Eat The Rich

It’s time to be honest. We don’t like rich people, do we? Come on, you know don’t. Think about it. Don’t feel bad. It’s common. Why would Aerosmith, Krokus AND Motörhead all have songs called Eat The Rich, even though they’re all rich (okay, Krokus probably isn’t)? In fact, it’s the American Way.

Some people paint buildings with anti-rich graffitti

Who is rich? It depends. My Dad once asked–rhetorically–“Does a million dollars sound like a lot of money?” His brother responded: “It depends on what crowd you’re hanging out in.” True enough.

Some people might say I’m rich. I make a good living, pay all my bills on time and even save money. That’s rich to some folks, but not to me. To me, rich is not having to work. If you don’t have to work, you’re rich.

This angry fellow doesn’t care for the rich. Imagine the popularity of an “Eat the Poor” sign.

My definition doesn’t work all that well, though. Disabled people don’t have to work. They’d like to work, I guess, but they can’t. I suppose some poor people actually don’t have to work, either. They get by somehow. Retired people don’t have to work, but most of them don’t seem rich to me. I guess what I mean is that if I could live like I do now AND not work, I’d be rich.

Here’s my test to see if someone is rich. Go to the putative rich person’s house and use the bathroom. Rich people have rich bathrooms. Naturally, there is no stink. They have bidets. They have lotions and fancy soap. You’ll be afraid to touch the soap. The towels will be fabulous. You can just touch them, and they will absorb all the moisture from your hide. I know I’m not rich, because our towels come from Walmart. It’s like drying yourself with a raincoat. Don’t even get me started on the toilet paper of the rich. It’s like using a cashmere.

Typical rich man bathroom.

Most any American is rich compared to an impoverished person in a Third World country. Some people, however, are so stinking rich that no context is required. Bill Gates, for example. He’s worth tens of billions of dollars. Billions. That’s rich anywhere, anytime.

We don’t like that kind of rich. That’s just too damn rich. It doesn’t matter if he gives millions to charity. He damn well should. Rich bastard.

What bothers us–or at least me–is this question: Why couldn’t I think of something like a PC? You don’t even need something that complicated. Mike Nesmith of the band The Monkees is rich. Why? His mother invented Liquid Paper. I could have done that. Someone invented Velcro. Post-it Notes. Staples. Clothes pins. All these simple things, and I’m too freakin’ stupid to think of any of them. Dammit.

I’ll post this on Facebook. Mega-billionaire Mark Zuckerberg invented Facebook. Why didn’t I do that? Now, that punk has more money than he can ever spend.

Sometimes, we admire the rich. They are the American Dream, coming from humble beginnings. Usually, though, we’re just jealous. At least, I am.

You know what really chafes us? People who inherit piles of money. They didn’t do anything but win some kind of genetic PowerBall. That just sucks. It condemns all our prior generations as a pack of losers.

I have an ancestor who helped found Rutgers University and was the driving force behind the founding of Princeton University. The Divinity School at Harvard is named after him. It seems like a guy like that should have been rich. Apparently, he wasn’t. Loser.

My ancestors had jobs like coal miner, plumber, school teacher, carnival barker, store keeper, gas station attendant. No money in any of that. You’d think at least one of them would have invented something worthwhile.

I’ve always wanted a trust fund. I know people who have trust funds. Some of them don’t work. Some do, but not because they have to work. Some clever person in an earlier generation saw to that. Trust funds are the calling card of the rich. Man, I hate that.

You can inherit large amounts of money without having anything going for you. You just get it. No brilliant inventions or hard work. You just make it to the reading of the will. It’s no wonder we hate that.

Of course, the worst is if one of your distant relatives or, God forbid, friends becomes rich. Now, you not only face the fact that your ancestors let you down, but you have an example right in your face of your own failings. You’re left with little choice but to try your best to sponge off them whenever possible.

Some people are rich because they marry rich people. That’s especially galling. We should marry for love, but why can’t we love a rich person? Hating all of them makes that tough. Fortunately, most of us can look past that hate to at least marry someone if he or she is rich enough.

It may have been Scott Fitzgerald who said the rich are different. They are. Rich people go to rich people schools with names like The Goiter School or some other pretentious name. If your school starts with “The,” you’re probably rich, too. They go to Harvard or Yale or Princeton until they go to grad school where they end up at a state university with the rest of us. We like them until we find out they’re rich. Sometimes, we still do like them, but we’re still jealous and secretly hope they’ll give us some money or lose all theirs. Either one would be satisfying.

They have different names, too. Lots of III’s and IV’s and what have you. Names like Conroy Hollingsworth Van Dusenberger IV. You can hardly blame them, given the success of their ancestors. I’d be glad to be named after my great-uncle Stud if he’d made a fortune. You can also get nicknames like Chip and Trip and Trey. We hate names like that.

The rich belong to clubs, too. Country clubs, lunch clubs, dinner clubs, book clubs. They play croquet and badminton. Their kids play lacrosse, whatever that is. They have nannies and au pairs. They’re different. Not bad different. Just different. We hate that.

We make ourselves feel better by saying things like “money can’t buy happiness” or noting that the Bible talks about shoving camels through eyes of needles and whatnot. Of course, we fail to note that many poor and middle class people are unhappy, too. I’m sure plenty of them go to Hell, too. Unhappy, Hell-bound and not rich. Now, that’s something we’d definitely hate.

