a bit disturbed by Barbie Forever with Tanner the Pooping Dog. My little girl wants a Barbie and her house crapping dog for Christmas. Which is a bit of a reality check because I just watched Marley and Me and yes dogs chew crap up and go poop in the house so I guess that’s kind of funny, disturbing that the thing poop stuff that will look to my two year old like Sugar Babies and Milk Duds, but still funny.

Have you seen The Bratz? These dolls should be called “The Skankz”. Complete with push up bras, thongs, sequined crop tops and micro minis? What’s next, “Luther the Sweet and Caring Pimp”? The leopard skinned pink Cady with extra large back seat?

If the Pooping Dog isn’t enough then here is proof Barbie has lost her damned mind too.

 Midge the pregnant Barbie buddy, who pops out a curled-up baby when her belly is opened was pulled from Wal-Mart shelves across the country following her introduction.

There is a new one with tattoos and piercings. Does this mean Barbie is finally anatomically correct? I can see it now, Barbie’s drop out friend BJ, complete with tongue piercing and reusable pregnancy test provides hours of suspense as BJ and Barbie contemplate just who the daddy really is.

Wow, that’s a new version of Mystery Date!

I think Prince Albert is the daddy.

How about Cougar Barbie? A salute to the new TV series comes with Xbox game to distract the victims and a blindfold to hide the truth.

I have seen funny things online about Trailer Trash and Trophy Wife Barbie’s as well.

How about a new LFO Cheerleader doll complete with spiritual signs and handcuffs? She could be a superhero by night facing her arch enemy ACLU woman.

Back to this daughter-raising situation, I will raise my daughter the same as my sons. My rule, always respect yourself, always give respect and while you won’t always get it back, expect it and let others know that you expect it. Then when they don’t, they get what’s coming to them.

Finally, a friend of mine who has raised a real nice girl told me right after my daughter’s birth his secret, he said “give her so much love and attention at home that she doesn’t have to go looking somewhere else for it”.

Good advice!

I guess I need to go read her a goodnight story and put that pooping dog on her Santa list.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

“Damn, obscurity smacked you in the head. It sucks being an old lion, huh”?

This past weekend a long time friend/rival of mine who makes his home in the Orlando area dropped in town to find me. The above comment was thrown my way within 10 minutes of us greeting, man-hugging and catching up.

This is one of those people you occasionally miss because they represent another time in your life, because you remember the best of the times with them. That is until they show up in the same place as you and then you can’t believe the guy hasn’t been fitted with concrete slippers by his mother.

Ray-Ray is the second best emcee in the Southeast and has been ever since he first showed on the scene in 1995 as a 17-year-old hotdog set on stealing my Spring Break gigs with MTV. He continued to take my leftover’s until I became domesticated in 2005. Now he gets all the gravy, but there was a time when he and others like him used to get really upset about an older guy on the mic, from of all places Chattanooga who would roll into events and blow him and his disciples off the stage and out of work.

Now, he talks to me like I am some old toothless, de-clawed lion. Is he right? I am not sure.

However, I sure am not seeing or hearing of any young lions who can do more than recycle what I coined 15 years ago or get on the stage and try and sound like Lil’ John. Now that’s talent. KISS FM is about to take Chattanooga by storm, again because people know the name and the name means “party” so the minions shall return to worship at the altar of rhythmic pop.

I spent a lifetime developing my alter stage ego “The Big Kahuna” which to generations of people means “Crazy Party” or “Stupid Guy on Mic” depending on who you ask.

I have spent more hours on stage “live” and in front of more people than most anyone to ever work a mic, not to mention a good bit of radio and a ton of “live” TV.

Is this like the old lion remembering the hunt?  I am not sure.

But, I have shocked more people than faulty vibrators in the Cherokee Hotel. I know at one time my comedy bits would make Madonna look like a lady and I know that I added to that by being the master of Beads, Beer and Babes on Wild Wednesdays, and at resorts and event locations for over 25 years. That’s not to mention working as an enthusiastic yet professional announcer in college and pro sporting arenas for over two decades.

And I am damned proud!

Or is that the last sounds of my worn out claws against this piece of newsprint?

I am not sure.

So Ray-Ray has, as he is so good, called me out. Maybe he needs me to go heads up against him again after my four year semi-retirement so he can officially banish me to the entertainment jungle to die alone leaving him to wear the crown he believes should have always been his?

Maybe I am stupid enough to give him that chance.

Maybe old lions have to come back from the jungle to try and lead the hunt one more time? Maybe old lions remember themselves bigger, stronger and faster than they ever were and maybe that’s how they get sent to the jungle to die?

I am not sure.

I do know I used to be real crazy and now I am a little less crazy, so what? Matter of fact I am just on crazy leave.

I have always intended to return to crazy, I just needed a break to recharge my crazy batteries.

I used to be the King of Spring Break, could I possibly be again? Do I want to be? 

I suddenly feel I am being forced to re-transform or face my life being known as Ward Cleaver. Am I so old that most my potential minions out there would not even know who Ward Cleaver is? I am not sure?

Maybe my life isn’t so boring.

Maybe Ward wasn’t so boring either.

Maybe Ward Cleaver’s alter ego was Ward Cleavage?

Maybe Momma Cleaver wore those pearls because of Ward’s freaky cleavage and bead fetish?

Maybe there was a reason they named their child Beaver?

And maybe The Kahunaman will rise again?

I like my new life.  I liked my old one too!

I thought being a one-woman man and dad showed flexibility for a guy that many may have thought could only function in the fast paced world of T & A.

With this article, I am telling my wife, my honor is at stake and that The Kahunaman and his posse will be leaving in March to select resort towns to unleash the beast that is me. Once there, we will gamble, throw money at strippers and dust off pick up lines that few men could possibly even attempt.

You notice I didn’t ask her, I told her.

The Kahunaman told her!

She just came in and read this piece so let it be known that we are leaving as soon as she lets me back in the house so I can pack.

Maybe old lions would just as soon swallow our pride and sleep inside where it’s warm.

So much for dreaming about the hunt, where is my Snuggie?

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

I’m getting an early start on “brown liquor” weather. The good folks at weather.com insist it’s 68 degrees outside on this Tuesday night. But I’ve seen the radar… and the forecast. More rain is coming. So is a weekend cold snap. With the way this particular week has started, I needed no further motivation to reach up to the top shelf of my cabinet and pull down the bottle of Glenlivet that Geraldo gave me on the day of my mom’s funeral. The first sip was perfection. Of course it was. Those Scots know what they’re doing. Everything in moderation, laddies…

…There isn’t much moderation on the political landscape these days. As I explained in last week’s dispatch, we live in divisive times. There was further evidence of that this week as pundits and politicians reacted to the Nobel Prize committee’s decision to award its “Peace Prize” to President Barack Obama. The shrill commentary began within an hour of the announcement. “He hasn’t even done anything yet,” exhorted the right wing. “We kind of agree,” said some in the president’s own party. There was speculation that winning the Nobel Prize so early in his first term might actually hinder Obama’s agenda…

…As so many news sources have reiterated over the last week, the Nobel Prize is named for the inventor of dynamite. Alfred Nobel was a Swedish-born engineer and owner of the Bofors armaments manufacturing firm. Back in his day, Alfred thought his explosive invention would make wars so terrible that there would be no more of them. The inventors of the crossbow thought the same thing a few centuries later. So did the inventors of the atomic bomb… a little less than 50 years after Nobel’s death…

…The Nobel Prizes in Peace, Physics, Chemistry, Literature, and Physiology or Medicine are all highly coveted… and sometimes controversial. Nominations for this year’s Nobels had to be postmarked by February 1, only 12 days after Obama took office. The committee’s solicitation for nominations was sent out two months before he was elected. The President had not been listed among the front-runners for the prize… and the roomful of reporters gasped when Nobel committee chairman Thorbjorn Jagland announced Obama as the winner. How could this be? What had this American president done to “earn” this prestigious award? It comes down to one word. The word that was so prominent at the bottom of Obama’s iconic campaign posters. Hope. “Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future," the committee said. Jagland insisted the committee’s selection came “with ease.” But it was still a surprise to the rest of the world...

…I think there was another compelling reason why the committee of five appointed by the Norwegian parliament chose our president for the only Nobel prize not selected by Swedes. Barack Obama is not George W. Bush. He has reversed the Bush doctrine of unilateralism and worked to rebuild damaged international relationships. He is highly dedicated to nuclear nonproliferation, a reversal of the global economic downturn and a resolution of the Arab-Israeli conflict. He has not asked his attorney general to find loopholes that will allow us to torture prisoners. He has not used spurious “evidence” to launch the country into a war costing thousands of American lives… and hundreds of thousands of innocent Iraqi lives. He has given the rest of the world hope that the United States of America will regain its moral leadership among nations...

…If the Nobel committee ever comes up with a “War Prize,” perhaps Bush will have a shot at it…

-- Mark Bedford

Last week I came back to these pages with a vengeance or at least a sneaky glimmer in my eye, a chuckle and a bag of sarcasm.

This week I am watching the world and local news and wondering is this still 2008?

Can projections for the Christmas retail season really be this bad?

Unemployment numbers are dismal, when will we start to level out?

Can Obama be a good War-time President?

Will the Healthcare Plan bankrupt America?

What is a good exit strategy for Iraq?

 Have we stepped in the same pile of Afghan Poop the former Super Power the Soviets stepped in?

