Into the Wild

Grizzlies at the Memphis Zoo

Saw these dudes the other day. Easy zoo living is making them soft!

Kick A

My ol Los Angeles chum, Heidi sent me a postcard from Thailand!  I feel that the photo represents the kickassness of a good adventure.

Speaking of adventures – as of 4:45pm today I am officially on vacation (from the land of florescent lights, not so much from this blog). Destination : the grand strand, the low country, and the Atlanta Cyclorama.

To Dig Yourself

In Arkansas, I learned that nothing sticks to diamonds. Nothing. Not dirt or water or mud or feathers or nickelodeon slime. Diamonds have no static electric charge. So when you see one in the dirt, you’ll see one. YaknowwhatImean?

To find a diamond you have to be dedicated. I read on a tourist website that the average visitor to Crater of Diamonds State Park  only looks for about twenty minutes before giving up.  We made a pact that we wouldn’t give up for twenty hours! Twenty weeks!!

 

We’d been watching a few episodes of “Gold Rush Alaska” the night before and were pretty sure these guys were working on finding their glory hole. Our technique was as ambitious but not as showy. 

Aside from the people that brought diamond sniffing beagles, everyone else was all willy-nilly – grabbing at dirt and dumping buckets of water everywhere.  I heard more than a few people say “I’d probably find something if I knew what I was looking fer!” (to which I would silently say, did you not read the sign?! We are looking for diamonds sir!) I also heard more than a few mothers yell at their kids while dragging them over the 30 acre field of turned-over earth; “I told y’all to NOT get dirty!” (to which I would silently say, this is the metaphor for how things are gonna be with her the rest of your life, kiddos)

The upside of everyone else giving up is that there is some kind of mine etiquette that says the people walking out have to stop and see how you are doing and wish you well. It’s pretty cute when some six year-old girls carrying pink buckets tell you, “Good luck!!”

We called it a day after several hours of meditative sifting. No diamonds, but I burnt the three-inch section of the tops of ankles because I had my pants rolled up just so. I vowed to purchase a healing quartz crystal at another local mine as soon as possible.

No drowning our sorrows in beer though, Murfreesboro is a dry, dry county. Our consolation prize:

 

Now a mainstream phrase, the term Tiger Blood has been around the snow ball world forever.

Turns out these really were New Orleans Style Snow Balls – the lady told us that she and her husband had moved up from Louisiana after all the hurricanes. It was just too much to always live in a state of impending evacuation. She said they had always come up there to vacation so why not? 

I kind of feel like a hurricane brought me to Arkansas too. A different kind of hurricane though - a kind of hurricane inside my soul that is feeling destructive for raw gemstones. We may have left the mine empty handed that day, but I’ve extended my search dedication time limit from twenty hours to twenty weeks to twenty years.

I will find you!!!

*the snow ball lady also has cute plants for sale.

Ol’ Five Foot and Other Headlines

I might have a travel story or two to tell if my arms ever unstiffen from the crispy sunburn I got while out digging for treasures in the middle of Arkansas. Check out these postcards I got at Coleman’s Crystal Mine.  We picked up some awesome rocky treasures in their shop to make up for the stuff we didn’t find on our own. They wrapped them in the local paper for safe traveling and when I was unpacking everything I couldn’t help but notice how interesting things are out near the Ouachita Forest:

(real headlines, as published)

• ACFG, Forest Service monitoring caves for deadly bat disease
• Greatest Shooter Contest in February
• Spike Girls Have First CFL (Cabin Fever Luncheon)
• Mature Bald Eagles still fascinate as they soar over Village
• What ever happened to solemnity?
• Paul and Eunice Luebke – work took them around the world     (profile piece about a sweet old couple)

Communing

I lived in a Motel 6 in a working class suburb of St. Louis, MO for a few months when I was just nineteen. That’s a fact stored deep in my bag of “check-out-this-sh*t”-facts that I carry in case someone in a group is getting more attention than me. It’s not like I am that annoying – I use the Motel 6 story way before, “I can tie a cherry stem in knot with my tongue…”

When I was living in the motel with my BF, I got one of my favorite jobs ever, working at a cosmetics counter in a mall. Loved the job, loved putting eye-shadow on older ladies – you would not believe how much the human eyelid varies from person to person – and I loved getting free make-up and selling really expensive face cream. However, I was pretty lonely and didn’t like going to mall bars with my department store coworkers and my BF was always busy working so I was on my own most of the time.