We’re a few days from the Presidential Election and being rich is an issue. Mitt Romney is rich, and people don’t like that. He’s “out of touch” or “aloof.” We should just admit the real problem: He’s rich. Oddly enough, Obama is also rich, but it’s a different kind of rich. He became rich as a politician, which should certainly be more suspicious than inheriting money. Somehow, that’s different but not really. We have two Harvard-educated multi-millionaires running for President. That’s pretty much par for the course. Don’t you hate that?

Hating the rich crosses party lines. When George W. Bush ran against John Kerry, we had the same thing–two Ivy League multi-millionaires. They both went to Yale. Both were rich. Really rich. But Kerry seemed super-duper rich. That’s because he married a rich woman, the widow of John Heinz. Heinz was rich. Why? Heinz Ketchup. That’s right–inventors of the greatest ketchup known to man. That’s just too damn much money in one house. Kerry was aloof and out of touch. Bush was down to Earth. Both are richer than most of us can ever think about being without hitting a lick, but one seemed richer than the other and, thus, more hateable.

Most of our Presidents in the past century were rich. JFK was rich. His family made a fortune in bootlegging, but money is money. FDR was so rich that he could marry his own cousin and no one cared. Try that today. Nixon was rich, although he made all his money as a politician. Good old Tricky Dick. I don’t know if Reagan was rich, but he was some kind of movie star–they’re all rich. Now, Truman wasn’t rich. In fact, he was so not rich that the federal government became concerned about him and gave him a pension. No one wanted to see a former president penniless. You don’t have to be rich to be President, but it sure doesn’t hurt. We hate that about the President.

I’m told I should dislike Romney because he’s rich. Apparently, if you’re really rich, you’re evil. I’ve never seen that correlation, but it would make me feel better if it were true. You know, something like rich people eating poor people. Supposedly, Romney doesn’t care about anyone but the rich. I guess that’s possible, but he’s given a lot of his money to charity which can’t be all bad unless it’s a charity for rich people. Folks should just cut to the chase and say: “Vote for Obama. He’s rich but not as rich as Romney.” Naturally, we’d hate anyone who said that.

Even though we hate the rich, we all want to be rich, don’t we? We play the PowerBall to get rich, even though the odds are better that you will one day live next door to someone who walked on the moon than actually winning. It’s worth a shot. When someone wins the PowerBall, don’t you hate them just a little bit?

If there’s a downside to being rich (other than all the hate), it’s that you might not always be rich. It happens. That would suck. Then you’d have to hate people who are like you used to be and are what you want to be, too. Seems like that would be tough. We’d hate that.

One good thing about the rich is that it’s okay to hate them. Other than politicians and athletes, hate isn’t socially acceptable. You can hate the rich without being a bigot or some kind of phobe. Try saying “Eat The Poor.” You’ll have no friends.

If you’re rich, take no offense. I don’t really hate you. I’m just a wee bit jealous. I’d like to be your friend. More importantly, I’d like a trust fund. Of course, if you are rich, I doubt you’d read my foolish blog, but one of your servants might read it to you. (Sorry, more rich people envy. Don’t hate me).

Oh well. Make friends with some rich people. Then, eat them.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

2 Comments Leave a comment

Five Issues I Don’t Care About (Maybe)

We’re less than two weeks from the Presidential Election. Regardless of the outcome, it’s the end of the Republic. At least that’s the consensus on social media. That’s unfortunate.

People on social media have many, many important things to say about the upcoming election. Some folks post dozens of times a day about it. I don’t mind. Just because I don’t do something doesn’t mean you shouldn’t. I’ve watched every episode of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. Last night, I watched a full hour of Call of the Wildman. I’m sure you wouldn’t do that, but it’s okay for me.

I can read those political posts or ignore them, just like I do posts about kids or dogs or people with awful diseases. Social media is the ultimate free speech zone. The best thing about all of it is that it makes me think about the issues that matter most–or least–to me.

I live in Kentucky, where we have no say in the Presidential election. By the time we have our primaries, both major parties have chosen their nominees. In the general election, no one seems to care about our paltry eight (or whatever pitiful number it is) electoral votes. I don’t think President Obama could find Kentucky on a map. Mitt Romney has been here, but that was only to raise money. So, my vote may not count, but I don’t really care.

I’m not a political animal, but I do vote. I’m fairly well-informed on the issues that matter to me. Those, of course, are the important issues of the day.

I’m concerned about the nation’s debt. Personally, I’ve never had debt problems. I live within my means and don’t borrow money. I would be a poor legislator.

I don’t like our country becoming a territory of the Chinese government. We owe them money, and they make all our stuff. Okay, not all of it, but a hell of a lot. They also control the minerals we need to make things like computers. Seems like a bad deal.

I don’t like our dependence on the Middle East for oil. Until we started sucking at their collective petrol teat, these countries were irrelevant. They’ve had us by the short hairs now for 40 years.

I’m also an unabashed supporter of the U.S. coal industry. The hate of coal is so virulent that we even have people who protest the exporting of coal. If you’re anti-coal, you don’t get my vote. Pretty simple.

There are also many, many issues which don’t move the needle for me. Now, understand that doesn’t mean they aren’t important nor does it mean that they shouldn’t be important to YOU. But this post is about ME. If that bothers you, try not to be so self-centered.

So, what DOESN’T matter to me? The list is almost endless. For brevity’s sake, I’ve distilled the list to the five issues which matter the least:

RELIGION: Specifically, anyone else’s religion. Mitt Romney is a Mormon. Some people say the LDS church is a cult, although Billy Graham doesn’t list it as one anymore. I suppose that’s progress. My grandparents were Mormons. So are a lot of my relatives. I like Mormons. That said, I’m not a Mormon, and I don’t really care if Romney is one. One caveat to this is if you don’t like him because he’s a Mormon. Then, it matters but only in a contrarian kind of way.

