Unliterate

     I just noticed this.  The headline that graces the picture of the triumphant Jermain Taylor in today’s Sports page reads “Undisputable.”
     Is that even a word?  After Jermain won the fight, the ring announcer described him as “still the undisputed middleweight champion of the world.”  This would make his status as champ either indisputable or undisputed.
     “Undisputable” is not in my dictionary.
     
     That just kind of jumped out at me as I glanced at the paper a minute ago.

My Sunday Feeling

I really don’t have much to allow today. It was a fairly uneventful week-Thank God- and nothing much transpired of any great import. Most people with nothing to say will keep their mouth shut. I am not one of those people.

Jermain Taylor Retains His Belt- Local product Jermain Taylor remains the undisputed middleweight champion of the world after outpointing Bernard Hopkins in a unanimous decision in Las Vegas last night. I did not see the fight-I can’t stay up that late anymore-but from the accounts in the paper and on espn.com, it was pretty much a repeat of last year’s bout with Taylor being the aggressor early on and with Hopkins finishing strong. From what I can deduce, Taylor did a better job of keeping busy in the final rounds in this fight than he did in the last. He also did a better job of not getting gashed up unlike the last fight. I guess it is easier to keep your legs under you when you are not bleeding from an open head wound.

While I am happy for the kid, I am even happier that we will be spared any further overwrought writing about the differences between the two fighters from Taylor’s unofficial publicist; Wally “Homer” Hall who I guess needed to fill the void in his life after Smarty Jones was put out to pasture. To hear Wally tell it, Bernard Hopkins is Satan incarnate. Indeed, the headline for Wally’s column today reads, “In good vs. bad rematch, Taylor just too good.”

Good vs. bad? Who wrote the hell wrote that?

Yes, Bernard Hopkins is an ex-con, a fact that was repeated without surcease by Wally all week. And yes, he is a menacing guy with a big mouth who said some incredibly stupid things in the weeks preceding last night’s fight.

But we have to bear something in mind here, folks. This is boxing. College and AAU basketball may be a cesspool but the integrity of the games themselves-a few infamous historic episodes notwithstanding- is not questioned. Fights are fixed all of the time in boxing. Boxing makes thoroughbred racing look straight-up. That is because boxing is full of hoods, con artists and assorted mob types. Twas ever thus. Just look at the audience ringside at most heavyweight bouts. It usually resembles an open casting call for “Boys in the Hood” meet “The Sopranos.”

Bernard Hopkins has been a model citizen since his release. He speaks openly and truthfully about his past. And despite his considerable reputation as a tightwad, itself unusual for your average profligate boxer, he gives generously to charities, many of them involving prison ministries and the like.

By the standards of the fight game, admittedly low as they are, Bernard Hopkins ain’t that bad. As mentioned above, he said some stupid things before the fight. But Bernard Hopkins is Noel Coward next to Mike Tyson and Floyd Mayweather Jr. And let’s not forget, he was the soul of sportsmanship and respect after the first fight until he perceived that he had gotten jobbed by the refs. Besides, I ask you: Who is a bigger jerk? Bernard Hopkins or Terrell Owens? TO by a knockout.

So, no. This was hardly a fight between “good vs. evil.” Or “good vs. bad” even. It was a match up between an aging veteran desperate to regain his belt and a nice local kid who has made good. Quite frankly, my hat’s off to both of them.

2) Football- Last weekend was a big one for college football. Texas annihilated Colorado while Southern Cal clobbered a very good UCLA thereby paving the way for the two undefeated teams to meet for the National Championship. Most people were hoping that the Men in Pastel from cross-town would give the Trojans a game but they meekly succumbed to the tune of 66-19.

Closer to home, LSU got whacked by Georgia in the SEC title game 34-14. Here’s how complete was the shellacking administered by the Bulldogs. I was able to persuade J, who is Bulldogus Fanus Maximus, to leave with me to go get something to eat before the game was over. This is basically unheard of in my brief experience with her.

If you want some cheap entertainment, get on any of the LSU bulletin boards after reading this. You think Razorback fans are crazy? Lack a sense of proportion? Basically have no life? A cursory look at the LSU boards will cause you to realize that the average LSU fan is a shrieking psychopath in comparison to his Hoghatted counterpart.

Oh, there is no joy in Tigertown. Which is pretty much ok by me.

And that’s about all I have to allow on this cold Sunday morning. As Tony Kornheiser says at the close of every “PTI”, we’ll try to do better next time.

My Sunday Feeling

There are a few items of special interest in today's Arkansas Democrat-Gazette that bear mentioning. Now, I realize that discussing the local media is not exactly my forte. There are others that are better at it, like my young friend Joy, whose poison penned observations can be found here: http://arkansasmedia.blogspot.com. Now here's the first caveat of today's post: I love this kid. Granted, she's a little over-the-top on occasion. Which is why I found it amazing that a relatively straight-up (for her I mean) piece she wrote recently for the Arkansas Times got her physically accosted at a cocktail party. I mean, this is a girl that weighs @ 110 lbs. soaking wet. That's my girl! I only wish I had been escorting her that night. I would have interceded on her behalf because I am a gentleman and because I am not afraid to fight a girl if I have to. Anyway, Joy is out traveling or something leaving a character assassination void to fill this morning, so let's get right to it before she gets back and finds out what I have been up to while her back was turned.

Phil Martin's piece is a thoughtful response to an anonymous critic who has criticized him for overwriting in his essays. As a matter of full disclosure, it is time now for a the second caveat of this post: Philip Dale Martin is one of my best friends. We hang together. We play golf. Check that. He plays golf. I hit balls into the woods, cuss and throw clubs. He is a patient man. Anyway, we eat guy food at The Town Pump. We do not discuss his writing. We do not discuss the practice of law. We are guys. So we don't really discuss much of anything. He is married to Karen Martin who loves me very much. This is a good thing because, unlike Joy's cocktail party assailant, Karen could pretty much kick my ass anytime she felt so led. And she knows it.

Anyway, Phil did not disagree too much with his critic. He defended himself by saying that he was completely fascinated by words and language. As he put it, " I am retarded in this way." I believe that he is being way too hard on himself.

Come with me to today's sports page where Wally Hall, following his muse and erroneously believing it to be Grantland Rice, uncorked the following stemwinder in a piece about yesterday's UCA game up in Conway:

" They were Kodak scenes.

Everywhere you turned, it could have been the catalog cover for an Ivy League school.

UCA was pristine."

After disclosing that he was actually up there to watch a football game Wally returned to his nature walk, adding: " Even Mother Nature heeded the call and the trees held on to the plethora of colors that graced the campus and gave a shine against the gray skies."

Whew! Kodak scenes?!? Eastman-Kodak oughtta sue. As should Mother Nature for that matter.

Wally typically gets himself into this kind of trouble whenever he departs from the usual rumor mongering, ass kissing and making stuff up that is his oeuvre and actually tries to write. Phil's critic thinks he takes too long to get to the point with what are described as "throat clearing paragraphs?" If Phil's writing constitutes "throat clearing" Wally needs to borrow my asthma inhaler.

If we must offer a diagnosis here, I would say that Phil's fascination with words resembles autism if it resembles anything.

Wally is just retarded.

Returning to the editorial page, there is an interesting discussion about a couple of books written by two women who have written about the impact pornography is having on the sexual development and mores of both men and women. The books in question are " Pornified: How Pornography is Transforming Our Lives, Our Relationships and Our Families" by a woman with the unlikely name of Pamela Paul and "Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and The Rise of Raunch Culture" by Ariel Levy. The basic thesis of the books is that pornography is no longer erotica or the relative silliness of Playboy. As the article states pornography is "increasingly violent and non-consensual" and that it "generally portrays women as docile receptacles whose only purpose is to satisfy men." And that more and more men are watching it.

Hello? They are just now figuring this out?

Now, I am no prude. But, God help me, I do love women. And if you love women, you can't have any use for porn. But the article is useful in setting out the practical difficulties in regulating it. Sure, I think that most reasonable and thoughtful people (I do not include Donald Wildmon, Pat Robertson or Fayetteville gadfly Laurie Taylor in that number) could agree that extreme depictions of sado-masochism or depictions of sexual assault as an acceptable form of sexual gratification are unacceptable even in a free society. (Okay. That was a terrible sentence. You try to come up with a better way of putting that.) But beyond that particular subset, where do you draw the line? Is porn really anymore degrading to its subjects than slasher films? Or certain video games? Or Dr. Phil?

I don't know. But our young people, particularly our young men, need to know that porn is the cartoon version of the most wonderful, complicated and occasionally dangerous thing in the world. It is not real. Real people do not behave this way in real life.

But like the authors of the books and the author of the piece in the paper, I'll be damned if I know how to go about it. But if you are a man and if you love women, you can't have any use for porn. You just can't.

Finally, I have to say that I kind of agree with Professor Gitz's column today. Gitz is the frequent target of withering criticism over on the ARMedia website, so I'm sure Joy will reach for the smelling salts when she reads this. But he's right. Why we invaded Iraq is largely irrelevant. We're there. We're stuck and we need to have an exit strategy. I don't even disagree with his call for a "relatively stable multiparty democracy permitting our departure."