Is the end of our troubles in site or is this just the beginning of a slide greater than any since Rome?

Today there is talk of the dollar being replaced as the currency used to trade in oil. This would be a Worldwide smack in the face and a sign that we truly are sliding down the international power grid.

Our leaders act as if we are unsinkable yet last fall during the crash, I saw doubt and confusion on the faces of men who have for too long been allowed to think they are untouchable.

Yet, through all of this local Americans stood up for the Lakeview Cheerleaders who may have been constitutionally wrong but morally right in their bright eyed enthusiasm of standing up for their beliefs.

Volkswagen and local and state officials toured the VW plant site this week and all of the area applauded our German friends and held our heads high with pride and hope for our community.

Here are some quotes from the past that might make you think deeper about today but not without hope, for all great societies are built on hope and dreams and like the LFO kids, even the best of intentions are sometimes put to the test. The question is, do we hang on to the dream or allow it to slip away?

Thank you VW for hanging on to the dream, Chattanooga and America will prove you right!

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls--the World.
Lord Byron

 “In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as five fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress” Booker T. Washington

The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall; the desire of knowledge in excess caused man to fall; but in charity there is no excess; neither can angel nor man come in danger by it.
Francis Bacon

“From the mountains…. To the prairies….. To the ocean white with foam….God bless America”……Irving Berlin 1938

When discussing the rise and fall of empires, it is well to mark closely their rate of growth, avoiding the temptation to telescope time and discover too early signs of greatness in a state which we know will one day be great, or to predict too early the collapse of an empire which we know will one day cease to be. The life-span of empires cannot be plotted by events, only by careful diagnosis. Fernand Braudel

We've arranged a civilization in which most crucial elements profoundly depend on science and technology.
 Carl Sagan

“A powerful flash and then the sound of a whole town crying.” Hiroshima

“This is an American child. This is an American home. Lucky young American. No child in the world has so bright a future.”                    1947  toothpaste commercial

“If you will protest courageously and yet with dignity and Christian love, when the history books are written in future generations the historians will pause and say, there lived a great people.”                  Martin Luther King 1956

Let us teach the next generation that “Greed is good” makes for great movie dialogue but terrible government policy.

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

I spent a good bit of time on the WGOW website a little while ago. I was trying to find the name of the raging idiot I heard on their airwaves recently. It wasn’t Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh. It must have been one of the lesser-known “conservative” broadcasters. Maybe it was Phil Valentine. He’s about as “lesser” as they come. In any event (as my attorney friends are prone to say), it wasn’t the “who” that was that important. It was what this broadcaster said. I almost pulled over when I heard it. “If Obama fails,” said the voice on my car radio, “America wins.” I was stunned…

…I know that broadcasters, pundits, and columnists often say things just to stir the proverbial pot a bit. Lord knows I’ve done it myself. I thoroughly enjoy turning a phrase that I know will get my Republican friends’ knickers in a twist. What bothered me about the above statement was the fear that someone might really believe it. “If Obama fails,” boys and girls, “America is screwed.” Before you think I’m saying that our current president has all of the answers for all of our nation’s problems, let me assure you that I don’t. Frankly, I’ve been disappointed by the lack of focus shown by the President since his inauguration. James Carville simplified Bill Clinton’s campaign strategy in now-famous fashion. “It’s the economy, stupid,” he insisted. Barack Obama could stand to follow the same advice…

…An example: In retrospect, the president probably wishes he hadn’t spent the political capital it took to fly to Copenhagen and lobby for Chicago as the site of the 2016 Olympics. “The Windy Second City” was the first of the four finalists to be eliminated and the International Olympic Committee eventually selected Rio de Janiero as the host city for the 2016 games. Obama’s opponents called his lobbying visit a dismal failure. You can’t blame the native Chicagoan for trying to bring the games back to America. A winning bid would have meant billions of dollars in revenue for our country…but I want to see our president meeting with the world's foremost economic experts on economic solutions... not jetting and junketing...

…I guess I would understand if Valentine or whomever had wished “failure” on Obama’s Olympic sales trip. It would be a bit shortsighted, but understandable. But anyone who really thinks that America “wins” if the president’s efforts to steady the economy aren’t successful is a nut case. Anyone who thinks his attempts to come up with viable strategies in Iraq and Afghanistan should fail is the opposite extreme from a “patriot.” Anyone who thinks winning the next presidential election is more important than stabilizing our nation… is a raging idiot… as I said earlier…

…It is appropriate that I broach this topic on the same week that right-wing commentator Ann Coulter visited UT-Chattanooga. I didn’t go see her speak, though I was tempted. Frankly, I’ve seen and heard her act. She couldn’t really say anything that would surprise or shock me. I was a little bit curious to see if her Adam’s apple is as big in person, but that curiosity wasn’t enough to make me rearrange my Monday schedule. I’m sure Ms. Coulter thinks America will win if Obama fails. It stuns me to think that such people can stake spurious claims to the moral high ground and wrap themselves in the stars and stripes. Then they throw a cherry on their bullshit sundae by proclaiming that God is on their side. The last time I heard the song that should have been our national anthem… we were urging Him to shed his grace on us… and crown his good… with brotherhood… from sea to shining sea. We could use a large dose of that grace in these troubled times...

-- Mark Bedford

“When you detonated the car bomb…..what was the last thing that went through your mind? My ass!”       

  Jeff Dunham and Ackmed The Dead Terrorist

In case you didn’t know, hadn’t noticed or really just don’t care I have taken a few weeks off from my almost seven year gig here at Enigma. My house caught fire and my wife blew herself up. Last week my business went under water. What’s next, Obama’s Health Care Reform will pass?

Hey, your letters prior to my time off said I had gone soft, too family so I spent the last eight weeks standing in front of the mirror naked getting myself revved up to come back and be not just “The Man” but “The Kahunaman”.

Silence, I Kill You!

Don’t judge me, I have gone without my creative release AKA cheap therapy for almost two months. Because of this the next couple of weeks will probably be a bit raw so don’t line the hamster cage with my page. If you do the kids may have questions like “What’s a Virgin”? “Why do girls have boobies”? And my personal favorite, “Daddy please tell me I won’t grow hair down there?”.

Do these things have anything to do with this piece? No, but now you can’t line the kid’s hamster cage with my article.

Back to this weeks point.

Ackmed! Oh Ackmed, where art thou dear Ackmed?

He is alive, was alive and smiling on his Facebook page. Then, he stuffed explosives in his butt and blew himself up in an attempt to assassinate a Saudi Security leader. The leader had invited the Body Cavity Bandit to his head quarters to surrender when the crap hit the fan, the wall, the palace and yes the Saudi. Fortunately the good guy only needed a few stitches and a bathtub full of tomato juice to get over this Beavis like attempt.

According to the butt-bomb experts such attempts do not allow enough room for a large enough bomb to bring down buildings or even planes and will only have a limited success rate with assassinations.

So, what’s the big deal?

Current airport technology cannot penetrate bodies enough to detect such bombs so simply walking through an x-ray device will not get the job done.

So to all of my peeps out there please listen.

I say it’s time to drive,  If you can’t get there from here by car then maybe you should just choose another destination.

Do you remember the ban on sharp objects after 9-11?

Notice how we so willingly take our soap and shampoo out of our carry-on?

Off with the shoes is now second nature and of course the belts are already in the tubs.

What’s Next?

Security Level Brown! Stop and Drop! Rubber-Glove Police!

Business trips will now be the domain of employer’s least favorite underling. Paper, Rock, Scissors to see who has to fly to Vegas, losers get ready to pack your bags and well, you understand.

This wasn’t a mastermind plan by the bad guys to blow stuff up but physiological warfare to see all infidels with their exposed buttocks in the air preparing for take off!

Honestly, this is war and we may have just become the butt of a million jokes in Arabic.

Silence, I search you!

Kahunaman AKA Dewayne Gass

Monday night’s cold snap and Tuesday morning’s ceremonial first donning of the fleecewear have inspired me to cook up another batch of the rambling athletic commentary I have come to call “sports gumbo.” Without further ado, here we go…

…As I type this, Florida quarterback Tim Tebow is recovering from a concussion he suffered in the Gators’ 41-7 win at Kentucky. Florida coach Urban Meyer has received a lot of criticism since Tebow got his bell rung by the knee of one of his own offensive linemen. What in the world was the Heisman-winning quarterback doing in the game late in the third quarter? The Gators were up 31-7 at the time and Tebow was so sick the day before the game that he was flown in on a separate plane from his teammates. There are two possible answers… and neither of them reflect well on Meyer. The current BCS system rewards  high margins of victory and hoops-like point totals. In addition, Meyer and his most valuable player are both trying to get Tebow’s name to the top of this year’s Heisman list. Florida has a bye week before facing LSU on October 10, so we’ll see how well he bounces back from the skull smacking. I would never wish an injury on the kid who has earned the nickname, “Superman.” He is a great competitor and a credit to his university. Would you think ill of me if I was a little bit relieved to learn that Tebow is indeed a little bit mortal? I hope he makes a speedy recovery and that Meyer learned not to keep his franchise player in the game for “garbage time.”…

…First-year Chattanooga coach Russ Huesman has the football Mocs off to a 3-1 start after last Saturday’s convincing 38-9 homecoming victory over 17th-ranked Wofford. The wins over Glenville State and Presbyterian weren’t surprising, but the Terriers have had their way with the Mocs lately. UTC has already won as many games this season as they did in the prior two combined. Huesman’s horde invades Birmingham this Saturday for a matchup with Samford. A win down there would keep the momentum going Chattanooga’s way and further validate athletic director Rick Hart’s good hiring decision…