So, I don’t care about a politician’s religion. Okay, if someone were an avowed Satanist, I might care about that. Obama is a Christian. Good for him. I don’t care. Some people say he’s a Muslim. If he were, it wouldn’t mean anything to me, either.

Now, if you insist that I believe your religion, I probably will care about that. I wouldn’t vote for anyone who demanded that I believe as he or she does. As Thomas Jefferson noted, whatever you believe won’t break my leg or pick my pocket. I would note, however, that you might use it as an excuse to do both.

Now that I think about it, maybe religion does matter, at least to the extent that you try to shove it down my throat. Or break my leg. Hmmm.

PEACE IN THE MIDDLE EAST: Here are some sample headlines I intend to trademark:

MARKETPLACE BOMB KILLS [fill in number]
SUICIDE BOMBER KILLS [fill in number]
UNREST REPORTED IN [fill in name of Middle Eastern country]
[fill in name of Middle Eastern country] THREATENS ISRAEL
ISRAEL VOWS RETALIATION AGAINST [fill in name of Middle Eastern country]
FERRY SINKS, KILLING [fill in number]

If I got a nickel every time a variation of these is printed, I’d retire in six months. Any of these could have been a headline any day in the last 40 years. Okay, maybe not the ferry thing, but have you ever noticed how many ferries sink in other countries? I don’t know if it happens in the Middle East, but it seems like it would.

Here’s a pointer for anyone running for office: THESE PEOPLE DON’T GET ALONG WELL! They don’t geehaw, as some say. They aren’t ever going to get along. Ever. Anwar Sadat tried to make them get along better. What did he get? The Nobel Peace Prize and shot to death. There’s a lesson in that.

Here is what I want to hear a future president say:

Today, I’m pleased to announce that the U.S. has imported its last barrel of oil. To our friends in the Middle East, I say, on behalf of all Americans: You can kiss our red, white and blue ass from now on!

It’s possible that I might care about this if there were a candidate who said that he or she didn’t give a damn about it. Then, you’d have my attention. So, I guess I care about it to the extent that I want a candidate who also doesn’t care about it.

IMMIGRATION

Bitching and moaning about immigrants is as American as apple pie. My German ancestors were despised in Pennsylvania. The Irish were hated in New York. Jews were despised for decades. Italians? You bet. Vietnamese? Bingo. Japanese? Hell, we put them in concentration camps–and they were U.S. citizens! We’ve even been prejudiced against Africans, and we FORCED their ancestors to come here.

Now, people piss in their beers about Hispanics. Quit acting like it’s because of illegal immigration. Our history shows that we don’t like immigration, period–legal or not. Hispanic folks have the added disadvantage of looking different. We don’t like people who don’t look like us, whatever it is “we” think we look like.

We’re all immigrants, except the Indians, who aren’t really Indians at all. I’ll grant you that our borders shouldn’t be sieves. That said, I don’t care how many Hispanic or other folks are in our country. They’re here, and we don’t have any way to deport all the folks here illegally. Quit pretending like we do.

Wow. I got pretty fired up. I think I do care about it. Weird.

JOBS

I need to explain this one. I do, of course, care about unemployment. It’s just that no politician can convince me that he or she will create jobs. How, exactly? The government has to spend huge amounts of money to actually hire people. We need to spend less money, not more.

Even the most conservative politicians will call themselves as job creators, usually by pointing to some success in the business world. What exactly are you planning to do–hire all the unemployed people?

Now, if you have a plan to strengthen our private economy, I’m all ears. I may not be persuaded, but I might at least listen.

Now, that I think about it, I’ve always had a job. Maybe I’m not the best person to weigh in on this one. Of course, I’m not concerned about it. I better reserve judgment. Depending on the outcome of the election, I guess it could be an issue for me.

TAXES

Okay, I pay a lot of taxes and don’t want to pay more. I do, however, understand that there could be times when tax increases are needed. My problem is that my taxes are increased by a government that never decreases its spending. It’s like loaning money to your drunk brother-in-law who will pay you back when he gets a job. Of course, he won’t get a job because he’s drunk and keeps spending your money. As long as he gets your money, why get a job?

I don’t believe any politician who says that he or she will never raise taxes. Mitt Romney says that he wouldn’t increase taxes even if it resulted in a tenfold benefit to the government. That’s hard to believe. In fact, it’s impossible to believe.

I’m also dubious of politicians who increase spending and then make the case for higher taxes (see Obama, Barack). If you decreased spending and then needed more revenue, maybe I’d be persuaded. If you spend more, I would expect you to need more cash. Try spending less and then check back with me. Have you ever asked your boss for a raise because you owed a bunch of money to people? Try it.

The fundamental problem is that the subject of taxes is fertile ground for lying. No one ever won an election on the platform of “Vote for Me. I’ll Tax The Hell Out of You.” Whatever you say about it, you might be lying. If you say you’re going to raise MY taxes, that’s probably not a lie, but–like any right thinking America–I can’t support that radical agenda.

Now, if you’ll cut my taxes, I’m down with that. Now that I think about it, I’m against raising my taxes and all for lowering my taxes. I guess I do care about it, at least in a completely self-absorbed sort of way.

So, there they are. Things don’t matter to me, but maybe do now, upon further reflection. I hope this is helpful to you when you vote on November 6. If not, I don’t care. I think.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

0 Comments Leave a comment

Harlan County Halloween

It’s that time of year again. Halloween! All the kiddies will dress up and go door-to-door trick or treating. Some of us adults will dress up, too. There are Halloween parties for young and old. I suppose there are even Satan worshipers who use this time for their high holy days.