Like many others suffering from social issues who eventually turn to animals, I filled the hole in my existence by visiting a great dane puppy at the mall pet store every day I worked. He was kind of blue-ish grey with dark spots and from what I remember, very hyper.  I named him Sisco (pre-thong song) and I never knew if he found a good home because I quit to go to Mardi Gras with a friend. Those were the 90s, you could just quit jobs on Friday and get another one on Monday.

I thought those days were long gone, however, I find myself turning back to animals for guidance and companionship, but I’ve moved up from pet stores and on to the zoo. Behold my new part-time friends:

 

*The cheetah kind of reminds me of Sisco.

The zoo is walking distance from our place and ever since I got a membership I’ve been going so much I figure I should get a good khaki outfit and a walking stick and start giving animal talks. I might wait for my hair to go a little gray first (and for my mascara to fall off my eyelashes). For now, I am pretty sure I will start a separate blog called “Overheard Parental Disinformation at the Zoo” but it will have to be anonymous because I fear retaliation for outing grown people that don’t know the difference between a zebra and a goat, so you will have to forget you ever read about it here.

It Starts Early and Affects Us Forevah

They got rid of the last of the men on Friday. On Monday I will return to an all female office. I am thinking about bringing in some donuts. I can hear the I shouldn’ts and the I’m on the south beach’s now…

It is not good to generalize, but sometimes it is helpful.  I am debating on going on the business talk circuit to tell the world to fire any and all female executives. I saw that there is a big motivational conference coming to town and I’m thinking of hopping on the wagon. Like joining the circus. You won’t hear from me again unless you buy a ticket.

I will be the last person to come on stage because my message will be so powerful and controversial. The first thing I will say is “Have you done a thorough psychological analysis on the people managing your people?”  the crowd will go silent. I will ask “A REAL background check? Do you know if she has unresolved daddy issues? Was she teased in high school?” Everyone will shift in their seats. “When you hired that regional director, did you call her old employees to see if she was an a**hole?”  And when they all hang their heads I will scream “PEOPLE THIS ISN’T ABOT MOTIVATION – THIS IS ABOUT PREPARATION!” and I will have a huge power point slide projected behind me that says “Success is 2% Motivation and 98% Preparation” and Curtis Mayfield will come out at this point.

“You are wasting your money at these things as long as you aren’t taking care of the real problem. You can’t expect people to be motivated when they have an unproductive fire-breathing b*tch busy with personal vendettas up in their business!”  Cue the horns.

Then we will have a little horn and funk dance participation thing (because people remember things better when they get physical).

Then the horns will break down and I will tell everyone if they only remember one other thing, to remember my drama rule:

When a person declares they “don’t want any drama” it is clearly a no-mean-yes kind of situation.  This is always true. Without exception. The music will repeat this: always true, without exception…no-mean-yes-sit-ua-tioooon… “And it is always true” I will say. “It may only indicate that the person may genuinely not know that they are the cause of everyone’s grief…but we know they are addicted to drama…”  At this point some people will be getting some sideways glances and I will know my job is done. I will say “Curtis!! Take em’ out” and he will play an instrumental medley of Pusherman and People get Ready.

Backstage on the circuit Rudy Giuliani and Lou Holtz will be discussing how to get rid of Laura Bush and make room for me, because we all know there’s only room for one women in charge! Act accordingly!!

PS – I am a good third-wave feminist but it is a known fact that none of that applies when you are slugging along in the bowels of capitalism with women suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

Lunchtime Shopping at Shelby's

SKL

Connected by MOTOBLUR™ on T-Mobile

Skim For Highlights

Like Ignatious J. Reilly and Greenburg (no need to see the movie – I’m referring the only interesting characteristic of the whole film), I have a compulsion to write letters (emails too) of complaint to businesses (and sometimes people) that deserve a good talking-to. I’m not all piss and vinegar though, I will also write letters commending excellent service like the email I sent to McDonalds for a certain employee’s outstanding attitude and impressive ability to remember my own personal sugar-to-cream ratio preferences for my iced coffee.

I have many, many things to complain about lately – including, but not limited to: the Emperor’s-New-Clothes-Style-Celebration of the movie “The Social Network” and the horrific labor politics being hashed out in Wisconsin. However, when one is powerless one must focus on small changes, so the issue I am focusing on this month is starting a campaign to force Amazon to create a mandated rating system for their Used Marketplace. In the new system it would be grounds for account termination if a seller listed a book that actually has writing on the pages, in any condition other than “acceptable” or below.