…After squeaking past Ohio U last weekend, Tennessee faces a stiffer challenge vs. Auburn this Saturday. Jonathan Crompton still fails to impress at quarterback. Monterio Hardesty and Bryce Brown can grind out the yardage between the hash marks and occasionally bust a long run. Crompton’s erratic arm hasn’t really given any of the Vols’ young receivers an opportunity to stand out. The only time the UT offense looks "explosive" is when it blows up on itself. First-year coach Lane Kiffin has been a media darling since the Florida game, but hasn’t had a big win to crow about. His defensive coordinator/dad came up with a great scheme against the Gators. If Monte Kiffin can find a way to slow down Guz Malzahn’s tricky offense, his son will get another shot at the spotlight…

…For the first time since 1999, three NFL teams from the previous season are starting this season 0-3. Our homegrown Titans, the Miami Dolphins and the Carolina Panthers are all “oh-fers” so far. The league takes great pride in providing “parity” and a big part of that is making the teams who did well one season face a really difficult schedule the next season. In Tennessee’s case, they still should have won their season-opener against the defending Super Bowl champion Steelers. And they should have clobbered the visiting Houston Texans at LP Field in week two. Likewise, they should have done a whole lot better against the high-flying Jets. Mark Sanchez still makes a few rookie-looking decisions, but he shows a lot more poise than most first-year signal-callers. The Jets are 3-0 and Sanchez is one of the big reasons. When I look at the Titans trying to milk one more year out of the venerable and grey-bearded Kerry Collins, I wonder why in the world they picked Vince Young over former Vanderbilt star Jay Cutler. Young is a pure bust by anyone’s definition. Tennessee’s future prospects at quarterback are murky at best. I know Coach Jeff Fisher is a defensive whiz, but he needs to make better decisions when drafting for the other side of the ball….

...Man, it's great to have football to think about and talk about. It was a long time coming, but this football season is shaping up to be a good one...

--  Mark Bedford

A quick recap before the rant begins. The Titans lost on Thursday. My beloved Arsenal lost Saturday. As did the Tennessee (American) football Volunteers. And the Mocs. On Sunday, thankfully, the Atlanta Falcons helped avoid a local football loss sweep by handling Diamond Dave’s Dear Dolphins, 19-7. All in all, it was not my favorite weekend of sports watching -- with the notable exception of my drive out to Rossville Middle School to watch the Chattanooga Rugby Club vs. Atlanta High Country… and the Lee U lady ruggers vs. a motley crew from various women’s clubs across Tennessee…

…I need to get something off my chest. The overtime rules in the National Football League are a travesty. The Titans battled the Super Bowl champion Steelers to a 10-10 tie after four hard-hitting quarters. Pittsburgh won the coin toss to get the ball first in overtime. Ben Roethlisberger drove the asymmetrically-logoed Steelers to within field goal range. Jeff Reed drilled in a 33-yarder. Game over. With the stakes as high as they are in the NFL, each team should at least get one possession in OT. I’ve racked my brain trying to find a reason why the pros don’t have an alternating-possession overtime like the one the NCAA uses. You would think the league would want to maximize television revenue. Something tells me the NFL Players Association might be behind the unfair “sudden death” rule. The NFLPA wants more money if the league dumps pre-season games and adds a few more to the regular-season schedule. It wouldn’t surprise me if the union rejected a fairer, but longer, overtime policy just because the players don’t want to put in any extra work without extra pay. A pro football game shouldn't be decided by a coin toss...

…Arsenal’s loss to Manchester City last Saturday won’t mean much to most of you. But this is my space and I’m occasionally self-indulgent. Two lads who wore Gunners jerseys last year are now on the City roster. Defender Kolo Toure is still regarded for his work ethic and sportsmanship. Striker Emmanuel Adebayor’s “performance” in MC’s 4-2 win ensures he will be vilified by Arsenal supporters for as long as he breathes. He intentionally dragged his cleats across former teammate Robin Van Persie’s face, narrowly missing his eye. He incited a near-riot by running down the length of the field to celebrate his goal in front of the visiting Gunners’ fans. He’s already been banned for three matches for the cleating incident and further suspension time could be coming. He’s a first-rate icehole… and I hope he gets a nice welcome when he visits Arsenal’s home pitch later this season…

…Tennessee quarterback Jonathan Crompton simply imploded in the Vols’ nationally-televised loss to UCLA. First-year coach Lane Kiffin is keeping Crompton away from the media this week, but he won’t be able to keep him away from the Florida defense this Saturday in “the Swamp.” Kiffin’s off-season remarks about Gator coach Urban Meyer have set the stage for a potential ass-whuppin’ in Lane’s first Southeastern Conference game. I don’t know what the betting line is, but the Vols will need some turnovers from their defense to keep the game within three…touchdowns, that is…

…The Mocs’ loss to Furman last Saturday was a harsh reminder that coach Russ Huesman and his staff still have an uphill climb ahead of them. The excitement of the Thursday night win over Glenville State was one thing. Developing a winning tradition in one of the FCS division’s toughest conferences is another. UT-Chattanooga is on the right track, but it might be a long stretch of track before winning is less of a surprise…

…Like I said, there were a few too many L’s last weekend for my tastes. I hate it when all of my teams fall short at once. But I am loving my two long-awaited football seasons… English Premier League football across the Atlantic… and southern-fried American football here on this side of the big pond. It’s football time in Tennessee… and in Europe…

-- Mark Bedford

It was my Dad’s birthday this past Monday. He won’t be offended if I tell you that he’s one candle away from three-quarters of a century. He looks and acts younger than his years. Regardless, one’s parents always seem “old” for some reason. I was talking with Dad on his b-day when I realized that he was eight years younger than I am now when we moved to Chattanooga. Age, like so many things, is so much about context. Dad was old when we moved here. I am still young in comparison, despite the mathematical realities…

…They always say “you’re only as young as you feel.” My follow-up to that is: “So feel yourself all over and give me a full report.” Using that standard and the way I feel when I wake up in the morning after playing soccer the day before… I am 18 in some places and 81 in others. I would rather suffer the aches and pains of those days than the after-effects of couch-surfing lethargy…

…Several years ago, I was in the office of Harry Baywood… my favorite orthopedic doc ever. On this particular occasion, I had rolled my right ankle for the umpteenth time while running full speed during one of my son’s soccer practices. My foot sank into a pothole on the uneven turf of the North River Y and I knew it was going to bad. Despite that, I waited a week before I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Baywood. I knew what was coming. “What did you do this time?” he asked, well aware of the envelopes full of x-rays in my file. “Rolled it during soccer practice,” I replied… sheepishly. He looked over his half-glasses at me. “Hmmm. Soccer is a young man’s game, Mark.” That was about 10 years ago. I still play soccer. Dr. Baywood is retired. Orthopedic docs secretly love old guys who refuse to act their age. We’re money in the bank…

…Acting your age is one thing. Looking your age is another. There is something pathetic and sad about old guys and gals clinging to their long-lost youth by dressing a whole generation below their chronological achievement. I know this because I have ignored the sad specimen in my mirror on occasion, with the predictably unfortunate results. When 50 is the “new 40” and 40 is the “new 30,” it’s not an excuse for 50-year-olds to dress like 20-year-olds. So… um… I have no excuse…

…When I was in college, I was fortunate enough to get a job working in the sports department at the old Chattanooga Times. It was a blast… like working in a toy store. My boss was a 28-year-old named Randy. At the time, I remember thinking that 28 was incredibly old. Today it seems incredibly young. If you happen to be a 20-something, I’m not being patronizing or dismissive. As I said earlier, age is so much about context…

…Regardless of how old you act or how old you feel, your body will reach out and give you a big reality check now and then. If you are the type to partake of adult beverages, you know this to be true. The process of aging makes us better able to handle most of life’s situations. Experience is a great teacher… except when it comes to drinking. The forces of nature have paradoxically made it easier for young people to bounce back from overimbibing. If you drink so much that you get a hangover, it’s your own damned fault… regardless of the date on your driver’s license. If you trick yourself into thinking you’ll be fine on the morning after a bender, you will pay the piper in spades upon the morrow. Whining about it is both sad and unhelpful…

…Life often hands us cruel reminders of our advancing age. Sometimes I see someone I’ve known since they were a kid… with their kid. Sometimes I share my Dad’s habit of thinking that prices for some things should not have gotten higher in 15 or 20 years. I am in training to be a full-fledged curmudgeon in a few years. I’m sure I’ll be pretty good at it. I just hope I can weather the next couple of decades as well as my “old man” has.