It was only when I moved to Lexington did I hear a lot about Halloween as a Satanic rite. Maybe there were kids I knew growing up who couldn’t trick or treat because of its Hellish undercurrents. The only kids I knew who couldn’t trick or treat were Jehovah’s Witnesses, but they weren’t allowed to do anything.

Despite the many urban legends, Halloween is generally safe for young and old. People don’t put razor blades in apples or needles in candy bars. In fact, my cursory research reveals that there has never been a reported case of such maleficence. The only case of someone poisoning candy was some demented freak in Texas who poisoned his own kids. By the way, if you do think it’s safer for your kids to trick or treat at the mall, I suggest you go the mall and take a look at the human flotsam and jetsam loitering about. I don’t know what your neighborhood is like, but mine doesn’t look like a casting call for Jersey Shore II . Nevertheless, at 50 years old, Halloween takes me back to my youth, to the nostalgia of a simpler time.

I grew up in a Loyall, Kentucky, a small town in Harlan County. Halloween was a big deal in Loyall. Churches had Halloween parties. Our school had a Halloween Carnival. I even escorted the Halloween Princess one year. Alas, I was never either Prince or King of the Carnival, although my younger brother managed to salvage some of our family’s good name by become Prince. To become Prince or King, one had to raise the most money. After my humiliating defeat, my parents made sure my brother faced no such shame.

Your author’s enthusiastic appearance as the 2nd Grade escort for the Halloween Princess.

We enjoyed trick or treating. I lived in a small neighborhood with the exotic name of Rio Vista. It was, in fact, aptly named as we had a view of the Cumberland River, especially when it flooded. Rio Vista consisted of five small blocks of houses and was a trick or treat Nirvana.

We would run around the neighborhood collecting our candy and having a generally good time. Other than the occasional soaped window, we didn’t have much “tricking.” One year, a friend of my brother wrote “WALLACE FOR PRESIDENT” on our front door with a crayon. That wasn’t vandalism, as much as it was a political statement. In fact, the trickster told my Dad he did it. He didn’t want anyone else taking credit.

I don’t remember ever being afraid to trick or treat. We knew most of the people around us. There was one lady who handed out political literature instead of candy. We just skipped her house. There was also one lady I thought was a witch. I never walked by her house anyway, and I damn sure wasn’t taking a chance on Halloween.

As I got older, I realized that the rest of the county was different from my little world. Tree-cutting, for example, was very popular. You would cut a tree and drop it in the road to screw up traffic. Another more daring version involved cutting the tree almost in two and then pushing it down in front of an on-coming vehicle. Oh, how one would laugh at the ensuing carnage. The final–and most deadly version–was to drop the tree ON a passing vehicle. I don’t know of that actually happening, but I’m sure it did. Watts Creek and Jones Creek were two popular areas for this version of “tricking.”

My first personal experience with this difference was in my teen years when a friend and I–being past trick or treat age–decided to walk through Loyall on Halloween night. Without warning, we were caught in an egg-throwing crossfire which left us dazed and eggy.

For reasons long since forgotten–at least by me–someone once threatened to kill me on Halloween. Why did he choose Halloween? Maybe he quite reasonably–though mistakenly–assumed it was legal on Halloween. Suffice to say it didn’t happen.

In October of 1978, shortly before Halloween, I took my driving test for my license. The officer giving the test was an affable fellow, well-known around the county. He wasn’t so affable that day. When my Dad asked him how he was, he responded: “I’m getting ready for this damn Halloween. If I had my way, they’d outlaw that damn night. Declare martial law and arrest anyone out of after dark. As far as I’m concerned, shoot everyone out after dark.” He went on the explain that it was the most difficult night of the year for the police in our county. 75 additional state troopers had to be brought in to handle the lawlessness. As example, he cited a relative of his (it might even have been his brother) who lost an eye for an errant egg throw. I’m not sure I agreed with his Judge Dredd system of justice, but he had a point.

Halloween in Harlan County in the 1970’s and ’80’s went well beyond handing out candy and soaping windows. Our people took it as a night to abandon all semblance of order, to engage in random acts of vandalism and violence not seen during the rest of the year. It was an anarchist’s holiday.

One of my high school teachers was equally adamant about maintaining order on All Hallows Eve. One day, he addressed our class about his concerns. Below is an approximation of what we were told:

Some of you boys know where I live. Last year on Halloween, we had a house burned near us. I’m warning you that I’m not putting up with anything from now on. Anyone sets foot on my property, and I’ll be waiting with a shotgun. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to unload a twelve gauge shell full of rock salt on you. I’ve done it before. It blows out of the barrel like burning sand. It won’t kill you, but you won’t soon forget it.

That was one house to be avoided at all costs. He lived near an area called Pathfork where the tales of Halloween excess were legendary. His precautions were understandable. Did I mention that he was also a preacher?

My favorite story is a somewhat apocryphal tale right out of Loyall. One of our denizens was well-known for his lawless behavior. For example, he was notorious for huffing lighter fluid, so much so that the local stores wouldn’t sell it to him. He would tie his shirt over his face and soak it with lighter fluid. As you might expect, he was prone to erratic behavior.

In any event, one Halloween, he dropped a toilet from the top of the bridge in Loyall. A toilet. Here is the Loyall bridge (long since torn down) as it looked at the time:

The “x” marks the spot from where a toilet was dropped off this bridge in Loyall. The approximate direction of its path is shown by the red arrow.