Aren’t you tired of buying used books on Amazon that have been marked “Good” or “Like New” and then when you get them there is yellow or pink highlighting all over the place – or worse - ink-pen underlining and sloppy freshman-lit notes like “sense of place” and “METAPHOR” written near, or sometimes even OVER the actual words on the page?  It reminds me of being at the movies with a row of teenagers right up in my ear with their stupid comments and hormonally quavering giggles. God. Shut up. I can’t hear the elderly couple repeating everything to each other over here.

Unless signed by the author, no book that has been marked up by the hands of another should be rated in “good” condition. It is an outrage. Who underlines or highlights in a perfectly good book anyway? I cringe when people fold back the front cover of a paperback or put their drinks on top of a book just because it happens to be resting flat on a table. Coaster? NO. Notepad for your bullsh*t thoughts about the text? Definitely NOT.

The only time I ever marked up a book was when I was forced to by an English prof who told me marking the life out of the page was the proper way to read – “highlight or underline the key phrases as you go” – I was like, “for what?” Still, he stood right over me and made me highlight a sentence and then make a note in the margins. I wrote, the words “key phrases” and then he finally left me alone. If I was forced to highlight again, I would highlight every sentence I read as I went along and just use the place where the highlighting ends as my bookmark. That makes about as much sense as highlighting in the first place.

I make all of my notes for reading off-line, on colorful post-it notes or a notepad that I have nearby. Am I alone in this? What do y’all do? I mean, tell me about a time when defacing a book in the name of “engaged reading” ie: highlighting and underlining, has ever helped you. Do you go back, open up a book and say “I know I highlighted something verrrrrry important somewhere here….” or do you ever go back at all?

 

FYI: Amazon’s artificial intelligence customer service got back to me and made no acknowledgement of the Used-Buyer Manifesto I sent them (too powerful?). They just said to report unethical sellers to their investigation team. They want me to turn nark.

I’ll Weigh In Later

Duck Billed Platitudes.

My bohemian friend Bethany keeps a blog of quotes and since she is a bohemian I feel that it is my duty to always be on the lookout for good quotes from the grind side (aka: the nine-to-five side).  The best place to harvest inspirational quotes has to be, hands-down, the work conference. When team building is the goal, you can count on some pep talks, power points, and tree metaphors - and always a motivational presentation.

The conference I attended last week was non-profit so the motivational speaker demonstrated a kind of inspiration-economics that a lower budget would demand. She could not risk NOT inspiring us. We did not have a lot of time. 

She came in, lit some candles while reading a poem about hope with the help of some lackluster audience participation and then she proceeded to recite all the hits of every heartwarming email forward about human kindness she had ever received. There was a story about being a carrot or an egg or coffee, and one about being a voice not an echo and another about tugging a dead elephant and another about a growing tree and still more about kindness of strangers and the serendipitiousness of serendipity and the thrill of giving and the wonder of cats. At one point she was throwing out so many inspirational quotes – I thought I heard one Bethany would dig and wanted to write it down, but they were coming at us so fast I couldn’t remember if we should be like the eggs or the coffee. I looked over at the woman next to me and saw that she had made a note to herself that said:

“You were born an original. Don’t die a copy. ~ Ghandi”

I became very concerned that the woman might repeat this error somewhere important, like in her email signature or an office newsletter. However, even after all the inspirational bullets being shot at me for the previous hour, I did not have the nerve, the confidence, the ethics, or the kindness to mention anything to her - even when she offered me a piece of gum later.  What is the big deal anyway? Everybody loves Ghandi. He probably said something close when he was going through his individualistic phase.

The moral of the story? It doesn’t really matter what your hear, only what you write.

Books as Decor, Books as Centerpieces, Books as Placeholders, Bookstacks as Art, Books as Snacks

They don’t let you take pictures inside the Eudora Welty House so I bought a postcard of one of the rooms. The house is lovely and you should move in immediately. I couldn’t get over the stacks and stacks of books (the tour guide said 9,000 books were found in her house) and what I really couldn’t get over was how it didn’t look that “Hoarder”-ish. I don’t know if it was the light from the generous windows or the lack of other knicknacks, but in there it made sense to stack books on the sofa, the dining room table, the countertops, and the bed, and wherever. They say this is how she lived. They also said she had a ton of friends and wrote a bizzzllion letters.