Happy birthday, Dad…

--  Mark Bedford

A look at national news lately is filled with stories of the ongoing healthcare debate. Republicans (and some Democrats) are quick to bash the “Obamacare” initiatives. Even some of those who support the President’s healthcare “reform” efforts think the administration is rushing things. Across the country… and right here in our own backyard… there are tense, argumentative “town hall” meetings…

…First, a couple of observations on the health care debates. There can be no real, radical improvements in our nation’s health care without close scrutiny and reform of current health insurance practices and the legal environment that allows frivolous lawsuits to bump up the cost of health coverage for all of us. There will be no meaningful tort reform as long as most of our lawmakers are lawyers. There will be no close scrutiny of health insurance as long as insurance companies continue to hedge their bets and bankroll the campaigns of candidates from both parties. The current limited review of our health care system can only yield reforms with limited success. Conversely, I think they can only be a limited failure for the same reasons…

…The real battle inside the beltway has far bigger stakes. For the first time since Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the executive, legislative and (eventually, I think) judicial branches are debating and reshaping the role of the Federal government. Despite the once-stereotypical view of Republicans as advocates of “less government,” our government grew significantly under two terms of George W. Bush. As did our deficit. Unemployment. The national debt. And the body count in Iraq and Afghanistan. Conservative pundits who think Obama has done more to create the current dire conditions in a little over eight months than Dubya did in eight years are blowing smoke to cover their steaming piles of bovine fecal matter…

…At a time when Americans most need their elected Congresspersons and Senators to put petty differences aside and put the needs of the country first, it seems to be “business as usual” in Washington, D.C. Eight years of being run over by the arbitrary actions of the Bushies left the Democrats hungry to claim some legal and financial “wins” for their pet issues and Congressional districts. I am no more fond of their myopic motives than I am of the obstructionist Republicans who are throwing up roadblock after roadblock. Now, more than ever, we need to see our lawmakers at their best… not their worst…

…I’d like to think that President Obama and his fellow Democrats have some baseline of integrity in their motivations. As I’ve said more than once, I believe both parties think our government should help people. Democrats think it should help the least fortunate. Republicans think it should help the most fortunate. An oversimplification? Sure. An accurate one? Sometimes so. But it sure makes my pachyderm pals struggle to find a response…

…Healthcare reform is only the tip of a very big iceberg. The future role of our Federal government is being redefined almost daily. Five years ago, who would have thought the United States of America would be in the car business? Or throwing billions of dollars at our financial institutions to prop them up against failure? The times, they are a-changing. And, so far, not really so much for the better…

- Mark Bedford

Football season starts in about 10 days, so, other than the absurd pre-season polls, there is not much to talk about, sports-wise.

So I got a few things to say about the media, again.

In case nobody has noticed there is a pretty important debate going onor maybe gone on in the halls of Congress and elsewhere about health care reform.

Some of the major newspapers, which stats indicate most people outside the beltway in Washington don¹t read much anymore, have actually spent a good deal of time and ink trying to explain the options open to the Congress and public in an effort to get reasonably priced health care to most folks in the country.

And there have been genuine efforts by some of the major networks to at least present an accurate picture of what¹s going on, but this is not a debate that is easily translated into television.   It requires the viewer to think, which is not normally part of the TV-watching process.

But what has been getting lots of coverage, certainly on Fox, has been the few moments of anger or contentious debate at town meetings, and when there is some shouting during one of these sessions the 15-seconds of raised voices becomes an endless loop for the “conservative” commentators who were deposed by the electorate in the last presidential election.

It has been reported that as Fox broke away from a quiet, contemplative town hall meeting on health care in New Hampshire, anchor Trace Gallagher told his Fox audience: "Any contentious questions, anybody yelling, we'll bring it to you." 

Which seems to confirm President Obama¹s statement that “TV loves a ruckus”.

While some in the administration have said the media has not given much time or space to the details of the President¹s health plans, they obviously have not looked hard enough for the coverage, because it has been there.

The problem is, and this is as true of the Web as the traditional media, “if it bleeds, or yells, or carries a gun, or makes some outrageous statementi.e. Sarah Palin, former governor of Alaska and failed vice-presidential candidate’s concern about some sort of ‘death committee’” then the outrageous gets the lead position on the Fox nightly news, or the blog or whatever.

The obfuscation, mud-slinging and vocalized ignorance, led, I am sad to say, by members of the Republican party, has allowed the health insurance lobby to actually damage the possibility of getting affordable health care for most Americans.

And despite efforts by responsible journalists in all the media to explain and examine the various parts of this huge legislation, the blithering idiots are still getting more attention because they make a ruckus.

This is a debate requiring some study to understand.   It appears the American public just does not have the intellectual energy to drag itself away from the game shows and reality farces long enough to give health care the attention they need to give it.

And while the Obama administration has shown admirable courage in trying to fulfill its campaign promise to revamp the health care system, I think the White House, which has the loudest voice in the argument. Fox will cover them, even if they don¹t yell and scream, has been too passive in its public pronouncements.

It is all a learning experience for both the Obama administration and for us yokels in the public.

In the meantime, the health insurance bean counters are taking long vacations in exotic climes as they count the money that; somehow, they are going to make from the “revamped” health care system.

At least the insurance lobby is happy.

Thank God football starts soon.

 - Scorpio Jones III

It’s a buyer’s market for just about everything these days. Lean economic times yield competitive pricing for consumers… most of the time. Gasoline prices fly in the face of this logic, however. We are edging back up toward three bucks a gallon again, with no real good oil industry stories to justify the increase. At the end of the year, the oil companies will once again announce record profits. I’m getting pretty tired of it…

…I got gouged last Friday night in Nashville, too. To be fair, most of the trip was great. A business partner put me up at the Opryland Hotel for two nights. One of our event sponsors paid for three hours’ worth of free food and (copious amounts of) drink for everyone attending our conference.  But I still resent getting gouged for almost $30 for a room service pizza. And the pizza sucked. Imagine an undercooked DiGiorno with no tomato sauce on it. If you’re going to charge almost $30 for a pizza, you ought to make an amazing pizza…

…I always enjoy my trips to Nashville. Music City has a boomtown vibe to it. The Titans were playing the Jags on the afternoon of my last day there, so downtown was packed with fans and scalpers. I made time for a drink at the Gold Rush and lunch at Fido’s. I should probably try some new places on my next trip, but those two always hit my comfort zone…

…On a completely unrelated topic, I’m mourning the passing of conservative pundit Robert Novak. I didn’t agree with a lot of what Bob had to say, but I often admired his flamboyance in saying it. Best known for his appearances on CNN’s “Crossfire” and “The Capital Gang,” Novak was iconic with his trademark vested suits and eternally pouting lips. I suppose Pat Buchanan inherits Novak’s niche among right-wing talking heads…

…And the right-wing talking heads are having a bit of a field day lately. President Obama’s approval ratings are at an all-time low and the pachyderm party is orchestrating widespread opposition to his healthcare initiatives. Conservative commentators still love to toss the notion of “socialism” around… and many Americans just follow their gut reaction against the “S” word. Health care is a critical issue and even the “Obamacare” supporters will benefit from the delays and debates. We don’t need to rush into anything that will affect so many people so critically…

…I’m going to miss having Bob Novak’s distinct voice chiming in on national politics. He would have had a blast chipping away at Obama’s healthcare strategies…

- - Mark Bedford

FEELING THE HEAT

Suddenly, August is upon us. I’m no meteorologist. I don’t even have a copy of the Farmer’s Almanac. But I have a sneaky suspicion that this month is going to be a scorcher. Those surprisingly cool days we had back in July will be counterbalanced by a few brutally sticky August afternoons. Bet on it…

…You can also bet that the president was feeling the heat as he celebrated his 48th birthday on Wednesday. His “Obamacare” healthcare initiatives are stalling in Congress. House members left for their August recess last week. Senators headed out this week. Voters will be bending their lawmakers’ ears while they’re back on their home turf… and public sentiment is flying in the face of Obama’s healthcare strategy. Voters are afraid of government-run insurance plans. They don’t like some of the rather invasive aspects of the proposed programs. No one is forgetting the growing federal deficit. The Democrats have the votes to ram through virtually any legislation they can all agree on, but there is division in the ranks. Obama and his senior advisers will be wooing congresspersons and senators like crazy…

…Down in Alabama, the wheels are falling off in the state’s largest county. Debt-ridden Jefferson County laid off a third of its 3,600 employees on Monday. The city of Birmingham makes up a substantial amount of Jefferson County’s population of 660,000. The county was forced to make drastic budget cuts because of a lawsuit questioning the legality of a county occupational tax. The tax raised $78 million annually, money that was vital to the county’s operation. The revenue is still being collected (pending a decision on the tax case), but it’s being held in escrow. Some state legislators hope to pass a new tax bill later this month to raise money for Jefferson County. In the meantime, they’re talking about bringing in the National Guard to help Birmingham and the rest of the county through its tough times. I’ve spent a lot of time in Birmingham over the last two or three years and I hate to see things going to hell down there. They are definitely feeling the heat in Jefferson County, Alabama…

…Former presidential hopeful John Edwards saw his political career end after rumors that he had an extramarital affair with a campaign aide. South Carolina Governor Mark Sanford is still weathering the storm after his torrid extramarital liaisons with an Argentinian bombshell made the papers. Now Tennessee has its own sex scandal. State representative Paul Stanley (R-Memphis) got caught fooling around with his 22-year-old intern. Stanley, a “family values” voter and Sunday school teacher, resigned after lurid details of the goings-on at his Nashville “love shack” became known. Cleveland representative Dewayne Bunch was Sanford’s Music City roomie, but he often went home during the legislative sessions. Paul Stanley felt as sudden and as intense a burst of media heat as I can remember…

…Heat is relative. Even as August’s high temps and clammy humidity suck the energy out of us, we should always remember that someone has it hotter than we do. Literally and metaphorically…

-- Mark Bedford

I had a rough week, haven’t really had a good night’s sleep in five days and I think I will write about whatever comes to my mind.