As this photo shows, getting to the top of this bridge was no simple task. Now, I know that this young man could do that, because I had seen him walking on top of the bridge on many occasions. He would climb (or crawl) up the angled supports at the front of the bridge. But, to climb to the top carrying a toilet seemed to defy human capabilities. You might be impressed with that guy who parachuted from space, but I’m still more fascinated by this.

Oh, I should clarify that it was only the bowl part of the toilet. He did not drop the tank, too. This does not make the story any less fantastic. In fact, that is the kind of detail that gives the story the ring of truth.

Why did he do this? Where did he get a toilet? How on Earth did he climb with it to the top of the bridge? Did he intend to drop it on someone? If so, did he realize that it would likely instantly kill that person? I still hope that this story is true. It may well not be, but I hope so..

Then, there were the burnings. I’m not talking about mundane things like bags of excrement or pumpkins, although we had our share of that. I’m talking about houses. Every Halloween, I heard tales of house burnings–real and threatened. I don’t understand how going door-to-door in costumes morphed into felonious acts of violence, but that’s what I heard. Like a lot of stories in Harlan County, they may have been exaggerated.

You may wonder if anyone got killed on Halloween. Not so far as I know. If they did, it probably wasn’t Halloween-related. Nowadays, many people get their image of Harlan County from the television show Justified. I’m sorry to report that, at least in my day, we weren’t stacking up corpses like cord wood. Regardless, I don’t think the kill rate increased on Halloween.

One time in study hall in high school, a guy told me he was going to hang a guy on Halloween, thinking that he could get away with it. I don’t think he did it. He did, however, pull a dog’s teeth one time. You read that right. Nothing funny about that. That’s not too far from a lynching. I’m sure an FBI profiler would agree that it shows a certain willingness.

Even when I was in college, I took precautions. Halloween was on a Friday one year. I made sure NOT to go home that weekend, lest I be driving through the county after dark.

So, if you’re annoyed by trick or treaters, just think: Someone could be burning your house or cutting down your trees or dropping a toilet on you. Happy Halloween!

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

8 Comments Leave a comment

Going Green

I’m going green. That is to say that I might go green. It’s all the rage. President Obama is all for it. All my liberal friends want me to do it. I have tiny feet–the size of matchboxes–but I compensate for that with a gigantic carbon footprint. I like the environment, but if you’ve read this blog before you know I’m not a mountain man. I like the seasons, except for Fall and Winter. Fall is like a really crappy appetizer just before an even crappier meal.

So, I guess I should go green. Maybe I will, but I have some reservations.

Green isn’t usually associated with anything appealing. I hate eating greens. To be green with envy is bad. If you’re green as a gourd, you don’t know anything useful. Have you ever aspired to be a greenhorn? Of course not. Ever see someone sick in a cartoon? Green-faced. Green teeth are really gross, unless you’re talking about Old Green Teeth from Charlie Daniels’ classic, Uneasy Rider. Even Kermit the Frog sang that It Isn’t Easy Being Green. Indeed.

There is good green stuff, too. St. Patrick’s Day and the wearing o’ the green. I’ve drunk green beer. It was just like regular beer but made for really gross vomit. The Jolly Green Giant and the Hulk seem cool (although being associated with gigantism might be bad). Money is green, and I like money. But, when you take a close look at it, it’s not really all that green.

Where I grew up, we had the Harlan High School GREEN Dragons. I guess there were all kinds of dragons–red, black, brown and green. The city of Harlan must have been crawling with dragons at one time. I didn’t go to Harlan High School. I went to James A. Cawood High School. We were the Trojans, named after, of course, condoms. By the way, since folks at Harlan High School always thought they were better than us county kids, I’m sure someone will offer an explanation of why being the Green Dragons is a sign of their socioeconomic and intellectual superiority. Save it. Truly, no one cares. You’re from Harlan County. The rest of the world thinks you’re a toothless hay shaker, too. But, I digress.

James A. Cawood High School. Home of the Trojans. The gym was called the ConDome but only by me.

Back to being green. I think I have to go off the grid. In other words, I have to live like an animal but without any animal skills or instincts. Either I have to make my own electricity or do without. Doing without is a non-starter. I like TV. TV requires electricity, as does the Internet.

I don’t know how to make electricity. I guess I could use solar energy, if I knew what the hell to do with it. When I was in the 7th grade, I built a solar water heater for a science project. Actually, my brother designed it. I just built it. That’s a lie, too. He built it. I watched, though. It worked, if you consider the ability to turn cold water into tepid, room temperature water “working.” Like many inventors, I remain bitter at corporate America for crushing my innovation.

Actual photo of solar water heater I invented in the 1970’s. Note lukewarm water pouring out of the pipe on the lower right side.

I could build a windmill, I suppose. Then what? How do I hook it up to my TV? Would I have to live inside it like Frankenstein’s Monster? He didn’t really live in one, but he did die in one. I have no interest in that. Would I be like Don Quixote and think it was a dragon–a GREEN dragon, no doubt? You know what windmills are good for? Killing birds. I could have plenty to eat, depending on what kind are killed. Power lines kill a hell of lot more birds AND have the added advantage of cooking them in the process. Once again, green isn’t necessarily better.

There goes my TV!

Windmills also catch on fire sometimes, which would scare the hell out of me, especially if I’m living in one (see comments RE: Frankenstein’s Monster above). The biggest problem is that the wind doesn’t blow all that much around here, and Kentucky is near the bottom of states in “wind potential.” I want my TV.

The sad fate of the typical windmill dweller.

Toilets. I like indoor plumbing and flush toilets. The TOTO Neorest 600 is on my bucket list. I’m not composting human waste. This one is non-negotiable.