 

They give you a driving tour map if you are a good house tour participant – I took the road to see where she was born (and where, supposedly, Richard Ford grew up) there is a huge bronze statue of her in a courtyard near a bookstore and coffee shop. I stopped in to get a peek and felt obliged to order a coffee, the guy in the shop was kind enough to give me a short tour of the area, but when I asked him about her burial site he said he had never been there. I was a bit confused because it was right across the street – you could see Greenwood Cemetery from the quaint bookstore balcony, I know this for a fact because I had just spilled some coffee up there.

“Well I don’t go there. There’s packs of wild dogs and bums.”

“Packs of wild dogs?”

“Yeah – they are always running around.”

Yikes.

By the time I left the coffee shop I was so close to being dissuaded from my gravesite visit because I am deathly afraid of wild dogs and packs of them are just far too wild and people don’t visit cemeteries enough and if I was maimed my body parts would not be found for weeks if ever, and because my boyfriend has already made me feel like a creep for wanting to visit the gravesites of other dead people (I suppose they would have to be dead), but my curiosity got the best of me and the proximity of the cemetery was encouraging me… so I turned in.

  

I didn’t see any wild dogs and the only bum around was me and I suppose you could count some Europeans (who find it quite chic to tour in cemeteries by the way) wearing backpacks who were visiting another big grave.  I didn’t think anything of it until I was wandering into the place – realized I was alone, it was windy, and I was standing on dead people, but I found her just in time. Buried across from a Magnolia and near a cedar. I bowed my head and whispered my short prayer I always offer to dead people I find interesting;“Way to go!” and I left.

Someone should really come and stack some books up on that plot.

The Romance of The ‘Ssippi

    

On the left is a movie prop painting of Ashley Judd painted by an artist from Canton, MS and used in the film “A Time To Kill”.

Key phrases and thoughts from this Mississippi trip thus far:  Lima beans in every dish, slinky flounce tops on home shopping network, networking in a conference room next to a giant bowl of mayonnaise, one-on-one historical & film tours with Jana, hotel billing f-ups, and O brother where art thou.

I asked the hotel clerk/concierge if there was a grocery store nearby and he said “oh yes – there is a Kroger right there” and he pointed to the corner of the lobby. I assumed he meant it was out-of-doors across the parking lot.

“Great,” I said, “Do they sell wine? I need to get a bottle for an important business gift [to myself]”

“Oh no, but they sell beer. You can get beer there.”

“I’d like to purchase some wine.”

“There’s no place around here that sells wine. No.”

“No place – ANYWHERE?”

“No, but the restaurants serve liquor.”

“Well great then,  I will have them put liquor in this large plastic McDonalds cup sitting on top of the tall ashtray near the door here and I’ll tell myself it’s wine. What a great hospitable solution you have offered. How does it feel to excel at your job to such a degree that it is confusing me?”

“This actually used to be a dry county.”

“Wha?” Technically, the whole country used to be dry for a good while back in the day – I’ve seen Boardwalk Empire…I don’t see what that has to do with anything, “So there is NO PLACE to go – even if I get in my car, head out on the road and drive back toward Memphis – I won’t see a single place that sells wine?”

“Oh well down the street a few miles…you can buy wine.”

“Is this your first time to Logan’s Road House?”

“Yes.”

“Well you can just throw the peanut shells on the floor.”

I shoulda brought some mayonnaise. Here …can you fill this giant plastic cup up….

Melting to Preemie Spring

Impatience is King

No matter how hard I stared at the radar screen, the snow would not scooch over to our office! Note: The pencil is pointing out where our office is located – the very tiny white area where sad workers in nearly-abandoned office parks were still inside working.

I say “were working” because I eventually got my wish and we all went home around noon in the name of snow safety. We are now all tucked safely in our homes eating milk sandwiches.

I strongly believe if were not for my impatience it would have taken the snow an additional fifteen minutes to get to us.

However, only my impatience has power, everybody else's impatience is just an annoying exhibition of selfishness and intolerance.