Which begs the question of how to go about it. I think it is clear to anyone that our attempt to prosecute the establishment of democracy in Iraq on the cheap is not working. As Gitz says, the only sure way to bring our soldiers back is victory. But it seems that victory cannot be achieved short of an even more robust influx of men and materiel. And if the Administration won't commit to it while leveling with the people that such a robust new strategy is needed, than I say bring 'em home yesterday. Otherwise, we are merely exposing a bunch of damn fine men and woman to harm's way while waiting for the eventual disaster that could well be post-occupation Iraq. It's not worth it.

But that's just one man's opinion. A man who is eternally grateful that two of his best friends got out of there alive.

Well, that's it for now. Oh. One last thing. I didn't read the Sweet Tea column in the Arkansas section. Sweet Tea should is not fit to be be drunk or read.

And one more last thing. Here's hoping that Joy over at ARMedia doesn't try to kick my ass me when she finds out I worked her side of the street this morning. After all, you gotta watch out for those little ones.

Errata

It has come to my attention that I somehow managed to turn off the "Comment" setting for the blog. I think that I have restored it. So, if anyone has any comments about the last 4 or 5 posts-I'm told it has probably been off that long- you may now fire away. Also, if you wish to e-mail a post to someone, you can use the link to the e-mail below as well.

Sorry for the inconvenience. Bear with me.

Thanks!

TMFW

Gather

Like zillions of other Americans good and true, I took to the road yesterday for Thanksgiving. We have been going to my cousin's house for the past 20 years or so. She and her husband built a nice place in Heber Springs, Arkansas out on some land that has been in the family since there pretty much has been a Cleburne County. She and David designed it themselves. It always amazes me when lay people design and build things. I have a brother in Missouri-also named David-who designed and built his house in Springfield. I could not design and build a cheese sandwich. I am awe of people that have this sort of talent.

To be quite honest-as I always am-I was not too keen on going this year. Typically, I like Thanksgiving although I have no particular use for Christmas. Never much have. Christmas is contrived and mercenary whereas Thanksgiving is pleasant and pretty low maintenance for a High Holy Day. But this year promised to be pretty different and not in a good way. None of my brothers would be there. Bob had to work at the nervous hospital. David had to tend to his father-in-law who has a terminal illness. John had to go to Jonesboro. Mother has not been able to travel in some time and Uncle Bill followed Aunt Jean into the Hereafter last August. So, all things considered, I was pretty much resolved to on sit this one out but I got talked into going by one of my sisters-in-laws who feared having nobody to talk to if I weren't there. Besides, I had purchased two dozen rolls at the high end bread store in the neighborhood. My cousin-who loves me very much-would have killed me had I not shown up with them. It is enough that the holidays are a pain in the ass. They are not worth dying over.

I got up there around 11:30 only to find out that lunch would not be ready until 1 or so. Rather, than hear Uncle Ralph tell the story about the time he saw a bush-hog sling a mower blade across a pasture for a second time, I opted to go visit the little cemetery in Pearson where many of my mother's people are buried and where I took the picture at the top of the page.

I first ran across Dr. Gorham's grave when I showing a friend where my grandparents were buried. To paraphrase Uncle Earl Long, when I die, if I die, I want Dr. Gorham's epitaph upon my own grave. "Friend of Sinners." I like that. I did not know Dr. Gorham. It is not inconceivable that we are distant relatives given the shallow gene pool that obtained in Cleburne County before the Army built the lake and all the Yankees started moving down from Chicago and Indianapolis. Which reminds me. I have a funny story-it was funny to me at the time at least-about Greers Ferry Lake and an ex-girlfriend who was overly proud of her physique. But this is a ostensibly a post about Thanksgiving so I will basically stick to the subject at hand.

Anyway, in my mind's eye, it amuses me to think of sitting down with Dr. Gorham and passing the time by committing various sins. Don't get me wrong. I'm not thinking of anything of a sexual nature with Dr. Gorham. I ain't that kind of a sinner. No. I'm thinking more along the lines of beer drinking, cussing, poker, that level of sinnin'. Alas, Dr. Gorham was probably a dour Baptist with an honorary doctorate from Southwestern Theological Seminary or some other depressing preacher mill. Whoever he is-or was- he has one hell of an epitaph inscribed upon his marker. You have to give him that.

While en route to Uncle Bill I passed the Hazlewoods. My Grandmother Bivens was a Hazlewood. There were Uncle Porter and his wife Cue. They lived down the street from us in Mabelvale. Nadine, their daughter who still lives down there, called Mother with the news that I had sold her house to black folks although that probably wasn't exactly the way she put it. Thanks a lot Nadine. Uncle Porter blew his head off with a shotgun while sitting in the garden back in 1987. Mother was upset that the coroner ruled his death a suicide. She told me that he had the shotgun with him because squirrels were getting his tomatoes. I guess they shot back.

Uncle Ira-pronounced "Arrie", naturally-is buried next to Aunt Mildred. And Aunt is properly pronounced "Ain't" by my mother's people. Lillian is buried not too far away. Anyway, Ira was kind of the town drunk as I am made to understand. He once got arrested for sneaking a bottle of whisky through the bars of the window of the county jail into the grateful hands of one of his drinking buddies. In what can only be described as something like unto a redneck bar mitzvah, Ira offered me a plug of his Day's Work chewing tobacco upon hearing from my grandfather that I had graduated from law school. Aunt Lillian was a mischievous woman. When I was little she delighted in trying to get me to confess that I thought that she was prettier than Grandmother. I must have squirmed something fierce during those interrogations as I didn't want to offend Mildred but I wasn't about to say anything bad about my grandmother.

My grandparents lie not too far from Ira. My grandmother was named Johnnie Esther. I am named after her husband. My grandmother was a kindly woman with a large body made strong from raising 5 kids and working in the fields. Her hands were as strong as any man's. She could play "Power in the Blood" on a little pump organ and she read her Bible on a daily basis. She had the distinction of being married to the meanest son of a bitch in Cleburne County.

Paul Bivens held himself out as a WPA tree farmer during the Depression. This was only his day job. His real avocation and highest use was that of making moonshine. The old whiskey still is probably back there in the woods somewhere yet today. Accordingly, he was the most important guy in the county during most elections as he was counted on by the powers that be to make sure that the guys who voted right got to wet their whistles. If the outcome of a particular election was in doubt even after the application of the white lightning, he would sometimes be asked to come into town with his shotgun and be a "poll watcher."

He quit making moonshine after several bad batches convinced him that he had lost his touch. The reality of the situation was that Grandmother, who by that point in time had evidently grown weary of his second career, kept sneaking back there to pour well water into the mash so that it wouldn't ferment. To his dying day he never knew why all of a sudden his whiskey wouldn't "make."

My final stop on this Thanksgiving was at the grave of Bill and Jean. They had been married for over 60 years. She was a Bittle. The graveyard is full of her people as well. They moved to California to find work after they were married. Like other Arkies and Okies, they went out west in search of work on farms where carrots grew as big as railroad ties and oranges were the size of chihuahuas. Like many of their fellow nomads they soon returned to Arkansas where Bill eventually found work in Benton with Alcoa and Jean worked at Gingles Department Store. Bill worked in the aluminum plant at night and built their house on Maple Street during the day.

My Aunt Jean was the proper sort of woman who kept "Leaves of Gold" on her coffee table in the living room. And she read it. And found it useful. Uncle Bill loved to hunt and fish. He enjoyed his garden. And he delighted in kidding me about a) being a lawyer and b) having an SUV with such amenities as leather seats and satellite radio. He refused to acknowledge that it was a real truck.

Bill had a massive stroke on New Year's Day of 2003. During a visit to the hospital one day Jean told me how much she despised my grandfather. Which was pretty much news to me. Jean up and died in her sleep in the summer of 2004. Bill was completely disconsolate until the day he died last August. I'm surprised he made it that long.

I have left people out. And I have done nobody any justice. I left out mother's Uncle Joe Boyd who talked like Carl in "Sling Blade." I didn't mention Aunt Opal who ran the diner in Quitman. I forgot to mention all of the tiny graves interspersed between them all marking the resting places of infants. Most of them are adorned with statues of tiny lambs and marked with the inscription "Safe with Jesus."

During our lifetime there are only so many people that will love us. I guess it is a sign of my station in life that the little cemetery in Pearson is full of people that once loved me and who are lost and gone forever.

I said goodbye to Bill and Jean. I dried my eyes and I left.

When I got back to the house, the food was laid out, the children were being called in from the yard and Ralph was still talking about his goddamn bush-hog. Grace was invoked. Food was eaten. Stories were told. News was caught up on. Afterwards, the men watched football. The ones that were still awake that is. The women cleaned up while I took pictures and stayed out of the way.