The Neorest 600. Life at its best.

Cars. This is another tough one. I like cars. Not just any cars but ones with internal combustion engines. Maybe I could drive an electric car, if they didn’t cost so much. Plus, none of them look cool. I can ride a bike, but bike riders annoy me. They jam up traffic, run stop signs and generally get in the way. Plus, they’re all on the dope. No thank you, Mr. Armstrong.

Then, there’s flying. I fly on occasion, and I’m sure that’s not green. I assume that burning huge amounts of jet fuel isn’t eco-friendly. We used to have green air travel. Airships, massive floating palaces. They were like flying ocean liners. They also did this:

The joys of green air travel. The landings could be tough.

I’ll pass.

Maybe I should just get a green job. I’m lawyer, and it’s not all that green, I suppose. I produce massive amounts of paper which kills trees and fills landfills. I use lights and computers. I drive a car–a lot. Maybe I should just buy an old manual Royal typewriter and set up my office in my bird-slaughtering, flammable windmill. Unfortunately, this would substantially reduce the green which I value most–$$$$.

At one time, I considered setting up an eco-friendly mammogram business to provide much-needed health care screening while reducing one’s carbon footprint. It never took off. I’ve still got my cardboard box with two holes cut out in it, just in case.

If you’ve read other posts of mine, you know I work in the coal industry. If you’re green, you think I’m evil, that I hate the environment and want to control the weather. Not true. I like the environment. I just don’t like being out in it all that much. If you do, more power (coal power, of course) to you. I’m happy for you. Almost everyone I know in the coal business likes to hunt and fish or play golf. That’s being green.

Oddly, many green people are not all that green themselves. They are downright dirty. They are brown. Don’t be brown if you’re green. Bathe regularly. Really bathe, too. Don’t do something like soak in a pool of your own urine (or anyone else’s, for that matter) or roll around in composted human waste and call that bathing. If I go green, I’m still showering quite a bit.

Green folks are very sensitive. Generally speaking, they don’t like to be made sport of. They get enraged, in fact. They get red in the face (not green). They tell you that you are awful for not being green, too. It’s like a form of racism. Imagine if you organized protests demanding that everyone be white. But…but…THAT’S NOT THE SAME THING!! some greenie screams about right now. Well, no it’s not. Not even close. I just said that to make them mad. See how easy it is? I once enraged a hippie with this blog. Hippies are green. Some greenie will get hair-lipped about this post. Lighten up. Not with lights, mind you. Those take electricity.

I guess I’m not meant to be green. My kids do have a penchant for not flushing the toilet. They’re not green, either–just nasty. I recycle at work, but the Byzantine rules about what stuff goes where are so confusing that it’s just not worth it.

If you’re off the grid, I salute you. Of course, if you are, you’re probably not reading this unless you’re staring over the shoulder of someone at Starbucks. If you’re also “brown,” that person knows you’re standing there on account of the green smell.

I don’t feel too bad. The green folks I know drive cars, fly in jets and use electricity just like I do. That’s not a criticism. I understand. We need all that stuff. Kermit was right. It isn’t easy being green.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

5 Comments Leave a comment

The Madness of Joe Biden

: While Paul Ryan tries to make a point, Joe Biden laughs like Chris Rock is on stage.

I didn’t watch the Vice-Presidential Debate. After watching a bunch of clips of it, I wish I had. Joe Biden went mental. I’m not sure that he made any salient points, but he put on a show, gesticulating like a silent film star. It might not be good politics, but it was certainly good theater.

It raises the question, of course, of whether Biden is mad. Not angry, but mad as a hatter mad. He probably isn’t, but he could be. His odd and inappropriate behavior was certainly refreshing after the President’s narcoleptic performance in his first debate. After the President’s woeful effort, the pressure was on Biden. He delivered, I guess.

I imagine Biden’s debate prep going like this:

Aide: Mr. Vice-President, when he mentions Medicare or Medicaid, that is your opening to say that Romney plans to take 700 billion out of the system, while the President’s plan is actually 700 billion in savings. You must stress that at every opportunity.

Biden: Yeah, I’m sure that’s a good idea, son. How about this? Every time he says anything, I’ll just laugh like a f***ing tool.

Of course, if the VP were truly insane, this would be problematic. Normally, the VP is just an ineffectual twit like Al Gore or Dan Quayle. Common sense dictates that we are indeed fortunate that neither of those empty vessels ascended to the White House; however, neither appeared to be certifiably deranged. Biden, perhaps, is different.

Actually, I doubt he is truly daft. If you learn about his background, he’s quite impressive. He has overcome terrible tragedy and illness and spent most of his adult life in the U.S. Senate. I think the man is an entertainer. I suspect he read my post on how to liven up the Presidential Debate and took it to heart.

Poor Paul Ryan and his wonkish–yet compelling–numbers crunching. As soon as he would make a point–or attempt to do so–Biden would cackle or roll his eyes or fart to draw attention to himself. It was like they forced Ryan to debate Jim Carrey.

From what I saw of the VP Debate, I came away with three impressions of Biden:

1. Laughing is okay, I guess, but I would try to tamp it down when topics like terrorism and assassination are being discussed.

2. He might have been high.

3. As annoying as it was, it’s a good laugh–a hardy guffaw. I think he really did think everything was funny. Maybe he is nuts.

Ryan’s reactions were funny, too. He seemed baffled by Biden. One time my mother had a bad reaction to some medication and couldn’t make any sense when I talked to her. Ryan probably felt like I did then.