Sometimes when I get out of my class, depending on how many things have to get re-checked and locked down and radio-ed in,  the chapel volunteers will walk out with me. Most nights these are just gentle old southern folk wearing sweaters-over-button-ups looking to share their kindness and love of the gospel to convicts, last night there were two new ones and it really seemed as if they considered themselves some kind of privileged clients of the federal spa and retreat with the way they were carrying on and sighing and saying “i wish theyall would hurry up already” and “they need to get to this gate up in here” under their not-so-quiet breaths.

It takes forever (in regular outside-time time) to get out of the compound. There are practical security issues, not to mention a decent fifty-yard walk, and even more important- there is no real incentive to rush you out of there, so sometimes the dudes in the control room will wait until they are done eating their sandwiches or maybe finishing a chapter of Infinite Jest or quilting that last square for the company craft show or who knows what in thesamhell , to open the gate.

Whatever the case was last night, I was extremely uncomfortable to be around some bible volunteers that were verbally impatient. I had never once thought to complain to the dudes controlling the big gates, keys, cuffs, and electric fences and I was quite sure the guards were fixing to retaliate in some kind of secret way that only people who work in dark, locked, unceasingly surveyed rooms know about. So I did my best to distance myself from them by acting like I wasn’t even interested in whether or not the gate ever opened. The full act included acting surprised when it was my turn to walk in. I think it worked, although I didn’t get any nice small talk from the chapel volunteers on the way out to the parking lot like I usually do, but I can’t help it - there are rules ‘round here.

It is best to keep your impatience to yourself and (if not) to use it only for good.

Life is a test.....

...to see if you recognize Warren G.

I didn't but B did. That is why I have him around.

We went to the Grizz Lakers game last night (and sat in some ridixulous front row seats a-hem) and that was a great way to start the week off. I wonder what I'll do next Monday to top it.

I've got class tonight but I will post an update like you won't even believe (or maybe won't even see) later.


SKL

Connected by MOTOBLUR™ on T-Mobile

Spiritual Warfare

Sometimes if you mistype the web address to this blog you get this site.

The past couple days have been rough for me, so I am extremely vulnerable to cult recruitment and religious conversions and binge drinking and posting irrational and insulting anonymous reader comments on human interest stories and Urban Outfitter clothing reviews. It is fitting that I should fall upon that bible studies site today because it has a link near the top that says “Life is a test to see if you believe & obey the gospel.” So simple! I am totally going to cram for that one later.

What helped me is when you click on that link it brings you to another page that says “Spiritual Warfare” which is totally up my alley. “Warfare” sounds urgent and active. Belief is only going to get you out of bed, but warfare will fill your days.

Since you stumbled on my spiritual warfare site, I will do you the favor of giving you the secrets to the meaning of life (based on my experiences):

• Life is a test to see if you can not kill someone.
• Life is a test to see if you can keep everything you ever bought.
• Life is a test to see if you can drive in the snow.
• Life is a test to see if you believe in leprechauns.
• Life is a test to see if the Lions will ever win the Superbowl.
• Life is a test to see how many doctors you will visit to cure your migraines.
• Life is a test to see how many people believe what you say.
• Life is a test to see how many times a day you can say “like”.
• Life is a test to see what you will become addicted to.
• Life is a test to see how many social constructions you will not be constructed by.
• Life is a test to see if you are actually allergic to cats.
• Life is a test to see if you can take a picture of everything you see.
• Life is a test to see if you fell for it.

The best way to absorb this heavy information is to meditate on one a day. Maybe even one a week. Pick one truth from above and hold it in your head as the answer to all things, and I mean ALL things, for the next week and see what kind of opportunities open up for you, see what questions of yours are answered.

I hope this clears things up. I do not require obeisance as proof of belief - even in the case of a leprechaun sighting.

Peaceful Kingdom

  

We went to the Zoo yesterday. I call the top two photos, presented as a pair, “Let Sleeping Kitties (even panthers & pumas) Lie” and the bottom one, “Harmony in Horns & Stripes”.

Happy Monday. Get back to work.

This Is Where I’ve Been

It’s been too cold and gray around here to get anything of merit done. This place is the backdrop of a painting of London, the inside of a burnt popcorn pan, the edges of a street-corner puddle after a rain-out parade. It’s dark and moist in a very un-chocolate-cake way. I don’t like how it takes my mind to dark places.

Like for example, I’ve been obsessing about how I always seem to have mascara running down my face. I do wear mascara so it’s not a complete mystery, but I don’t understand why even though I have applied it on the top lashes only (as advised by several beauty editors), by lunchtime I look like I have been hitting the crack pipe – like I just got off the cheap bus from Dark Circle City. 