My cousin's boys along with their stepbrother went out back to shoot skeet. Nine year old nephew Henry wanted to learn how to sling the clay pigeon. So after a couple of practice tries with the slinger he pronounced himself ready to give it a try. Cousin Todd raised the shotgun. He shouted "pull." Henry swung the slinger for all he was worth.

And hit Cousin Todd square in the nuts.

Uncle Bill would have loved it. Once he made sure out that Todd was ok that is. Which he was after about an hour of being tended to by his two med student stepbrothers and his neurosurgeon father.

I left shortly after that. I figured that nothing else was likely to happen that would top Henry and the slinger. In fact, Slinger may become Henry's nickname after yesterday. And Todd will never shoot skeet without wearing a catcher's cup ever again. As I drove past the graveyard I honked the horn in my wussy SUV.

And I know somewhere, somehow my Uncle Bill heard me say goodbye.

And I know that he smiled.

A Fan's Notes

I went to a high school football game down at the stadium the other night. One of the high schools, the one that is sponsored by the Vatican here in the People's Republic of Hillcrest, was playing in the semi-finals of the state championships. I was not about to miss. The Headmaster over there is a buddy of mine. I know some of the kids on the team and their parents. Besides, the Catholic High Rockets contend for a football title about once an evolutionary cycle. I may be in the nursing home the next time they pull this off.

I got there about kickoff. I found a seat high up in the bleachers where I settled in with my mini-pizza and bottled water that I bought from the Boy Scouts down below, perfectly content to be all bundled up out in the cold night air watching kids play ball. I had just taken a bite of what passed for my
dinner when I heard a man call out my name followed by " Hey! Mind if I join you?" Before I had a chance to answer Bill and his youngest son scooted in beside me.

Now let me be quite honest. I do not like Bill. There are no two ways around it. He is the ex-husband of a woman I cared deeply about once upon a time. That is not why I do not like Bill. Without going into lurid detail, suffice it to say that until he stopped drinking, he was spectacularly unstable and unreliable, a man who one of his old Rocket teammates described to me as "the worst alcoholic he ever saw" a remarkable statement coming from this informant who I know full well has seen his fair share of serious bad drunks. But that is not why I don't like Bill.

I don't like Bill because he is a narcissistic mama's boy who, insofar as I could tell, was never made to take responsibility for his actions. He ran any of a number of businesses straight into the dumper only to be repeatedly bailed out by his mother and her apparently limitless supply of cash which she spent on him like it was water. I don't like him because I saw firsthand the pain and frustration that was frequently visited upon the mother of his children-a good and brave woman- whenever his irresponsibility was in its full flower. I don't like him because I think I might otherwise like him. Like many alcoholics, he is the outwardly affable sort of guy that could charm the chrome off of a trailer hitch. But his charm and bravado were frequently offset by recurrent bouts of self-pity, a dichotomy I didn't fully understand having no formal training in psychiatry.

His son ran off to play with some other boys. And there I was, left alone with this man that I do not like. Eventually he spoke.

" I want you to know something." he said.

" Oh great." I thought. " Now he wants to chat." I turned to look at him. I noticed that my arms were folded tightly across my chest.

" I want you to know that I have been sober for two years now."

There was an awkward silence between us. I noticed the sadness in his eyes as they searched my face. I extended my hand.

" Hey, man." I said as I reached for his hand. " That's great. That's really great. Congratulations. I'm really proud of you." And I meant it. I never thought he would get this far. I mean, this is a guy who drank vodka for breakfast. I always kind of figured that wrapping a car around a tree somewhere at 2 a.m. was his destiny.

That seemed to relax him.

" I want you to know that means a lot to me to hear you say that." he replied.

" No really. It's not about me. You are to be commended for getting on top of it. It's all you."

" Well, thanks."

Silence mercifully returned as we turned back to the game below us. It didn't last long.

" I want you to know that I have kept my job. I've even been promoted. I'm strictly 9 to 5 now. I need that structure. It amazes me to think of myself working somewhere at a job where I have good benefits. I've even got vacation time coming. I can't believe it. I will never run a restaurant again. Things are going too good for me right now."

" I'm really glad to hear it, Bill. Good for you." I said. I almost added, "Maybe you can get current on child support now." Bad on me, I know. At least I didn't actually say it.

His boy-who at one time was kind of my boy too-returned. Knowing that he is as much a human garbage disposal as he is a little boy, I gave him my pizza.

" I guess I kept you from eating your dinner." Bill said, sheepishly. " It probably isn't good cold."

" Nah. Not much good cold." I replied. I was lying. Actually, I had lost my appetite.

I left at halftime. I manufactured an excuse about having to get up early. Quite frankly, and no disrespect to Bill, I needed a drink.

My head was humming as I walked up the hill back to the relative sanity of my little house. I mean, the man is not stupid. He knows that I have no use for him. Out of all the people at the stadium that night why did he sit with me? My friend Dr. GG opined that it might have been an inept attempt to do the "making amends" thing that guys in AA are supposed to do. Another friend who knows a lot about this stuff said that alcoholics sometimes confuse sobriety with the acquisition of social skills and that maybe it just didn't occur to him that, while I wish him no harm, I sure as hell don't want to socialize with him. And I know a couple of people in AA and God love 'em they all tend to talk, talk, talk.

Maybe he derives some false comfort from the fact that his ex gave us both the heave-ho. It would be just like him, given the cocoon of denial he has always operated out of, to draw some sort of moral equivalence between our shared experience. "See? There ain't no living with her." I can hear him say. Which infuriates me when I think about it. But this would explain why he honks and waves like we're big buddies when he sees me out running in the neighborhood. Listen pal, I ain't running a personal chapter of the VFW. And if I were I wouldn't let you join.

So why didn't I tell him to buzz off? I am perfectly capable of such behavior. I do not suffer fools gladly. And as I grow older, I am less inclined to take stuff lying down or to tolerate being taken for granted. I have burned-nay- blown up bridges. I have kept lists of names just for the pleasure of marking them off. So why on earth did irascible combative me sit for and hour-an hour of my life that I will never get back-and listen to a man that once treated a person I cared for so very badly?

Dr. GG says this is proof that I am a good man. That is nice of her to say. But I am not a good man. I am not a very good Christian either. But I'm a pretty good Methodist. And we Methodists are hard-wired incapable of turning away from people in need. Like I said, I always saw the pain in Bill's eyes, pain that was for the most part self-inflicted, but it was there nonetheless. For whatever reason, he needed to tell me the things he told me on that cold night at War Memorial Stadium. If talking to me helped him keep it together for one more night then I couldn't turn away. He is the father of two little boys that I love. I owed the son of a bitch that much.

But I ain't running a personal VFW. And just because I am very pleased that he has done so well in his recovery from addiction, we aren't going to become friends.

Because I do not like Bill. There are no two ways around it.

That Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

And no, I'm not referring to the Holiday Season although even as I write this, some fool in a Santa Claus suit is riding a Harley up Van Buren.

And it's not even the 15th of November yet. Strength. Give me strength.

But I digress. I am referring is the basketball season which cranks up in earnest for the college and high school kids next week. The NBA started about 3 weeks ago but I don't watch those guys until the playoffs or unless the Indiana Pacers are on. But that's only to see if Ron Artest will go off on a ref. Or on an opposing center. Or on an entire section of fans in the bleachers.

Talk about entertainment!

Unlike my buddy at the newspaper (and you know who you are) I was but a modestly talented player. I got by only because my devotion to line drills and for diving for loose balls endeared me to the-mostly-redneck coaches I labored under as I came up. I was treated for the most part with disdain by the white guys who could actually play a little and by virtually all of the black guys. No matter. I made the team. Got to ride on the bus to the games and got to watch some good players up close and personal. And I do mean watch as I was rarely put in the actual game unless and until the outcome was well nigh determined. If you think this experience scarred me, a la Janis Ian and that stupid song in which she laments never being picked for the basketball team, you would be wrong. I was scarred aplenty by the practices sustaining, as I did, 2 broken noses in 5 years. But the games, no.

I am not nearly the avid fan of years gone by. Due to cable television and the Internet there is just too much basketball out there to follow it all. Still, most nights, I will have a game on, if only for background noise. Unless of course the Pacers are on. Then, being the mature sort that I am, I watch to see how quick Artest gets ejected. Little things amuse little minds.

On a less sordid note, it is not unheard of for me to take in a couple of high school games a week, especially if one of the schools in the neighborhood are playing. I go watch Hall, Catholic and the Belles up the hill at St. Mary's. It's therapy for me. I can just go, turn my brain off and watch kids play ball. I love it. Last year I took a 5 year old to his first high school basketball game. If you can't have fun at a sporting event with a little kid, you need your pulse checked.

However, honesty compels me at this point in the narrative to point something out. If NCAA Division I men's sports is a cesspool, and more than one person has suggested that it is, then basketball is the drainplug of the cesspool, the lowest of the low. Recruiting in basketball is nothing but a dirty arms race. And in every arm's race there are suppliers. To illustrate my point, let me tell you what happened to me about this time last year at a preseason tournament that was being played at Hall High down the street.