I almost bought a Volkswagen last week. Yep, I almost bought a Volkswagen Jetta TDI. That’s Turbo Diesel I, as in 45, drive by and give the bird to the Arabs and oil guys miles per gallon.

I almost surrounded myself with Chattanooga Gucci, that’s what it is now you know? Half of Signal Mountain has traded their BMW’s for the people’s car and that’s cool, I would have too but a title problem kept me from trading my 1986 Ford F150 short bed. I really own it, drive it and have kept, get this…..full coverage insurance on it since 2002 but a tag issue kept me from “Clunkering”.

Now I am waiting on the next generation green automobile that will run on bullshit. It’s called the Obama-Buggy and will automatically recharge every time a politician says the Government should be running healthcare, but that’s for another article or three. Bottom line, welcome Germans and a big “What’s UP’ to the crew at Village VW their all great especially that Smitty guy who spent about 15 hours trying to put me in a car only to see me and my F150 drive away, sorry buddy I’ll be back. Tell your boss I will tattoo his logo on my butt cheeks if he’ll throw me a deal.

Wow I wanted that Jetta!

Got to say that on Wednesday, I was a little bummed, feeling kinda low, thought life was a little unfair since I really did own and drive and insure my “Clunker”.

Then on Thursday night, the “Great Clunker” disaster no longer seemed to matter.

  I was on my way home from work Thursday night, in the car 30 seconds when my wife Micah called screaming in pain and fear, telling me the house was on fire and that she was burned. Now I didn’t have that new Jetta but my PT Turbo got me from Brainerd to Fort Oglethorpe in about five minutes. Five long crying and panic filled minutes.

I arrived before the fire trucks to see my son Josh holding my one-year-old Christian and three-year-old Christina next to their mother who was on the ground crying in pain.
I can’t explain that feeling.

A Flash fire from the gas water heater ignited the laundry room she was painting in.

Our kids were asleep when a fireball ignited cabinets and sheet rock but she somehow knocked it down with the fire extinguisher. I am very proud that at 10 Josh grabbed the baby from his crib and ran and got the neighbors.

My neighbor is the man, he put the fire completely out.

Micah was burned but released Friday morning. Her hair was burned and is now cut short and she can’t walk well for burns on her ankles and feet but she knocked down the fire with the extinguisher as she ran out.

Josh got the baby out and ran to the neighbors and woke them up, he (the neighbor) then entered the house three times to put the fire out and save our home.

 
Micah somehow got Christina out despite the scalding pain of a flash fire.

The house is being repaired as I write.

This was a very minor blaze as fires go, smoked up not burned up, we only lost one room but we were very blessed that this was not a tragic ending. I almost lost everything and my family is absolutely my life. I guess you could say, “God surprised us but he didn’t let us down”.

Then there is my neighbor, Winston Webb. This guy was awakened by a 10-year-old and screams outside his bedroom window, he threw on some clothes and entered a smoke filled house multiple times to save our home.

As I sort through the damage I am inspired that he did this considering he knew the fire was a gas water heater yet he still did this for us? Channel 9 asked me, “wouldn’t you have done the same”? I would sure like to think so but it was very smoky, white chemical smoke, the kind that actually blistered my mouth and I went in as the fire had just been extinguished. Gas appliance in the room? Scary, very scary and it was my house and I really didn’t want to stay and hang out. The guy rocks and so do the fire fighters who finished the job.

Over the years I have been a pretty public figure, love people when I am out working or shopping, but I really keep to myself at home, I walk around in my shorts and never answer the door. I wave and speak, but I really don't know Mr. Webb all that well yet he saved my home, in the middle of the night while my wife and three small kids were sitting in the driveway crying waiting on me and the fire department to arrive.

How do I thank this man other than to say this fire was minor because a neighbor put himself at risk for a family in need.

To us it is incredible.

Again when I arrived before the F.D. I rushed in as Mr. Webb was coming out for air the third time and I could not see my hand in front of my face as I entered the house.

To me and my family he is a hero.

Thanks Winston and all of you who have called, mailed and dropped by, especially my UTC Family. Believe me when I say your thoughts and prayers have been healing to all of us.

As for the family, my 1-year-old still wants “bites”. My little girl says “Our house caught fire. We had a plan. We got out.” My ten year old showed focus and awareness under bad conditions. Things that he has learned since he was three from Scouts, martial arts and an old guy he calls dad who reminds him about the shows on the Discovery Channel. “If the log has eyes, it is probably not a log. Don’t be that antelope”.

And my wife?

She knocked the flames down after being burned, grabbed my daughter and made the calls all while sitting in the middle of the night in really bad pain. She is healing nicely but the blisters, charred skin and the loss of her lovely long blond hair tell me she is one hell of a girl. She turns thirty on Friday, a thought depressing to an old perve like me. However, this new haircut is sexy and she smells like a campfire, so maybe just maybe this is what we needed to spark things up around the house? Happy Birthday Baby! I am so thankful we will be celebrating your big day.

I joke so not to cry but the Kahunaman knows, I am blessed beyond words.

Dewayne Gass

A couple of weeks ago I read a story where somebody was worrying Chattanooga was about to be labeled a “Bicycle Unfriendly City”.

Huh?

What in the world is this guy talking about?

Everybody here loved bicycleswhen they were children, and I still enjoy seeing kids riding their bikes places cause it brings back good memories of my childhood.

Oh, but I read further and I discover a somebody actually shot at a group of kids on their bicycles – oh, wait, they were not kids, the group was a group of grownups out riding grownup bicycles, no doubt attired in the latest Spandex pajamasjust like Lance wears.

I thought that was pretty strangehow could anybody shoot at a bunch of silly grownups out for a Sunday ride?

Well, as I read further, then did a little digging it turns out this group of grownups was riding down Ooltewah-Ringgold Road, and according to one report was way out in the wrong lane, and the guy who may have shot at them, or somebody hollered at the bikers as he was forced into the other lane on a very busy, very fast public road.

So the cyclists were out there riding, for fun, one would assume, it being a Sunday afternoon and all, not going to work, or to school, but just out having a big time in their Spandex pajamas, just riding down the road, blocking one lane of traffic.

I am a little surprised somebody shot at them, but I am not surprised somebody yelled at them.

I was coming up the W road going up Signal the other day and I came up behind a line of cars moving at a snail¹s pace, why?   Well because a cyclist, in his little Spandex pajamas and his swoopy helmet was riding up one on the heaviest traveled roads in that end of the county, going 10 miles an hour or less, where the speed limit is 40 miles an hour, and taking up enough of the up bound lane to make cars have to veer into the wrong lane to get around him.

He was having a high old time, in his Spandex and swoopy helmet.

Nobody else was having much fun, but boy was he getting some great exercise and having a fine old time.

Lots of people had something to say to this gentlemen as they veered into the wrong lane to get around him, and when I went around him, finally, he had something pretty ugly to say about how close I got to him.

But he was getting his exercise, and having a high old time.

Now here¹s the crux of the Unfriendly to Bicycles deal.   I got nothing against people recreating.   I think it is great.

But I gotta ask you bicyclers out there, what would you do if you were confronted with a bunch of folks in funny clothes playing golf in the middle of Brainerd Road, or the W road?

They are just out there getting their exercise in their funny outfits, having a high old time, in the middle of the road, and even if they moved over to the edge of the W road to let you ³play through² they would still be impeding the traffic flow.

But hey, they are just Americans out getting some exercise.

Or how about if your kids want to play softball in the street?   You think the cops are going to take a dim view of your kids out getting some exercise playing their game in the middle of the street, or on the edge of the W Road?  Yeah, the cops are probably going to take a dim view of the situation.

But the problem for the cops with the bicycles bunnies in their Spandex is that the bicycle lobby has enough clout to get the streets made somewhat safe for their sport, where softball and golf have not.

And the cops are caught in the middle, they actually have to see some Spandex bunny impeded traffic to do anything about it.

So you can¹t play golf in the public streets, but you can play Lance Armstrong - what¹s wrong with this picture?

I got absolutely nothing against folks riding bikes to school or work, as long as they pay attention and follow the same traffic rules as I have to when I drive my car.

I do, however, have a problem with Lance Armstrong wannabees out in the middle of a busy street insisting they are special, and in fact more special than golfers or softball players or any of the other things people do to get exercise, not in the pursuit of school or work.

The very fact the cyclists ride and insist on their right to ride in the public streets for their own exercise and entertainment is an indication of an arrogance that will never set well with anybody.

 - Scorpio Jones III

The restaurant, lounge and nightclub business has many a unique story that has been told over the years in Chattanooga.  On a typical Saturday night a few thousand loyal patrons in and around the Chattanooga area frequent their favorite establishments, be it a dance club like Drink, sports bar like Bud’s or a brewpub like The Terminal or Big River.

One story that has circulated for years and has been substantiated involved country music legend Johnny Cash.  During the early ‘70s Cash, during the height of his drinking, was literally thrown out of a club located around Second and Market Streets called The Lamp Post.

The watering hole at the time was owned by a Chattanooga police officer.  Pulling into the club the owner says he heard the worst noise he had ever heard coming from inside the bar.  Upon entering he saw an extremely drunk Cash on stage attempting to sing.  The owner abruptly rushed the stage, grabbed Cash by the ear and dragged him from the stage.

“I’m Johnny Cash,” he told the owner.  “I don’t care if you’re Willie Nelson, you sound like crap,” the owner retorted.  Cash was then literally taken outside and thrown into the street. 