With no more VP debates, Ryan is now at a disadvantage–at least as far as being interesting is concerned. Should he try to counter Biden’s Ace Venture: Vice-President performance? If not, why not? If so, how?

Ryan is no shrinking violet. We know he can run a marathon in Kim Jong iL-like times. He has the body fat of a world-class athlete. He poses for pictures like this:

: Ryan putting on a gun show

I like this, because I also like to pose like that:

: Your author’s pythons put Congressman Ryan’s spaghetti arms to shame.

Okay, those pictures are irrelevant. I just needed an excuse to post one of me. Let’s continue.

Ryan also has an impressive story and, like Old Joe, has spent his adult life in Congress. He also appears to have a sense of humor. That’s a good thing. With a month left before the election, he must let the public know that Biden isn’t the only able to capture the public’s imagination.

Why should he try to out-Biden Biden? Ryan impresses me as a smart guy. I like a lot of his ideas. That’s all well and good, but it won’t help dim the glare of Biden’s Bidenness. Besides, no one votes for the VP anyway, except possibly the candidates’ families. Think about it: Mondale, Quayle, Gore, Cheney–No one would vote for them. Even when we do, we know it’s a mistake (Bush the Elder). Okay, I’ll admit that most people did vote for Gore, but what the hell were they thinking? Oh, yeah, GW. Let’s move on.

None of this will sway votes, but it should be a matter of personal pride. Ryan needs to make an impression these last three weeks. Boring numbers about deficits and entitlements won’t do it. Here are five modest suggestions:

1. Donate his widow’s peak to Biden to make hip youthful-looking hair plugs.

2. Hook up with Biden’s daughter. Call Biden Poppa Joe.

: Paul Ryan needs to work himself into this picture with Ashley Biden, uber hot daughter of Crazy Joe.

3. Mock Obama’s Kenyan heritage by challenging him to a marathon.

4. With no future debates, try to explain budget plan to confused old men at a Waffle House lunch counter.

5. Publicly announce that “If that old man laughs at me just one more time, I’m going all P90X on his ass! You can write it down!”

These pointers will help, but Ryan has to step up. Again, this won’t win the election for Romney, but it will entertain us, and that’s the important thing. Perhaps, Ryan can attend the next Presidential debate and then he can laugh uproariously throughout. Maybe he can guest star on Here Comes Honey Boo Boo and debate Sugar Bear.

(I would make one serious suggestion: Fire the aide who suggested the anecdote about the family maimed in a car wreck, since–ahem–Biden’s wife and daughter were killed in a car wreck. That was a little awkward.)

I’ve concluded that both candidates are actually better than the ones their parties nominated for President, even if one of them acts nuttier. I would like them to be Co-Presidents, in fact. Since that’s not possible, maybe they can star in a remake of The Odd Couple or in their own sitcom: Crazy Joe and Paul about a bookish young man forced to live with his senile uncle.

Although I’ll vote for Romney, I have to admit that I like both Biden and Paul. While I might disagree with Biden’s politics, he’s feisty, nutty and passionate. He’s also prone to gaffes which are entertaining. Ryan is smart and not afraid to propose radical ideas. I like that. Neither one seems to take himself too seriously (I certainly can’t say that about their Presidential counterparts). I just wish they had another debate scheduled. Maybe Biden would turn the tables and cry throughout.

So, is Old Joe crazy? Crazy like a fox, I say. Having him as VP is like giving Obama a Kevlar exoskeleton. Everyone–regardless of political stripe–will pray for Obama’s good health if he’s re-elected.

I don’t have anything else to say. I think Biden said it best, “HAHAHAHAHA!”

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

0 Comments Leave a comment

A Debate Overview: What Went Wrong?

Like most folks, the first Presidential debate surprised me. I wasn’t surprised that Romney did so well. What did he have–like 200 debates against that Republican field? He should be ready for anything after that. Debating a comparatively sane person should be like shooting lay ups on a four-foot goal. No, the surprise was how poorly President Obama performed.

I’m one who disagrees with many of Obama’s positions. Now, don’t confuse me with people who think he’s a time traveler able to doctor birth records in the past or that he’s lived his entire life as some sort of Manchurian Candidate groomed by a cabal of Muslim socialists to take over the world . I just disagree with him. That said, I know why people like him. He’s convincing and charming. So, it was all the more surprising that he was neither in the debate.

Of course, there have been many on the left rising to his defense with explanations. Some say Obama did fine, but Romney is just a big, fat liar. Al Gore thinks it was the altitude (personally, it bothers me if the President is only able to function well at certain elevations, but that’s probably just me). Chris Matthews has just yelled a lot without really making a point.

Regardless of the validity of any of these arguments, I’m convinced that something had to be wrong. Naturally, no one will admit that, but I don’t give up that easily. Through a combination of cursory research, speculation and guess-work, I have surmised a number of reasons to explain Obama’s performance:

10. Thought it would be more humiliating if the Republicans lost to a stammering moron.

9. He forgot it was his anniversary, and Michelle hit him in the head with a frying pan just before the debate.

8. Squandered valuable preparation time watching TiVo’d episodes of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo.

7. All that writing he was doing? Sudoku.

6. Last minute decision to bring in poorly prepared “Replacement” President.

5. Counted on Jim Lehrer to strangle Romney over PBS comments.

4. Mistakenly thought debate format required only disinterested scribbling and smirking.

3. Debate coach: Joe Biden.

2. Thought he could use Bill Clinton as a “life line.”

1. Let’s just say that the altitude wasn’t the only thing a “mile high” at the debate.

As an aside, I’m probably done with my debate-watching for this cycle. I know how I’m voting, and the debates won’t change that. I do, however, hope they liven up a bit. My ten-year old son kept hoping they’d attack each other. My 17-year-old, on the other hand, had just watched the Kennedy-Nixon Debate at school and said they didn’t “choose” each other like Romney and Obama.