I had gone to see Catholic and Hall play each other. One of my old Little Leaguers was in his senior year at Catholic and he wanted me to come see him. This kid-let's call him Bobby- was big stuff in AAU ball but had tailed off considerably in high school as the other kids matured. (The last I heard is that Bobby had decided to walk on at Ole Miss. Bobby, I love ya, but rots of ruck.) Anyway, the new gym at Hall is built like unto a miniature version of "The Pit" at New Mexico with the actual court down about 3 stories below a promenade where one can stand and watch the game if you don't want to sit in the bleachers below.

As I stood there watching the game and admiring the handsome new building I was suddenly conscious of a presence next to me at the rail.

" Who you on, man?" There at my side stood a gentleman who was resplendent in a brown veloury sort of sweatsuit. This tasteful garment was accentuated by an equally immodest display of bling.

" Come again?" I said.

"Who you looking at, man? Who you got?"

It suddenly dawned on me. I had come to the game straight from the office. I was wearing what my aforementioned buddy at the paper derisively refers to as my "black ensemble" the latter word pronounced the correct French way. Nothing exudes scorn better than correct French diction.

Anyway, there I was in a black turtleneck slacks and trousers. I was wearing black Cole-Haan loafers. In my arms I held a black cashmere overcoat. And thus attired, I looked to this man to be a white basketball pimp: A John Calipari wannabee hanging around high school hoops trying to steer kids to schools in exchange for money.

Once I figured out what was going on, I decided to have some fun.

"You want to know who I'm on?" I whispered, leaning into him conspiratorially.

" Yeah." said Bling, leaning into me as well.

" Bobby." I said. "That's who I'm on."

The man recoiled. His jewelry made a clanking sound. "Bobby? For real?"

"Yep." I said, putting my index finger to my lips as if to say "Shhhhh." "I'm here to see Bobby. Now if you'll excuse me."

Bling returned to a group of similarly attired guys. Every now and again I noticed him pointing at me and shaking his head as he explained what he had heard from the White Basketball Pimp.

I tell this story mainly because it is amusing. But the underlying reality of it is not. Basketball is full up to the brim with scumbags, pimps, pseudo-experts and touts. Unlike football, you can turn things around with only one guy in hoops. Look at Carmelo Anthony and Syracuse. They win the NCAA tournament with him his freshman year and poof! he's outta there. And so the recruiting of these guys and their parents and their buddies is nothing if not intense. And money gets paid to guys sometime to make sure a kid gets delivered to State U. Business is business. It's a dirty arms race.

And yet I love it so. Sometimes, I dream that I am 16 again. I am standing on the free throw line with the ball in my hands. I can hear the cheerleaders. I can see my father in the stands. I can even smell the popcorn. I never actually shoot the ball in those dreams. Which is good because I would probably miss as I generally did in real life.

In my dream I am content to just be there in that old gym a lifetime away. Just me and a bunch of kids playing ball.

So don't be surprised if you see me in some gym in the People's Republic of Hillcrest on any given night. I still like to be around kids playing ball. I just try to ignore the pimps out on the periphery.

Random Thoughts While Battling The Flu

I haven't had much of a chance to post anything in awhile due to various and sundry reasons, not the least of them was a never-ending string of birthday activities that continues even into this week. This really has been fun. I won't have to go to the liquor store for a month or to the grocery store for a week. I may gain 25 pounds in the process. But I sure am having fun. I had to call a "time-out" for today as I seem to have been struck down by a mild flu bug. So I have a chance to write a few things while I am under the weather.

1) From the errata department: In the last installment, I puckishly referred to my brothers as being merely "adequate." These words came back to me at warp speed when I saw them at the surprise birthday party they threw for me a week or so ago. Ha! Ha! I'm a kidder, you know. But in the interest of fairness and also because Dave asked me " You want to take back that "adequate" shit now Birthday Boy?" Accordingly, I want to amplify upon my earlier remarks.

My brothers are great. Here are the four of us up at the right hand corner. They are good men and true every last man-jack of them. They are brave, loyal, thrifty, courteous, patriotic, brave, clean and reverent. None of them has owed me any money in forever. Neither have I been forced to go to court with any of them in-shoot-a good ten years, easy. A lucky man am I to have brothers such as these. I am especially lucky that Dave had not been drinking upon my arrival as he seemed genuinely sufficiently annoyed enough to snap my neck. Which he could easily do.

And so I take it back. Every word of it.

Thanks, guys! I really appreciated it!

2) Do the Razorbacks suck or what? I have never been one to criticize play calling. I am no expert in these matters and second guessing a coach is the easiest thing in the world to do. But what in God's name was Houston Nutt thinking when he dialed up a quarterback sneak on a 4th and inches in their own territory with a freshman quarterback playing his first game in the first quarter of same game? Naturally, it was easily repulsed and South Carolina went on to score. The Hogs are now 2-6 and they get Ole Miss in Oxford next week. It says here that the Rebels win. It says here that they finish 2-9 with some of the best talent they have ever had up there.

And they say coaching doesn't matter?

3) Did Vanderbilt get screwed the other night or what? Poor old Vanderbilt scored late in the 4th quarter to pull within one of Florida in Gainesville Saturday night. The question presented was: Do they try a point after attempt or do they go for two. That was the question at least until some idiot wearing stripes threw a flag for "excessive celebration" on Vanderbilt. Vanderbilt!

Like they have that many occasions to celebrate over there. Sure, I'll bet there are hangovers in abundance in Nashville when the LSATs or MCATs come in. But on the field of play? They are as rare as completed forward passes in Fayetteville.

Anyway, Vandy was forced to kick a PAT to put the game into overtime. Which they lost. You know that officials in any sport have done a good job when they are not noticed. The moron that threw that flag directly affected the outcome of the game for no good reason.

Which is kind of the coaches' job. Ask Houston Nutt.

3) Is Terrell Owens a pain in the ass or what? The Philadelphia Eagles suspended loudmouth jerk Terrell Owens for the rest of the season due to the constant, unending, infantile displays of narcissism out of him.

I say Good Riddance. Which is what many of the Eagles are saying as I appreciate the commentary on the Internet (Remember I am unwell. I stayed home today.).

But this is the NFL, not the Marine Corps. Mark my words, some other team (with my luck, the Saints) will do the Faustian Bargain thing and pick him up. And we will see the same soap opera all over again.

That's all for now. I feel an attack of the vapors coming on. I must go and get into some of that Tennessee flu medicine that I was given for my birthday.

Good night and good luck.

So far

"Home. Home is where I'll be.
Pick me up and turn me 'round.
I feel young. Born with a weak heart.
I guess I must be having fun.
The less we say about the better.
Make it up as we go along.
Feet on the ground, head in the sky,
It's ok. I know nothing's wrong.

"This Must Be The Place ( Native Melody)"-Talking Heads

I turned 50 earlier this week. I have to admit that it wasn't nearly as bad as I was prepared to endure. I got the usual and predictable cards and e-mails calling attention to my infirmity and impending senility. Folks have been taking me out to eat. According to my calendar, I won't have to buy lunch or dinner for the next week or so. That's pretty cool. My brothers and I played golf together last Sunday up at Mountain Ranch. That's me up in the right hand corner! These things are subjective and reasonable minds can differ on such matters but I don't think that I look too bad for an old coot.

Steve Martin said he was depressed upon turning 50 because it meant that his life as a productive artist was pretty much over. Which may bode ill for the soon-to-be released movie Shopgirl. Anyway, I guess I didn't brood over this consideration overly much, being neither productive nor an artist. Besides, when I got to thinking about it the past 50 years, I was comforted by the knowledge that I have done some pretty cool stuff. Here are some of the stuff I've done in the past 50 years:

I've caught touchdown passes. I once won a 5k completely hung over. I was a pretty good baseball player until I saw my first real good curveball when I was 16. I knew when I was whipped. I played competitive tennis up until the body started falling apart on me. There is a reason nobody in their forties is on the ATP tour. I took up golf in my forties. My goals were to get good enough to play with my buddies, with my brothers and in the church golf tournament. Admittedly, lofty goals these are not. But how many people in golf can say they have attained a goal? Without lying that is?

I have met the following people: Pete Maravich, Elgin Baylor, Keith Jackson, Donna Douglas (you know, Ellie Mae from the Beverly Hillbillies), Bill Clinton, Mike Huckabee (the obese one) and Mike Huckabee ( the svelte one) David Pryor, Dale Bumpers, Vic Snyder, Frank Broyles, Steve Shields, both the current and former Roman Catholic Bishops of Arkansas ( I even share a birthday with the former. He's getting on up there. But then again, so am I), cabaret chanteuse Susan Douglas (she reminds me of a squirrel on crack) Walker Percy's brother Phin and his son Will. I'm sure there are others. But I am already getting forgetful here in my dotage.

With mine own eyes I have seen the following: Elvis Costello, Van Gogh's "Self-Portrait", Renee Richards, the Rolling Stones, a tennis match between Pete Sampras and Todd Martin (They split sets-Sampras won in a tiebreaker), Bruce Springsteen, Ytzhak Perlman, Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks at the Diner", Kiss (I am so ashamed), and Squeeze.