Needless to say, the Chattanooga bar, lounge and nightclub business has a very colorful past.

The restaurant/lounge, bar and nightclub business has helped launch many a career.  The business, while some may look down upon those who make their living selling alcohol (we are in the deep south still) may not realize that their doctor, lawyer or even real estate agent may have worked in the business briefly to help finance their academic careers.  Working in the business has helped develop many a personality.

Others have found the business to be lucrative, especially bartenders.  In the bartending profession they are usually categorized one of two ways – either a personality bartender, someone usually with the gift of gab, or the volume bartender who can mix and serve drinks at a rapid pace. 

Craig Fentress for example falls into the category of volume bartender.  Fentress got in the business over 30 years ago at the Jolly Ox (Steak & Ale).  At that time there was an ordinance in Chattanooga on the books that would not allow any reference to alcohol in an establishment’s name. Steak & Ale at the time was a popular franchise and because of the ordinance had to use the name Jolly Ox until the law was changed in the early ‘80s.

Fentrss started as a teenager as a bar back.  After getting dragged into the business by his siblings he’s been at it ever since.  He enjoys the fast-paced and environment and it fit his hyper personality perfectly.

While he has worked other jobs, Fentress always finds himself coming back to the business. “I’ve done other things and some of them lasted a little while, some of them a good long while, but always come back because it’s something I can do,” he says.

Having graduated from the youth-oriented clubs to the more mature club atmosphere, he still looks forward to coming to work.  “I still get goose bumps when I think about coming into work on a good busy Saturday night,” he says.  “This is my drug.”

Fentress claims to be motivated by different things than most people in his line of work.  “The money’s always been a part of it, but I’m here for the work of it,” he says.  “The dollars kind of fall where they may.”

In 30-plus years of bartending Fentress has seen a shift in what people drink today compared to when he first got in the business.  They make it easy for him by ordering basically a simple mixed shot like Jagermeister with Red Bull or a straight shot of Patron tequila.  “You go back to 1979 or 1982, somewhere around there and happy hour drink people were drinking two-for-one frozen strawberry daiquiris,” he says.  “I would slit my own throat now rather than go through that again.”

 Mike Mullins would be characterized as a personality bartender.  Mullins has the ability to blend in so well at his bar one may forget he’s working.  He instigates conversation, introduces people who may have something in common and is his own emcee while running his bar.

During Christmas break back in 1987 while visiting with his family Mullins dropped out of college and got a job at the original Michael’s.  “I met Rick Jorgenson on Brainerd Road and the rest is history.”

Mullins, who also dabbles into music, uses the bar as his stage.   “Mother said I had the gift to gab, so I used it,” he says.

During his 20-plus years behind the bar Mullins has made many a lasting friendship.  “I’d like to think the booze had nothing to do with it, but it does help a lot,” he jokes.  “I’ve met the best people in the world, and have maintained friendships for over two decades with some of the people I met when I first moved here.”

In his journeys that eventually led him to Top of the Dock, Mullins has had some interesting encounters. Including having to start the “Electric Slide” over about six times for NBA Hall Of Famer Michael Jordan.  “The greatest athlete on the planet has absolutely no rhythm – true story,” he says.  Former NBA star and television analyst also tried to unsuccessfully we might add, take Mullin’s girlfriend home.  Another highlight for him was serving legendary deejay Wolfman Jack.

Like Fentress, he really enjoys what he does.  “It’s like planting a seed and seeing a big, beautiful tree grow.”

The Chattanooga bar, club and lounge scene can be divided predominantly into three genres.  The first is the sports bar.  When you think of sports bars, you think of Bud’s.  When you think of Bud’s you think of Andy Dillon, whose name is synonymous with Bud’s for the better part of 30 years.

Dillon, originally from Chicago made it to Chattanooga via Huntsville.  One day he received a call from a friend who talked him to driving up to Chattanooga to bartend one night a week at Bud’s.

One day became two and the rest is history.  Under Dillon’s tutelage he turned Bud’s into a top destination on Lee Highway and Brainerd Road when they moved into ironically the old Steak & Ale location a little over two years ago.

The establishment has a constant clientele coming in not just for a cold beer but also for award winning food.  The hot wings at Bud’s is considered by many the best in town and the lawyers, judges and other officials that may come by for lunch on any given day will satisfy their craving for one of the best hamburgers in town.

Dillon says he owes a great deal of Bud’s success to opening and closing the doors at the right time and giving the customers the best service he can give them.

The climate of the business has changed a little over the 31 years he’s been affiliated with Bud’s.  When he first got here everyone was 25-28 years old.  “Your daddy wouldn’t hangout in a club back then,” he says.  “Now you look around, we’re all 55 and up now.”

Dillon has kids that come in and tell him their parents used to hang out with him.  When he asks them where the parents are they say, “Oh, he’s not cool like you.”  “I’m not cool,” he says/  “I just have a job.”

“I love the restaurant business,” says Dillon.  “I love a guest that comes to my place and them comes back.”  He emphasizes to his staff of 65 the need to treat people well and make sure they always feel welcome when they enter.

The second style of establishment is the live music venue.  For some reason there has been a great divide in Chattanooga.  Downtown has always been known for it’s live music scene and Brainerd Road for its dance clubs.  “There was always a rivalry,” says Denny Hennen of Beasley Distributing.

Hennen categorized the downtown scene of the late ‘70s and ‘80s as more live entertainment and a casual atmosphere whereas Brainerd Road was more of a dance music crowd compared to a party music crowd.  “That (Brainerd Road) was the area to go to dance and downtown was where you went with friends and partied.”

For 25 years Hennen helped brothers Tim and Johnny run Chattanooga’s first truly popular live music venue, Yesterday’s.

Yesterday’s opened its doors in 1973 primarily as a restaurant.  Towards the late ‘70s they began to introduce live music.  First solo acts, then duos and finally full band concerts.

Denny was the imposing figure that ran the establishment.  Hennen moved back to Chattanooga from California where he was having a difficult time finding gainful employment.

Yesterday’s when all was said and dome was the best college bar in town.  There was always a mixed crowd of college kids and those just out of college that came there religiously to hear the current hot touring circuit band.  Denny was the gatekeeper.

Hennen know how to keep a crowd and keep them coming back and spending money.  If you came long enough, Denny would excuse the cover charge for admission knowing he would more than make it up at the bar.

I personally remember one instance in particular when a new guy was working the door.  Usually Denny was near the door to give his nod of approval.  Our group had never paid cover.  Denny was nowhere to be found to vouch for us, so we reluctantly paid the three-dollar cover.  As soon as we sat down at our usual table up front four pitchers of beer were placed on the table.  Our server said, “Denny says he’s really sorry about that.  Here, there are for you.  He hopes you’re not mad/” We weren’t and we spent even more money there than usual.

Yesterday’s closed their doors in 1998 after a 25-year run.  After a brief sabbatical Hennen returned to the business this time working for Beasley Distributing.  Now working on the distribution side of it Hennen finds himself running into his old customers all the time still, either as customers or as part of the bar business.  “I go to every bar in Chattanooga and see a lot of the kids who have grown up and gone into their own professions,” he says.  “Be it heating and air, lawyers, doctors, and it’s fun to see how they were then and they all love the memories, and I was a part of them,” he recalls.  “And that’s what’s really neat.”

Now on the distributor side of things he says the number of dance clubs have dropped drastically over the past 10-15 years. “Now you have a lot more live music venues,” he says, including local music. 

The clubbing habits of youth have changed drastically he says since the days of Yesterday’s.   At Yesterday’s the bands were instructed to start promptly at nine o’clock.  Kids today he says hang around their house listening to music and socialize there.  “The kids go out now at 12 o’clock instead of eight or nine,” Hennen says.  “Yesterday’s was a destination place for the night.  Now they go out for a couple of hours then they go back to their place.”

Hennen looks fondly back at his days running Yesterday’s.  “I probably hit a wall towards the end of it,” he says.  “I was getting older and it wasn’t as much fun as it used to be, but it was fun up till we closed,” he adds.   “I don’t miss the business so much any more.  I miss the people.”

And last, but definitely not least there is the true nightclub or dance club.  When you think of the word nightclub in Chattanooga only one true name comes to mind – David Jones.

Jones is single-handedly responsible for transforming the business from a bunch of bars and converting them into something unheard of or seen in Chattanooga.

David Jones created the scene that brought a small, southern town and put it on the map with his various concepts and innovations in the nightclub business.  David Jones is the original.

If it weren’t for a twist of fate things would have turned out differently for Jones and the Chattanooga nightlife.  A former high school All-American in basketball, his original plans were to attend veterinary school at Auburn.  That’s right, he came very close to being Dr. Jones.

Not sure if he could cut the mustard at Auburn, Jones returned to Chattanooga to attend UTC and study physical education.

Married, with two children, attending school full time, and delivering newspapers, Jones went to refinance his 1974 Ford Maverick.  The loan officer he met was an old high school friend.  He asked his old high school friend if she knew anyone that had a part time job he could apply for.

As it turned out the friend’s boyfriend was the owner of the newly opened Sports Page.  She told Jones they were looking for an assistant manager, so he went down and applied.

Upon arriving Jones discovered the job was already filled but they were looking for a cook.  Asked if he had ever cooked, Jones fibbed, saying yes, thus beginning his 30-plus year foray in the restaurant and nightclub business.  “I started out as a cook and then I started bar backing,” he says.