Remnants of black mascara are there even there after I try to wash it off. I’ll wash my face at night and in the morning – raccoon eyes. STILL. I’ve tried everything, soaps, abrasives, oils, gels, creams, lighter fluid – you name it – it doesn’t matter I ALWAYS have at least a trace of mascara on my lashes that will eventually shape-shift into to dark saucers round my eyes.

This leads me to believe that I may be applying new mascara on over mascara that could be days or, now that I think about it, even decades old. My mascara situation is a lot like the grease at Dyers Burgers. They never change the grease, they just keep adding new grease into the vat of the old and it has been this way for a hundred years now.  I’m talking about a bucket full of grease that has been around as long as Henry Ford’s assembly line. Some of the mascara on my lashes could possibly pre-date the curved applicator brush.

When I die and they do a forensic analysis of my eyelashes (if there are any left assuming they haven’t fallen off from mascara abuse or death by fire or molten lava or some terrible torture situation where my eyelashes have been individually plucked out) they will uncover rings, like those on a tree, that will tell the story of my life and my despair. My story. A story that starts with a ninety-nine cent tube of Wet n’ Wild bought with lunch money at the Fowlerville Dime Store and ends with….. well who knows what mascara technology they will have by then. Whatever it is, I am not confident I will be able to get it off my face. Maybe formaldehyde will be the thing that finally works.

Until then – it hurts my feelings when you tell me I look tired.

Sorry to get so personal and talk of self-care and hygiene even though that shouldn’t have grossed you out too much unless you believe mascara is made of bat crap.

Milk Sandwiches

It’s another snow day here in Memphis. Things froze up overnight and everything that wasn’t already shut down from the weather yesterday (and oooh lordy they will shut down a shopping mall round here) was by the time I woke up. Of course it is all nearly melted now but there’s no need to get back to work – snow flurries are expected tonight.

When it snows here, when it snows AT ALL, in fact when there is even a forecast of snow coming within 36 hours, there is a run on the grocery stores like quadruple coupon day – we are talking panic of 2012 end-of-days proportions. All the Schnucks and Krogers and Walgreens and whatevers run out of milk and bread within hours. Like the only thing left is maaaaybe raisin bread and buttermilk.  From what I gather (from word on the streets and reader comments on select articles over at the Commercial Appeal) – in Memphis, during any kind of inclement weather, people hole up in their houses and make milk sandwiches to stay alive. 

We tried this but it is SO soggy. I should have stuck some milk-soaked bread outside overnight to make milk-popsicle-sandwiches. Maybe I could have strung them up on a clothesline so I could have easily pulled them in the window without having to risk going out of doors.

Really you can’t make milk sandwiches, we all know that, silly.  That’s why its just another great southern metaphor for trying to control an uncontrollable force like the weather (only the CIA can control the weather). What do you end up with? Soggy bread.

Civil War Trail

We went out to Shiloh yesterday – National Parks were free all weekend in honor of MLK Jr. We didn’t know that before we got there and would have paid anyway –not just because we each had three dollars but because the price of admission would have been worth it for the 1964 movie filmed with barely enough men to hold a proper football game, let alone stage a reenactment. That is what I like about Civil War tourism though – it’s rooted in our imagination and not just in reproductions and silly details like facial hair and canteen shape.

There were a couple troops of Eagle Scouts or something out with compasses and backpacks walking the battlefield.  The slackers trailing behind would put up their thumbs when we drove by. I do love that joke.

After our auto tour we went to the Catfish Hotel (one of the oldest family restaurants in the whole US!) and ate some catfish. You can order the catfish plate or all-you-can-eat catfish. The all-you-can-eat catfish comes with bones and tails and I was quite sure I couldn’t eat any of that so I picked the plate but there was a big ol’ fella at the table next to us that was chowing through plates and plates of whole catfish – just like in a Looney Toons special – as many as the waitress could bring him –plates stacked high with deep-fried fishes. He’d take the whole fried catfish in his mouth and pull out just the bones with the tail and plop the fishbones in a big pile and his whole family would clap.

I ate my fair share of hushpuppies and we made it home in time to watch some of the Golden Globes, which seemed kind of silly after leaving such monumental entertainment. We all have to wind down somehow.