I saw Matt Jones complete that hope-to-Jesus pass that beat LSU. I saw Darryl Strawberry take a ball off of the wall in right field at old Ray Winder and gun a Traveler out by @ 3 ft. It's still just about the damnedest thing I've ever seen. I once saw Reggie Jackson just evaporate a pretty good fastball thrown by Jim Palmer. I saw Ron Guidry pitch that same night. A little guy. Surely to God no man that small has thrown a ball that hard since Koufax. I saw my friend Phil hit a wedge 141 yards after telling us that he was gonna do it because he was pissed. I saw Kenoy Kennedy once tackle some kid from Kentucky so hard my brother and I thought he had killed him. He didn't.

I once had a piece of paper autographed by Lew Alcindor. I lost it. I could kick myself.

I saw two of my friends die horribly. One died of melanoma. The other had AIDS. If there are worse ways to die, I don't want to see them. Myself, I should have been killed 9 times over myself. Testosterone, alcohol, females and motor vehicles are a way dangerous combination. If that wasn't bad enough, I once talked a mugger out of blowing my head off with a 9mm.

I have been lucky beyond what I deserve. And I know it.

I used to sing with the Symphony Chorus . I have sung the tenor aria "Every Valley Shall Be Exalted" from "Messiah." It ain't as hard as it sounds. I have sung for countless weddings and funerals. I prefer funerals. Sad as they are, you know that at least one person in attendance won't be bitching about the music. I used to be the Cantor at a Catholic Church here in town. Not many people knew I was under the radar being a Methodist and all. I don't sing much anymore.

I would rather play golf.

I can state without hesitation or fear of contradiction that I have gotten more late night calls from drunks than the front desk at the Bridgeway. One of my buddies used to get hammered and punch in area codes at random until his fingers stumbled across a place where he knew somebody. He would then ask Directory assistance to call the numbers for him. Unfortunately, 501 got dialed in a lot in those days. A guy I hadn't seen in 20 years once called in order to threaten to kill me for allegedly stealing his girlfriend in college. Or guys wanting to talk sports. At 2 am. A woman to whom I was engaged once called wanting to know "what happened to us?" I told her that she left me and moved to Texas and hung up. I still get calls late at night. Just not from drunks. This is an improvement.

I have loved and lost. Losing sucks. Then again, last time I looked nobody was dead or nothing. So it goes.

I have the best friends a man could have. Included in that number are a bunch of females who, in equal measure, stay on my ass and worry about me behind it. I have 4 great nephews. I have 3 adequate brothers. I have a little girl across the street who likes to come over and sit with me on the porch swing. I have enjoyed the happy sounds of little boys playing in my back yard.

I have also enjoyed robust good health. I have never gone without. I know, I really, really, know how blessed and fortunate I have been these last 50 years. Like everyone else I wish I could get some "do-overs." As the old communion rite goes, "I have done those things I ought not to have done and I have left undone those things I should have done."

And the rembrance of these things is grievous unto me. They really are.

I have been blessed. I am, for the most part, content with how the first 50 years have succeeded each unto each.

Home. Home is where I'll be but I guess I'm already there.

I come home. She lifted up her wings.

I guess that this must be the place.

I can't tell one from the other. Did I find you or you find me?

There was a time before we were born if someone asks

This is where I'll be.

So far so good. There's room for improvement, God knows. But so far so good. The less we say about it the better.

But hopefully, God willing, and for the foreseeable future, this is where I will be.

My Sunday Feeling

Yesterday was one of those "red-letter" days for a sports fan like me. At pretty much the same time, depending on what channel you lighted upon, you had LSU-Florida, Penn State-Michigan, and Notre Dame-Southern Cal ( Talk about a game in which it was hard to pick someone to root for. Or root against for that matter. Worse than the LSU game even.) And over on the baseball side, you had the Astros against the Cardinals.

The football games were all hellacious contests, all of them coming down to the last few seconds. Folks that were displaced or otherwise not in front of a TV were getting in touch with me to get the latest skinny. Marge was texting me on the way home from Oxford after watching the Rebels lose to Alabama on a last second-and I mean last second-field goal. She was remarkably chipper under the circumstances which led me to conclude that she was pretty much sober.

My brother John called me from a wedding reception in Memphis. I gave him the play by play during the last minute of the Notre Dame game. He would then call out what was going on to, judging from the sound of the voices in the background, what I gathered were most of the
men at the reception. Which undoubtedly amused the womenfolk in attendance to no end seeing as how they were pretty much left to amuse themselves at that point in time.

And all the while, e-mails and IMs are flying across my screen,almost all of them asking, "Can you believe the Notre Dame game?"

This is why we watch. We watch to see if Notre Dame can pull off the upset. We watch to see how Southern Cal can somehow survive. Which they did by the way, in one of the most amazing last minute drives I have ever seen in my life. And I have a loooooonnnnng memory about such things.

We also watch because it is all we have ever known. That night, I watched Georgia dismantle poor old Vanderbilt at the home of my friend J. From all outward appearances J is a pretty quiet, buttoned-down ladylike person much in keeping with her former life as a junior-high principal back in Georgia. Get a couple of beers in her, stick her in front of a Bulldog game and well, suffice it to say, she gets in touch with her inner Jzilla pretty quick.

I remember the first Georgia game I experienced with her. It was over Labor Day and I was sick with a sinus infection. Georgia was clobbering Boise State by 30 or so, which was an insufficient shellacking for Jzilla who at one point screamed at the screen, "Beat their eyes out!"

I thought my fever was causing auditory hallucinations.

" Did you just yell 'Beat their eyes out?' " I asked.

" Well, yes." she shrugged.

I remember reaching over and divesting her of her Corona.

Last night was more of the same. This is also why we watch. Because it is fun. If you can't have fun drinking beer and eating takeout food from Leo's while a good looking crazy person exhorts her Bulldogs to beat the eyes out of the opponent, you need your pulse checked.

But if any of you hear of a bunch of powerfully built young men walking around in West Nashville with white canes and seeing eye dogs, I don't want to know about it.

Because I know who caused it and I can only assume some liability might attach at some point in time.

Island

Mother was having a bad day. Worse than the ones she claims to have on a daily basis even. My brother had brought her to Little Rock early that morning to see a neurologist that had been recommended by her psychiatrist as someone who is good at treating Parkinson's Disease in the elderly. These trips are hard on Mom. As she grows older she is less and less inclined to leave her apartment at the assisted living facility where she lives much less come to Little Rock. In fact, they were about 30 minutes late because my brother found her in bed pretending to be asleep in hopes that she wouldn't have to leave the cocoon she has encapsulated herself in at this stage of her life.

So, imagine my amusement when the lady behind the desk informed me that her appointment was, in reality, the week before and that there was no way that they could work her in to see the doctor despite her having come from 30 miles away. I confess that I went ballistic at this news for no other reason than they had such a lousy attitude of condescension about them as they insisted that they had made no mistake.

" You know, I called yesterday to confirm the appointment and nobody bothered to return my damned call!." I yelled at the wraith whom I gathered was the office manager.

She looked over her half glasses at the computer screen.

" I'm sorry. We have no record that you called." she hissed.

" Then I'm sure that you won't have any record that I called TWICE after my first call wasn't returned!"

She mumbled an insincere apology and asked for my number again to call me with a new appointment. You will be shocked to learn that I have yet to hear from them.

As an aside, although I am not known as a yeller, this was the second time within the span of one week that I had gone off on someone. While both occasions did provide some brief catharsis of sorts, I have to admit that neither episode accomplished much in the way of tangible good. I will try to bear this in mind the next time that I see deep red.

So we got Mom back in time for her lunch. I spent the rest of the afternoon grocery shopping, doing her banking and such in hopes of salvaging a worthless day.

Later that afternoon we sat on the couch in the parlor.

" How is my money holding out?" she asked.

" We are fine. The investments are throwing off good income. We haven't had to invade the assets of the trust to pay for anything and we probably will never have to. Even when you factor in the amount that I am stealing." I replied.

" Boy, you better watch it. God will get you if you steal from your Mama."

I can kid Mom about this. Unlike some elderly people, she is not paranoid about her money. She is not constantly cutting people out of the will or pestering our money guy. We are lucky in this regard.

"Did y'all sell Bill's house?" Bill was her older brother who died last summer.

" I don't know if Janan has sold it yet or not, Mom." I lied. She sold it in September.

" I don't like it here." Mom said. " I would have bought Bill's house. I would have been safe in Benton. It's not dangerous like Little Rock."

" Mom" I said. " You can't live by yourself."

" I could with some help."

" No, Mom. You need help with your meds. You need help with your food. You can't buy a house."

She sat quietly for a moment and then started fidgeting with the throw pillow next to her.

" What, Mom?" I asked.

" It's just that I don't fit in here. I've never fit in anywhere. I just do better by myself. I think I could make it in a little house in Benton."

I took her hand.

"Mom. I'm sorry." I shook my head "no."

Pause. She looked away.