After a fight or two broke out at the club, Jones soon found himself the host.  From there he moved into management until he opened his first club.

Joe Carter of Longshore Distributors told Jones about this little establishment that he thought would make a great beer bar.  It was the old Nashville Room.  The place had a checkered past as a rough establishment, unbeknownst to him at least one murder had taken pace at the establishment.  The open room only had a pool table and a few side chairs. 

Jones put $5,000 down towards the lease and eventually opened his first establishment, Alfie’s.  “I learned really quick if you’re going to be successful, you better surround yourself with good people,” he says.

At that time in Chattanooga there was a lot of excitement in the air.  All the baby boomers were in their 20s and early 30s.  “There was hope,” Jones says.  “There was a lot of creativity among people, not just the entertainment industry,” he says.  “People were hopeful – had a hopeful future.”

At that time unlike present day traffic on Brainerd Road was bumper to bumper on Friday and Saturday night, all the way from Airport Road to the tunnels.  It would take someone literally an hour to go up Brainerd Road.  “It was an exciting, exciting time in the ‘70s,” says Jones.  “Everybody was baby boomers.  They were all young and everybody was trying to get ahead and just trying to make it in life,” he says.  “It was a really, really unique time just looking back on it.”

After Alfie’s came Rumors.  Politicians, judges, and lawyers frequented Rumors.  “It was a fun, fun time,” says Jones.  The next concept is what helped launch Jones’ reign as the undisputed king of the nightclub scene.  That would be City Lights.

“We worked on it for a long time,” recalls Jones.  A number of themes were put together to create City Lights.  The concept for the club came about at the same time as two men from Arkansas were opening a place called Slick Willie’s.  The other partner had a place called Buster’s.  They put the two clubs together in Dallas and called it Dave & Buster’s.

Jones opened City Lights with the creative help of an old friend, Mark Allen, known by everyone as “Magic”.  “We opened the same kind of concept with a little carnival concept inside,” remembers Jones.  There were skee ball machines, games and a bright Hollywood atmosphere inside the club.

Jones was deep in debt when he finished City Lights in 1982.  “About the most memorable thing I can think of was when I opened the doors at eight o’clock and not a soul showed up,” he says. 

Nightclubs are like oil wells,” says Jones.  “If they’re not going to hit in the first two weeks you might as well cap it off and go on to the next one, because you ain’t gonna make it.”

Jones decided to go home and told Allen to call him is something changed.  “In 30 minutes he called me and said, ‘David, they’re around the block’”.  He remembers that moment because that was such a big thing.

Over the next 20 years Jones opened, closed, remodeled and reinvented the nightclub business over and over successfully for the next two decades.  Other nightclubs he opened included Gatsby’s, Bee Bop Café, South Pacific, Club Rio, Berlin, and Whiskey River just to name a few off the top of my head.

Many people question Jones about why he would change the club’s concept every couple of years.  He says concepts changed every 18 months to two years because the people didn’t change.  “You had to change the concept of the place to keep the people interested,” he says.  People in cities like New York and Atlanta are transient he says, which is why a number of their establishments have been around intact for years and years.

And like Hennen, Jones has seen many a person come through his establishments not only as customers but employees.  A number have used it as a means to an end, a way to finance their way through college.  A number also followed in Jones’ footsteps and have continued in the business, a number of them opening their own establishments with varying degrees of success.

Not long after the millennium Jones retired from the club business, taking a well-deserved rest.  In 2007 he was coaxed back in the business, helping Tonya Thompson with the concept for Top of the Dock located at Lakeshore Marina.  After over five years out of the business he was talked back into it.  “A wise entertainer told me once, David, you know why we’re in this business?” he recalls.  “I said no,” he answers.  “For the applause.” 

“I heard the applause,” Jones says.  “I still want to hear the applause.”

Top of the Dock is a far cry in concept from Jones’ other club concepts.  Where places like City Lights and South Beach were high energy, Top of the Dock with it’s scenic view and large outdoor deck is like a trip to the islands.  “When you get older you get a little wiser,” he says.  “There’s smart people and there’s wise people in the world, Smart people are just born that way,” he says.  “Wise people are like me.  They made a lot of mistakes and learned from them.”

Unlike some of this other concepts Jones believes Top of the Dock is a concept that has longevity.  Not a dance oriented club, they serve great food as well he says.  “Age might have caught up with me.”

Thinking of his accomplishments in the business, and some of the hardships he also had to deal with as well, Jones sits reflectively on his deck as a speedboat passes by on this one particularly warm afternoon.  Staring at the water he turns towards the table.  “You know what?  I’ve been truly blessed.”

 - Dave Weinthal

As the month of May trudges to a close so does the traditional network television schedule.  A number of your favorite shows ended the season with a cliffhanger that won’t be resolved until the fall, while others await their fate.

Once such show was the NBC show “Chuck”.  The Monday night action/comedy adventure had their season finale earlier than most (April 27), and going into the final month of original shows looked as if they may be winding the show down after only two seasons.

“Chuck”, which debuted in fall of ’07 has found itself with a growing cult following that has grown week by week, but due to the fact it airs opposite the already established Fox’s “House”. ABC’s “Dancing With the Stars” and CBS’s “How I Met Your Mother”, “Chuck” appeared to be living on borrowed time.

The premise of the show is kind of simple.  The title character Chuck (Bartowski) is your run of the mill computer nerd working at a chain electronics store.  Chuck epitomizes the every man – a college dropout (actually kicked out) who seems pretty content working with some off-beat folks at the “Buy More” – a direct take-off of Best Buy.

Chuck is sent all of the government’s top-secret files via email transmission of a rogue CIA agent and former rival.  Upon opening the email all the government data is transferred from the email into Chuck’s brain.  This causes him to “flash” when he runs across anything or anyone that is in the government data bank.  Chuck for all essential purposes is a human computer. 

Chuck the underachiever becomes such the secret agent – a reluctant agent at that.  He is assigned two handlers one from the CIA, Sarah Walker (Yvonne Strahovski) and one from the NSA John Casey (Adam Baldwin – no relation to the other Baldwins, he can actually act).

Comedy, action and adventure take place weekly as the accidental agents gets in and out of trouble as well as saves the country from destruction, all unbeknownst to his friends at the electronics store or his older sister who he shares an apartment.

Despite critical acclaim, named  one of the top ten shows on TV by over a half a dozen major magazines and newspapers and a growing cult audience, “Chuck” looked to be headed towards cancellation.

Stories that came out in the end of March stated the show was headed into the abyss barring a miracle. Producers of the show pulled out all stops to tie loose ends for the viewers with a ton of guest stars.  Scott Bakula guest starred as the creator of the program that is imbedded in Chuck’s head, who it turns out is also Chuck’s long lost dad. Chevy Chase guest stars as well as a Steve Jobs/Bill Gates computer/software giant CEO who is the leader of an anti-American rival spy agency who is forcing Bakula’s character to build a similar computer program that is in Chuck’s head, threatening the lives of his family if he fails to deliver.

An underlying story in the show is Chuck and Sarah’s relationship.  While it remains strictly business most of the time, it’s obvious the two have feelings for each other.  There is an underlying sexual tension between Chuck and Sarah that almost comes to fruition, but is foiled by Baldwin’s character.

But enough about the show.  Go buy the first season DVD and/or check out hulu.com or thewb.com to watch back episodes.  But the show, despite everyone’s satisfaction – viewer and critic did not stop the show from being put on the chopping black.

Viewers were encouraged to write NBC executives.  Viral campaigns began on the web.  Once such group, SaveChuck, figured how to save the show.  It was announced last week that “Chuck” was being renewed for a third season.  It will be a midseason return, but it will return nonetheless.

So how do you go about saving a show?  Hit them or encourage them where it hurts.  Sponsorship.  To be honest with you, it doesn’t matter how many viewers a show has or what the critics have to say – just ask fans of “Arrested Development”.  What matters is revenue.  The SaveChuck program figured this out. 

Anyone who has eaten at Subway the past year or so knows of their sponsorship of  “Chuck”.  It is casually referred to from time to time on the show and there are “Chuck” point of sale displays in most Subway restaurants.  SaveChuck went to Subway and ingeniously lobbied the show’s main sponsor.  We all know product placement in television and movies is as old as the medium itself.  Every baby boomer male knows James Bond drank a martini shaken, not stirred with Seagram’s Gin, wore an Omega Seamaster, shot a Walther PPK, drove an Aston Martin DB5 and smoked Marlboros.

What SaveChuck did through an online forum and account, using everything from MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter, appealed to fans of the show to save “Chuck” in a way that could not be overlooked,

Anyone familiar with Subway knows its close ties to the American Heart Association (AHA).  What SaveChuck did was raise money for the AHA in a very unique way.  Fans of the show were asked to donate to the AHA, but instead of using their real names, they were asked to put the name “Chuck Bartowski” down as the donor.  Within two weeks close to $17,000 was raised for the AHA in the name “Chuck Bartowski”.  The AHA related this information to Subway who in turn went to the network.  Thus “Chuck vs. The Network” saved the series as it will live for at least another season.

The consequences of the campaign aren’t clear yet.  There is no word on whether a Subway will become Sarah’s new employer, replacing the yogurt shop, or what Subway’s exact role will be.  But fans can rejoice as they will get a chance to see what happens to Chuck and Sarah, Casey, Morgan, Anna, Jeff Lester, and Big Mike.