"I'm tired." she said. "I think I'll take my nap."

I really didn't know what to say. It is a hell of a sad thing to be 83 and to have had brought 4 sons into the world and yet to have no sense of place. About all any of us want is to know that there is a somewhere where we belong. I didn't know what to say because some of this she brought on herself by leading a semi-cloistered life in her retirement years. I also didn't know what to say as some of this she didn't bring on herself. It is clear now looking back through the lens of perspective that Mother has suffered from depression and/or mental illness for the past 30 years or so. She now suffers from the ravages of Parkinson's Disease which makes her makes her self conscious about her appearance and movement.

I also didn't know what to say because I, too, occasionally recognize those feelings myself. Maybe that's why I live by myself as well. Maybe I don't fit in either. Hell, I found myself blowing my stack twice in that week alone. That doesn't sound like someone who plays well with others does it?

I turned to take one last look before leaving. There I stood, Mister Well-Adjusted, and watched Mother shuffle after her walker back to her dark apartment where the blinds are drawn tight.

Back to the only place where my mother fits in.

My Sunday Feeling

I was driving back from a party out in West Little Rock when the eye of Rita rolled through Little Rock last night. She had cooled off to a mere severe thunderstorm by the time she crossed the county line. Still, she packed quite a punch at least as far as thunderstorms around here go. The rain was coming in sideways. Water was blowing over the Interstate and the Pathfinder got pushed around pretty good. I thought for a moment about getting off the highway and meandering home on the city streets. Still, I wanted be home in a hurry because, quite frankly, the weird light in the roiling sky made me a little apprehensive. So I barreled on through, one of about 5 other vehicles I saw out last night.

Little Rock really didn't sustain much in the way of damage. There are tree branches and other minor debris scattered about the neighborhood. I did see where an oak tree bent and broke crushing a Geo Metro that was parked beneath it on Valentine Street. But that's about all I saw. As is typically the case with storms like Rita, the reports of property damage and injury will come limping in during the days to come.

But we have no room to complain around here. Rita had taken a chill pill by the time she visited the Natural State having laid it to Southeast Texas and Southwest Louisiana earlier in the day. I have a lot of friends in Lafayette. I hope they are all right. My friend Jeanette moved to Houston with her husband around three weeks ago. Is that timing or what? She rode it out in a Salvation Army shelter in The Woodlands. She called me yesterday. She and Hot Rod,her goddamn cat, are fine.

I got a call around 10:30 last night from my buddy Chris in Thibodeaux. He said he had turned on the Weather Channel and saw that the eye of Rita was over Little Rock. So he decided to call me to see how I was doing for once. We were both sitting on our respective porches 300 miles apart drinking wine and watching it rain.

We always understood each other Chris and I.

He is fine. He is a Captain of the volunteer fire department down there so he was busy the last 36 hours. But Thibodeaux is none the worse for wear. I have to think that the rates for fire and casualty insurance would have to be pretty high with him being at the helm of the volunteer fire department. But what do I know?

It seems that most of the Rita related damage is limited to the Beaumont, Port Arthur, Lake Charles triangle. ( I am not going to write about the levees breaching again. I'm depressed enough as it is.) I don't know much about any of these places except that they are supposed to be tough old oil and gas towns. Even at that, we must remember that there are people that have homes and lives, such as they are, down there and we must wish the best for them. I do know that Lake Charles is the title of a song by Lucinda Williams and that Port Arthur is the birthplace of Janis Joplin and Jimmy Johnson.

I don't know anything about Beaumont but I do have a funny story that sorta relates to Beaumont.

When I was at Tulane, Tulane Basketball came on right after the Marvin Gorman Crusade show. For those of you that don't remember, Gorman is a New Orleans televangelist who hired a private detective (or his son who was a deputy sheriff in Jefferson Parish depending on who you believe) who got pictures of rival man-of-the-cloth Jimmy Swaggart canoodleing with a hooker in a sleazy hotel room out on Airline Highway. A quick search of the Internet reveals that the old peckerwood's bidness is still extant and you can see for yourself here:http://marvingorman.com

Anyway, my friends and I always enjoyed the altar call that ended each service. The sinners would troop down to the front of the stage where Gorman would lay hands upon them whereupon some of them would immediately hit the deck. Not only was this amusing to behold, but it provided an apt metaphor for what was to generally befall the Green Wave a few minutes hence.

One night, the "Music Minister",a big fat guy who talked like Ashley Wilkes and who generally wore a Bobby Knight-type plaid jacket interrupted the usual laying on of hands and falling out to exclaim in his singsongy voice " Revvun GOH-man, Revvun GOH-man! Please come ovah heah!"

Gorman went over to the Music Minister who was standing in front of a couple of young men.

" Revvun, GOH-man! These are two HOEmohsexyooals from BOOmont!"

I remember popcorn flying in the air. I remember one of my buddies falling out of his chair as if he had been touched by Revvun GOH-man.

These are the memories that will sustain us in our golden years.

And that's all I know about Beaumont. Other than it is supposed to be a pretty tough place and I would imagine that it was short a couple of homosexuals after those two got outed on the Marvin Gorman show.

Like I said, I don't know much about Southeast Texas but I hope everyone is ok. Especially those two guys from Beaumont.

Denial Is Not Just A River in Egypt and Homer Is Not Just The Author of The Iliad.

If ever you thought that Wally Hall was not completely encased in Frank Broyles's sphincter, one has only to read today's Democrat-Gazette to disabuse yourself of that notion. In today's offering in the inappropriately named " Like It Is" column, Wally accused Southern Cal of running up the score against the hapless Arkansas Razorbacks during last Saturday's 70-17 debacle in Los Angeles. Not only that, but he went on to state, in his typically mangled prose:

" It was supposed to be just a game. Instead Carroll (the Trojan's head coach) turned it into a joke, and he made sure everyone knew who was the butt of the laughter, as if anyone needed another example."

Do what? This is all about mean old Pete Carroll turning what was supposed to be "just a game" into a joke? Like the Hog's porous defense had nothing to do with this?

Southern Cal didn't run up the score so much as they just flat out beat the living hell out of the Razorbacks. Running up the score is when one clearly superior team unfairly takes advantage of a lesser opponent as Texas Tech did the other night when it hung 80 on Sam Houston State. This was, on paper at least, an intriguing matchup between teams from powerful conferences. There is no way in hell that a team from the Southeastern Conference should have gotten beaten this badly.

The fact of the matter is that the Razorbacks showed no heart. The fact of the matter is that a team as talented as Arkansas doesn't get beat this badly without considerable help from the sidelines. But you will never hear a word of this out of Homer Hall.

Just because everybody but Tommy the Trojan scored for USC doesn't mean that they unfairly ran up the score. It means that the Razorbacks stunk.

Vanderbilt would have given the Trojans a better game. You won't hear that out of Homer Hall either.

My Sunday Feeling

It is a pleasant Sunday morning here in the People's Republic of Hillcrest. There is a nice breeze coming over from the West. It carries a hint of cool weather that we can expect soon and very soon. Friends are checking in from all over. Sula writes from Florida wanting to know the latest from New Orleans. Marge writes from Jackson with a picture from the Internet. Phil sends a text message reminding me to pick his wife up at the airport tonight. All in all, it is a perfect morning to sit on my porch and ruminate before it gets too warm.

• How 'Bout Them Hawgs?- The Arkansas Razorbacks managed to lose to the Vanderbilt Commodores up in Fayetteville last night. Granted, Vanderbilt is not a bad ball club. They are as good as they are gonna get and nobody in their right mind would look forward to playing them. But you just can't be losing at home to the Vanderbilts of this world. This does not bode well for Houston Nutt. You can already hear the yahoos on the radio call-in shows and the Internet calling for HDN's scalp. And, as sure as the sun comes up in the morning, you can bet that someone will make reference to the fact that UA has no business losing to "an academic school" like Vanderbilt. It will be ugly. If they don't run the table after next week's loss at Southern Cal (who was the genius that scheduled that one anyway?) HDN will be fired. You heard it here first.
• Like It Is- It is always instructive to turn to Wally Hall when a debacle occurs in Razorback sports in order to get a cogent, well-thought out post-mortem. Today's column does not fail to disappoint, containing as it does the following gem : " As for the Razorback's offense, overall, it might as well have been a copy of the New York Times with the lights off." Huh? If anyone can translate that for me, I will kiss your ass on the steps of the State Capitol at noon.
• Small World- A Jewish friend of mine called me last week. He had gotten a call from the synagogue with the news that "four nice Jewish boys from Tulane Law" had washed ashore here in Little Rock. They are first year students and can't enroll anywhere else so my friend asked me if I would help find them jobs. Since last week, two of the guys have headed home but a girlfriend has popped up. It will be easier to find work for two nice Jewish boys than it would be for four. Girlfriend is on her own. Also I got an e-mail from a kid who is staying down the road with a lawyer couple who have taken her in. She has enrolled in law school here. I told her that if she needed anything to holler, as we say here in Little Rock. This is amazing.
• The Response-My church is running a shelter in the gym for people displaced by Katrina. I got an e-mail asking me to pass the word that all Methodist shelters and UMCor (United Methodist committee on Relief) depots have more stuff than they can use. This, too, is amazing. A friend of mine and a bunch of her girlfriends went down to the church to volunteer to work a shift and was told that they are booked up through November. My brother was told by his front office to forget about sales for awhile and to help bring these shelters up to speed on the Internet so the folks there can register with FEMA and the Red Cross. I told him we needed a laptop at the church. He got me a laptop. Somehow we will get through this. People are good. Somehow we will get through this.
• The US Open- Boy, you got to love Andre Agassi. In the quarters against James Blake he faced every problem you can face on a tennis court and still won in 5 sets. Check that. He didn't face every problem as today he plays in the Finals against Roger Federer. My heart goes with Andre but my head says Federer in straight sets. Federer just may be the best to ever play.

As Andre put it, " Federer doesn't have any weaknesses and he has a few great shots. So that equates to a problem." Well said. Again, Federer in straight sets.

Enough of this. It is starting to get hot out here. Time to grab a shower, clean up the kitchen and look for a fully electrified copy of the New York Times.

I Ain't Scared Of No Ghosts

I got a call today from my buddy in the Guard who is down in New Orleans with his unit doing relief work. He reported in today from an industrial canal over on the Jefferson-Orleans Parish line. It is still a mess over there. He says that there are houses that still have water up to the eaves. There is no electricity. He says that it will be really interesting to see this particular area when the water finally gets pulled down.

I know that area well. My buddy Don, the one who foolishly sat for the bar exam in North Carolina last month, used to live in an apartment over there on Monticello Street just over the Jeff Parish line right next to an industrial canal. Probably the same one from which my friend was calling. Anyway, Don's apartment was infested with wharf rats the size of Volkswagens. He named them Trigger, Tank and Silver. I was over there when Trigger bought the farm. Don had bought a rat trap the size of a closet door. When it went off, it sounded like a .38 had gone off in the house. Even at that, it only stunned Trigger who struggled to escape the watery grave Don consigned him to when he flushed him down the toilet. The other two eventually succumbed to poison but not before they had ingested a hell of a lot of it-or so it seemed to me-before it started to disagree with them.

My point is, they had a problem with the rats over there even before Katrina. I shudder to think what it will be like once they get the area drained.

Still, his news today was mostly positive. Or as positive as things can be when there is six feet of standing water. The good news is that they weren't finding as many dead bodies as they were prepared to endure. The total last Tuesday or so, was 6. As of 9 am this morning, the number still stood at 6. No one seriously believes that they won't find more bodies, but the numbers are trending well, as the pollster might say.

I told my friend that they may well find bodies in that canal but that their presence there might not be attributable to Katrina. Perhaps you may not have heard but New Orleans is a hotbed of Organized Crime which is yet another tax-free generator of revenue, along with the churches, in Orleans Parish. It is easy to forget that there is so much organized crime in New Orleans especially in light of the fact that so much of the criminal activity we have been seeing lately from down there is of the disorganized variety.

But New Orleans is mobbed up to its eyeballs. Always has been. And when I was there, they used to dump their stiffs into the industrial canals. The one over by Don was one of their favorite places of casual, if not expedient, interment. My friend has been told this already and they will keep their eyes out for any corpses that are wearing Rolexs and that are sporting a bullethole between the ear.

Katrina can't be blamed for everything, after all. Fair is fair.

The other good news is that Entergy seems to be doing a bangup job of getting power back to the city. The CBD and the French Quarter have lights. The Hilton should have power by this evening. They think that with any luck the Garden District and Tulane should have juice in 10 days or so. My friend described Entergy as an army marching North bringing the lights with them. Which is pretty much the opposite of what happened to them down there during the Great Unpleasantness back in the 1860s but I digress.

My friend says that it appears that Mayor Nagin is going to throw in the towel on forcing the evacuation of the rich white folks over by Tulane in the Garden District. What the hell. They never sustained much water damage. They have water pressure now, so the Fire Department can put out any fires that occur. These guys got food, water and alcohol sufficient to last a month. Some of them have private security guarding their homes and their power will be back on in a week. What the hell. The Mayor has bigger problems than this.

Speaking of housing, the most interesting news my friend related is that some folks have fashioned temporary accommodations in a most unusual place: Mausoleums. I'm not kidding. But first, some histoire.

One of the more interesting aspects of life in Orleans Parish that immediately presented itself to the early French and Spanish settlers was the fact that buried people tended to not stay buried there. At least not for very long. You would think that this phenomenon would have given them some clue as to the larger design difficulties that the sudden reappearance of Uncle Arnaud after his funeral Mass foreshadowed. Indeed, Bienville's engineers thought he was quite nuts to have picked a spit of land 6 feet below sea level upon which to build a city. But there was money to be made and the old town was built there anyway over the reservations of the French Corps des le Ingenieurs.

So they began interring their dead above the ground in mausoleums. The practice continues to this day. And some of them are quite ornate with a square footage that would make them compatible with some outbuildings in Pleasant Valley or Chenal even. Hell, you could fit my little house here in the People's Republic of Hillcrest into some of them.

As a matter of survival tactics, you could choose worse. They are pretty much waterproof which is an attractive feature in a building in Southeast Louisiana nowadays. Many cemeteries are gated communities if security is a concern. As far as aesthetics go, they are well maintained with plush lawns and pleasant gardens. And you are pretty much guaranteed quiet neighbors.

And it beats all hell out of living in the Superdome.

So that's the latest from the Big Easy. Where heavily armed white folks insist upon the right to observe the cocktail hour from their homes on St. Charles Avenue and other people are sleeping with those who have gone on to that great Jazzfest in the sky.

You couldn't make this stuff up. You really couldn't.

The News from Hell's Gate

In lieu of salutation, I heard the following when I answered the phone this morning: " Well, it's a screwed up mess down here, boy. That's for sure."

It was my friend in the Guard. He was calling from New Orleans.

The following is the gist of what he described to me in a 30-40 minute conversation.

They finally got the last of the folks out of the Convention Center. He said that he cannot imagine how some of those folks survived, especially the elderly ones confined to wheelchairs. One man confined to a wheelchair weighed around 500 lbs. The Red Cross commandeered a U-Haul that could lower to the ground. They had to roll him onto the lift and then raise him up. Once inside, about 6 guys got him back up in the chair.

He described the carnage inside the supporting as, well, indescribable. As he said, "You would not recognize the place where you and your buddies used to watch all the ball games." He said that once they get the power and water back up they will have to send in guys with pointy-tipped shovels to scrape and haul stuff out. They turf will have to be pulled up.

The reports of human waste being everywhere is true. There are corpses to be found over by the Superdome. He thinks they need to start gathering the bodies soon as it is a public health issue. The stench, even outdoors, is overpowering in places.

He said that the French Quarter is in pretty good shape. He saw only a couple of collapsed buildings during his patrols. Most everything is structurally intact. The damage caused by the looters seems to be pretty much confined to the point of entry and to the cash registers. They were only interested in stealing stuff and not in wanton destruction. There are abandoned vehicles all in the Quarter. He has been using them to charge his cell phone. The ones that still have batteries in them that is.

He believes that the most critical need is the restoration of power. Once the power is restored, they can put up banks of lights and start hauling debris around the clock. And when the water pressure comes back up, and the sewers are back online, they can commence hosing down the streets and sidewalks to transport the waste. Also, once the power comes back up, and the hotels are able to do some repairs, they hope that rooms will become available for NOPD and the relief workers so they can shower and rest in comfort. Hopefully, the kitchens can be restocked and hot meals can be provided in the hotels for the workers as well.

Power and water are back up in the Riverwalk already. They had to go to each of the restaurants there last night to turn off coffee pots that came back to life. It was obvious that the folks dropped everything and fled as soon as they got the word. Catfish was found in frying baskets in one restaurant. A pizza had just gotten pulled from an oven to be cut up in another. In any event, he said that once they did some glass work and did some cleaning, they could open back up all things being equal. Which is amazing to me.

The water starts about I-10 and gets worse the further you go West. They got some pumps up and running and the water is being drained back into the Lake. He said he has heard that it may take as long as 80 days to draw down the water to where they can start cleaning up out there.

He said the best news is that they have had no trouble out of the bad guys. They are still keeping a wary eye out but so far the people have been orderly and have obeyed the instructions of the police and the military. They are extremely grateful for the porta-potties and the food. He said soldiers bitch about MREs (Meals, Ready-to-Eat, in the flowery language of the Pentagon) all the time. But MREs taste pretty good when you haven't had anything to eat in 4-5 days and so they haven't heard any complaints.

He asked me about the news. He asked me if it was true that a lot of cops had resigned. I told him that as near as I could tell there were some resignations-and I suppose that throwing down your badge constitutes a formal separation in service-but that most of them had returned without repercussion. I told him that two officers had committed suicide. He was genuinely shocked by that report.