 - Wm. Alexander

The day the music died may take on a new meaning in the next couple of months to those in Chattanooga if nothing is said.

In the past month the Clear Channel radio group in Chattanooga let go their long time general manager in a upper level management shake up, and WDOD 965 The Mountain dropped their rock format for a Top 40 play list. Now word leaks out that those lyrics Don McLean sang in “American Pie” may come true for Chattanooga State Technical Community College’s own radio station 91.5 FM WAWL if there is a shred of truth to persistent rumors on campus.

The WAWL (or the Wall as everyone commonly calls it) began broadcasting in 1981 as WCSO playing what could be best described as “beautiful music”, similar to what is played on Ruby AM 1310 today.  In the spring of 1987 the late Bob Riley who literally built the station from the ground up changed the music format and call letters to WAWL.  Since that time the station has played a wide variety of popular modern rock and just about every other genre of music and minus two faculty members, is student staffed.

In that aspect WAWL is the only true college radio station within a 100 miles of Chattanooga. Every day, especially when school is in session, students enrolled at the school are on the air under the tutelage of Don Hixson, who is technically the music and program director (although not his official title or is he paid as one).  The University of Tennessee at Chattanooga has a radio station (WUTC 88.5 FM), but you will be hard pressed to find a student working there.  In fact, students at UTC interested in radio broadcasted are instructed to enroll in the radio class at Chattanooga State. The closest college radio station with student participation is in Murfreesboro at MTSU.

While college rock or “alternative” rock to some has bad connotations to some, the station has been used as a training ground for a number of people who have gone on to have successful careers in broadcasting.  Just a partial list of radio professionals who got their start at Chattanooga State’s radio station include Chris Goforth who is in charge of ESPN Radio 1370 AM, Big Al McClure at US 101, Bryan Stone, Bobby Byrd, former Citadel president Danny Brown, Dean Tobler, Kelly McCoy, Susie Luther, and Randy Black – just to name a very few who came out of the program.

What started out as a diminutive 200-watt radio station many years ago is now an 11,000-watt power, but it finds itself in jeopardy of extinction.

About a month ago rumblings around campus were heard to the effect that the radio station, or its 91.5 frequency was sold to either a church or a church group by the school’s president Dr. James Catanzaro.  Rumor has it $1.2 million was being paid for the student-manned station.  Ask anyone in campus administration and they will put their head down and say it’s a done deal.  Others say they have been warned not to speak of the sale for fear of losing their job.  The same rumors circulated last year until a consultant told the school the station was its best marketing tool.  For some reason those in charge at the campus think otherwise.

Taking the frequency off the air for one is taking away from the students a hands-on learning lab.  The school as a whole loses technically free advertising for the campus, special programs and classes, and other departments such as sports loses as well.  On average the school runs four spots an hour on the station or 96 spots daily.  According to an advertising rep for Clear Channel radio in Chattanooga 100 spots on their smallest frequency came to about $20 for a 30-second spot.  That would come to $1,920 a day for the school if they advertised elsewhere other than for free on their own frequency.  That comes to approximately $57,600 a month and $691,200 annually.  That rumored $1.2 million dollar sale would not cover radio advertising for two years elsewhere – at least not at the frequency in which they were being run on WAWL.

If the school wanted to get the word out they can do so more readily with the 11,000-watt FM that reaches out 595 square miles past Dalton, Georgia to the foot of Monteagle Mountain to Athens, TN.  What better way than a radio station you already own outright and don’t have to pay for air time on cable and satellite TV.  And with that effective wattage the school has as much power as approximately half the commercial stations in and around the greater Chattanooga area.

Many may complain about some of the music played on the WAWL, because they maybe never heard of some of the artists.  However, if you pull the logs of what has been programmed at WAWL by both Riley and Hixson for 21 years now you would find such mainstream and adult contemporary artists such as the Cranberries, Sarah McLachlin, Alison Kraus, Jack Johnson, R.E.M., Jewel, Collective Soul, Dave Matthews Band, Fiona Apple, Alanis Morissette, Avril Lavigne, all got a start at stations like WAWL.  The modern rock format is one of the strongest formats.  Until the early 90s it was college only, then radio stations like the world famous KROQ in Los Angeles adopted this format making what was then labeled college rock at the time to what it is referred to now as modern rock.

Now you would think that a school like Chattanooga State would be drooling over the possibilities with a station like this for not only recruitment purposes, but with an array of underwriting opportunities adding more revenue to the school’s general budget.  That hasn’t been the case, however.  The station has been referred to for many years as a sleeping giant that the school and its administration have not put to any use.  In fact, departments within the college seem to play “hot potato” with the radio station as supervision of the station has bounced between every department from media services to marketing and just about everyone in between.  Instead of it being a promotional tool  for the school those in administration treated as if a burden.  In 1992 a stray bullet from a hunter knocked station’s transmitter out.  It took the better part of a year for the station to be put back on the air.  As recently as last year the transmitter finally had to be replaced.  It took about three months to get back on the air.  Once back on the air it was only at about 300 watts.  It wasn’t until the end of 2007 that it was back to full strength.

You would think with something like this at your disposal Dr. Catanzaro and the rest of the  college’s administration would be all about the radio station.  That is apparently not the case. A month ago word around campus spread that the college president sold the frequency for the amount mentioned earlier.  No one really knew details about the sale, or if they did they weren’t saying. At a Student Government Association meeting on campus last week Catanzaro was asked pointblank by one of the students if the station had indeed been sold.  He refused to answer the student and would not allow any further discussion about the radio station. 

Taking matters into my own hands and talking with others familiar with the school situation, I was advised that the Tennessee Board of Regents had to approve the sale of the station.  Had they?  I wondered.  They are visiting the Chattanooga State campus next Thursday and Friday, March 27 and 28.  So I made a phone call to the TBR to find out.  I spoke with Mary Morgan who handles media relations for the board.  She said she would check into it for me.  After a few hours she called back and said no one there knew of the station being sold.  She did say she heard something about the radio station but she didn’t know for sure what.  She instructed me to call Dr. Catanzaro and ask him myself at (423) 697-4455.

After speaking with a few radio executives in town I called the Federal Communications Commission (FCC).  In order to sell a frequency the sale has to be approved by the FCC.  According to the FCC no paperwork has been filed pertaining to the status of the 91.5 frequency.  One loophole is if the school or Dr. Catanzaro signed what is called an LMA with the unnamed church organization.  LMA is a Local Marketing Agreement.  In this scenario the school retains ownership of the frequency while leasing out the day-to-day operation and management of the station.  It is unclear, however if an LMA can take place without FCC approval.  So what’s going on here?

This isn’t the first time the Tennessee Board of Regents were in the dark about what was going on at Chattanooga State.  Remember the failed “On the Move” city magazine that was supposed to be a student run publication?  After much criticism over the need for such a magazine by other magazines in the market and state senator David Fowler, it was discovered that there were no students working on the school’s magazine. 

But that isn’t the only case of there being a less than welcome attitude towards the students on school projects.  The television show “Fast Forward” which is hosted by Catanzaro and airs on public access cable channel 3, and on WDEF TV-12 does not use any students in the production of the show.  It is a general belief by many that students are not welcome to work on the show.

A couple of years ago when the Chattanooga Lookouts played an exhibition game against Chattanooga State’s baseball team, students were told by one of the members of media services (who work on “Fast Forward”) as well that the students in the media technologies classes would not be allowed to use the school’s mobile TV truck to broadcast and film the game to be aired on the public access station.  A member of media services told them they didn’t want the kids to “mess it up”. Comcast also gives Chattanooga State 18 hours a month on the public access station.  The only show produced and aired by the school is “Fast Forward” hosted by the school’s president.  Just out of curiosity, why aren’t students allowed to learn to use the equipment they are supposed to be trained to use? Further speculation of the rumored sale of the radio frequency is to help finance the former WTCI building that is to be used to house “Fast Forward”.

It was less than two years since that the college made a half-hearted attempt to garner underwriting for the station.  The station, being left of 92 on the FM dial is a public and or government frequency.  They are not allowed to sell traditional commercial advertising, much like PBS and WTCI Channel 45.  But they can get sponsorship and what is called underwriting.  The first people in charge of that seemed to be forced to do so and did not put much effort into it.  The current underwriting coordinator was given a 16 page list of businesses not to call for underwriting.  The reason being they were already donating to the school.  After talking to a few names on this list, a number of these companies said they were no longer donating to the school for reasons they received no business in return from the school or for that matter an acknowledgement.  In my opinion if the school were to give some of these companies underwriting spots on the station this might appease the donors and also sweeten the pot for other potential donors to the school.  But once again, that is only my humble opinion.

My questions are simple? Why are you taking away a piece of the school’s curriculum?  What justifies it?  Why doesn’t the school use the station and its large frequency to market itself better and put a more concerted effort into using it as a revenue producer instead of treating it like a redheaded stepchild?  I just wonder if the administration can look the students, the parents of the students and give an honest straight answer.  You can let your concerns be known as well.  The TBR will be coming to campus next Thursday.  Be there when they arrive.  Call the TBR.  Their number is (615) 366-4400.  The number for the FCC (www.fcc.gov) is (888) 255-5322.  And Dr. Catanzaro’s office number at the college – which is of public record, is (423) 697-4455.  If everyone is silent about the matter, soon will be the radio station.

 - D.A. Weinthal