He asked me if it was true that the Sheriff over in Plaquemines Parish was running checkpoints to keep evacuees out. I told him that I had not heard that but that it would not surprise me, given the sorry history of Plaquemines in race relations stemming from the days when the place was run by the legendary Leander "Boss" Perez of whom Earl Long once said, " Leander doesn't hate Washington because of integration. Leander hates Washington because they got the bomb and he doesn't." Or something along those lines. Uncle Earl was always saying shit like that. He was a lot funnier than his brother. He was a damn sight crazier too.

I told my friend that the long knives are coming out. That the finger pointing has begun. I told him that people all over the spectrum are united in their dismay and revulsion over how all of this has been handled by government at all levels. I told him that you could almost smell the anger in the wind. But I also told him that hearts everywhere swelled when the military showed up to literally save the day. Just like in the movies. I told him not to doubt for a minute that folks aren't 100% aren't behind what they are doing down there. There may be doubts about the war in Iraq. But there is none about the war in New Orleans.

And with that he took his leave. He said that he and another officer were off to find some IVs for the medic. He says that the medic is worried that guys are working too hard and that dehydration may be an issue and that he wanted to be prepared to rehydrate the ones that needed it. He said that he would be in touch now that cell phones seem to be working as long as he could keep boosting power from the abandoned cars to recharge his battery.

And that is the news tonight from the Vieux Carre. That is the news from Hell's Gate.

Antibiotic Fueled Random Thoughts

The general malaise that lurked inside my head late last week-the one that was physiological in nature that is-ripened into a full-blown sinus infection by last Saturday with fever, chills and a voice which sounded for all the world like I had been doing cocaine all Friday night. Which I deny.

Anyway, I had planned to spend the long weekend playing golf, cooking on my grill and doing stuff around the house. Instead, I have been flopped on the couch drinking water and watching sports. And occasionally feeling sorry for myself.

Until, I look at the footage coming out of Louisiana and Mississippi.

Me? I ain't got no problems. Saturday morning I a) used my telephone to call my doctor who b) called me back on his telephone which he c) later used to phone in a prescription to the d) pharmacy which I picked up later while I was e) driving around running errands. Virtually nobody in Orleans Parish can do what we up here on high ground take so easily for granted. I ain't got no problems.

But I am feeling quite poorly. Perhaps a hatchet job on Wally Hall will make me feel some better.

For some reason Wally couldn't content himself to stick to an account of the Razorback's victory over Missouri State or SW Missouri State or whatever the hell they call themselves. No. He had to lead off by musing about how Houston and Danny had to be pining away for their late father who was not at the opening game for the first time. Or let us quote from the master wordsmith himself:

"It was there.

Not so anyone could see or notice but it was there. A small but very real ache for Houston and Danny Nutt."

Well, if you can't see it or notice it, then you can't know it's there unless someone tells you it is there. And then you quote that person.

But that would be journalism. Wally just makes stuff up. It's easier.

Boy. I feel better already.

It is a pleasant morning here in the People's Republic of Hillcrest. I decided to take a walk just to get some fresh air. As I was walking past the grocery store, I got honked at by one of the hotel courtesy van. The young black fella waved at me. I waved back. He pulled up. The window came down.

" Hey, man! Can I take you somewhere? Can I help you in anyway?"

" No, son. I'm fine. Thanks."

Granted, I don't feel well and so I ain't exactly my usual picture of vigorous good health. But I didn't think that I looked like a shellshocked evacuee. Then I looked down at my shirt to see "Tulane Baseball" emblazoned across my chest. Note to self: The Tulane stuff goes in the closet for the foreseeable future.

Speaking of evacuees, my church is going to take in some folks. And so the call went out for sheets, linens, towels etc. I in turn called many of my little friends and asked them to pitch in. The response has been astounding. They got enough stuff for an army in that gym. People really do respond.

My favorite offer of assistance came from my friend B who called me from up in the Ozarks somewhere.

" As soon as I get back you tell me what y'all need and I'll do whatever."

"OK. Great."

" I was thinking. You know? I would be willing to take in a single mother. I could do that. Only don't tell my mom. She would die and I don't want that on my conscience."

"Neither do I. Your secret is safe with me."

Speaking again of evacuees there was a lady from Gulfport in church Friday night. She was there with her daughter girl who I figured to be around 15 or so. She was staying with her other daughter here in Little Rock. I spoke with her after the service. She had the vacant look in her eyes of someone who has seen hand-to-hand combat.

" We were trapped in the attic. I thought I was gonna die."

She collapsed into my arms weeping. Both her daughters were weeping.

I put my free arm around the kid. I put my right hand above my head.

" Lady, you are in a neighborhood called Hillcrest. You are in Pulaski Heights United Methodist Church. Are you getting the picture?"

She laughed. Thank God.

I put both my hands on her shoulders. "You may freeze to death before you get back to Gulfport but you will not be swept away by water."

She looked at me solemnly.

"I will never complain about the cold again. Never."

I've never had to hole up in an attic while waiting to be rescued.

Me? I ain't got no problems.

Errata

I discovered,much to my horror, that I forgot to run yesterday's post through the spelling checker software. I guess I was in a hurry or something which is unfortunate since I can't spell worth kiss-my-ass anymore.

Anyway, the errors have been corrected. I apologize. Thanks for your patience.

tmfw

Hell to Pay

Today's news from New Orleans is marginally better, "better" being a relative term given the unprecedented devastation that has been occurring in Southeast Louisiana. But I say that things are "better" seeing as how the work on the breached levee seems to be progressing. The tide is pulling the water back into Lake Pontchartrain and the water in affected areas is receding. With any luck the Corps of Engineers will have effectuated the plug before the next round of rain that will surely come soon. The National Guard has finally-finally!-arrived with men and materiel. The long overdue evacuation of Charity Hospital is finally underway now that the civilian helicopters are supported by fully armed Chinook helicopters sent up in order to dissuade sniper fire from the damned fools that have been inexplicably shooting at rescue workers as they attempted to extract folks. More on this later.

I don't know what it takes to qualify for a Congressional Medal of Honor or a similar award around here. But the next time they start to think about handing some out, I have a suggestion: How about the staffs of Tulane and Charity hospitals? Talk about holding down the goddamn fort! Tulane got its people out a couple of days ago but as of yesterday, the skeleton crew at Charity was working with no food, no water and very little electricity. They were ventilating people by hand. All of this while armed looters were thought be on the bottom floors of the vast building. God almighty. What devotion to duty. What bravery.

By contrast, let us now consider the human scum that has been busy stealing, causing even more property damage and shooting the place up. The story coming out now is that the authorities were surprised by the extent of this violence.

Please. Let me explain something.

In the first place, in Louisiana your homestead is exempt from property tax. In the second place, I would imagine that fully 45 percent of the buildings in Orleans Parish are owned by church or church related entities. So all of the owners of all those stately homes in the Garden District (for example) and all of those beautiful structures owned by the Roman Catholic Church (for another example)do not pay one nickel of property tax. And yet, they expect municipal services such as fire and police protection as if they did. They just expect it on somebody else's dime.

So this requires the Parish and City governments to fund municipal services out of general revenues for the most part. Which doesn't leave much for social services and public education. Which is too bad because, as the world is now seeing, New Orleans for all of it's old world charm and ambiance has one hell of a lot of poor people.

The public school system there is a joke. Nobody goes to public school except black kids on the lowest end of the strata. Public housing is horrific. The response of the City is to warehouse folks in the schools and in hellholes like the Desire Housing Project ( which was mercifully razed some time ago) and the St. Thomas Housing Project and just hope they cause the bare minimum of trouble during their sojourn through this vale of tears. And so you have a permanent population of an insufficiently civilized underclass that passes its collective sociopathy from generation to generation. Some of these people are exceptionally dangerous and live within easy proximity of Tulane and Charity and the French Quarter.

And they say they are surprised? Bullshit. They dealt with this problem much the way that they dealt with the issue of the potential arrival of a Category 4 hurricane. They just turned a blind eye and hoped for the best.

I do not say this to explain away the behavior of these punks or to assign blame to society. There is no time for such hand-wringing. Their shocking behavior is inimical to good order and public safety and must be stopped pretty much by any means. And so, there will be war in the streets tonight. There will be hell to pay for what they have done whether they did it for money, for thrills or for street cred. And much of the hell that will be visited upon these desperately stupid young men will be visited upon them by the 39th Infantry Brigade from here in Arkansas working alongside the local authorities. As we know, the 39th just got back from Iraq where they spent a year or so doing urban warfare at night. These thugs don't have a chance. Peace, even if it is an uneasy peace, will be restored.

There will be hell to pay at the polls as well. It will be interesting to see who the electorate blames for this debacle. The Feds? The State? Local government? It will be interesting to see how this all plays out.

But there will be time enough for that. The time for tears has past. The earth can accept no more water. It is time to go to work. But first, pray that peace is restored so that search and rescue teams can work without bullets flying overhead. Pray that they get the water out sooner than later. And pray that, for future reference, somebody in the government remembers the old saying that "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure."

It applies to emergency readiness. It applies as well to social engineering.