I do have one hope for the remaining debates–that they get the make-up fixed. Jim Lehrer looked like the Joker. Obama’s make-up was some pancake stuff that made him the color of a creamy Dove Bar. Romney–despite his fabulous hair–was just blotchy. It’s HDTV folks. Get it together.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

0 Comments Leave a comment

Flaming the Fans

University of Kentucky President Eli Capilouto has banned alcohol in certain tailgating areas for football games. Why? Because a group of drunken idiots got in fights at a recent game. Of course, the idiots are apoplectic about this, because that’s how idiots react.

President Capilouto also banned DJs in those same areas. They may not have anything to do with the fights. Maybe it’s just a nod to good taste.

(Apropos of nothing, I should note that a friend of mine and I always refer to the President as “Doctor Copulate-O.” Oh, how we laugh when we say that)

This recent edict got me thinking about my own history as a fan and various fan personalities. I don’t have much to say about fans acting like fools. My friend, Meisterblogger, wrote an excellent piece on that subject. I have nothing to add to that. It does, however, make me ponder the behavior of fans, behavior in which I have engaged on some level my entire life.

I’m a sports fan. Always have been. When did it start? I can’t really remember, but I know it started with baseball cards. The one I remember best was a 1966 Willie Mays card. For some reason, I loved that card. I kept it under the desktop glass of a desk in our house. I would sit and just look at it. I loved it right up until my little brother managed to get it out from under the glass and tear it in half. It was then replaced by a 1969 Willie Mays, which I kept in my pocket for safekeeping.

I carried the Say Hey Kid in my pocket for years.

I’ve cheered my teams. I’ve screamed myself hoarse. I’ve also cried. Yes, cried. Literally. Who are my teams? At various times, I’ve been fanatic about:

Los Angeles Lakers: I’m not talking about the “Showtime” Lakers of the ’80’s. These were the Lakers of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. Why? Wilt Chamberlain. Wilt was the first basketball player of whom I was aware. He was bigger than life. Headband; knee pads (on his shins!); tape and rubber bands on his wrists–he had swag before there was swag. In those days, there was only one NBA game a week on TV. The Lakers and Knicks dominated. I remember when the Lakers won 33 games in a row. The starting line-up was Wilt, Jerry West, Gail Goodrich, Happy Hairston and Jim McMillan. Wilt retired, then West, then my interest in the NBA.

There was only one Wilt.

Kentucky Colonels: After Wilt retired, my interest shifted to the American Basketball Association. Kentucky had a team. Dan Issel, Artis Gilmore, Louie Dampier, Darrel Carrier and many others. We rarely got to see them on TV, but I followed their every exploit. The ABA was great. Red, white and blue ball; three pointers; big Afros. I loved it. A couple of times, ABA barnstorming teams came to Harlan and played exhibition games. We’d get Dampier, Carrier and a few other stars. They were great guys. They even let one of our local basketball coaches, John D. Wilson, play in one of the games. Great stuff. When the ABA merged with the NBA, the Colonels folded. THAT was a sad day.

Artis Gilmore was everything cool about the ABA

Cincinnati Reds: When I became a baseball fan, it didn’t take long to become a Reds fan. Everyone in Kentucky was a Reds fan in those days. You didn’t have much choice in the matter. Johnny Bench was my icon. He could do no wrong in my eyes. I followed the Reds as closely as one could during the 1970’s. I listened to the games on the radio. I cut the box scores out of th paper. When they finally won the World Series in 1975, I was as happy as a kid could be . My fandom continued in earnest through the mid-1990’s. I’ll confess that it burned off through a combination of things. One, free agency in baseball took away the concept of “my” team. Rosters change too much and too quickly. Second, I’m one of those who never got his passion back after the 1994 players strike. I still follow it, but I don’t live and die with it.
Dallas Cowboys: From Craig Morton to Tony Romo. Calvin Hill to Demarco Murray; Bob Hayes to Miles Austin; Bob Lilly to DeMarcus Ware, I’ve followed the Cowboys. Roger Staubach was the hero of my youth. I’ve reveled in the salad days of the 1970’s and 1990’s and suffered through the 1980’s and 2000’s. Jerry Jones is the bane of my existence, but I still watch and hope. Mostly, I long for the day when the Jones family dies out.
The University of Kentucky: I save this for last, but it is certainly not least. This is the one where my fandom has not waned. Oh, being older, I’m not as psychotic as I used to be, but I’m still a card-carrying member of Big Blue Nation–basketball and football, of course. I’m a two-time alum, but that doesn’t really matter. You don’t have to be a grad to belong to BBN. Hell, you don’t even have to ever set foot on campus. It’s bigger than that. It IS Kentucky. My obsession with all things UK has evolved, but it has never died.

Against this backdrop, I’ve learned a lot about fans. I am one. Who are they?

THE DRUNK

I’ve been this guy. He shows up at 9:00 a.m. to tailgate for a 7:30 p.m. kickoff. He drinks and drinks and drinks. He’s loud and obnoxious. He freely uses foul language. He’ll insult opposing fans. He’ll insult his friends. He’ll pick fights. He’ll randomly vomit. He watches the game–maybe. It doesn’t matter if he does or not, because he won’t remember it.

Here’s how I used to do it. Show up several hours before kickoff with a grocery bag full of beer. Drink the beer. Wander from the tailgate to tailgate bumming more beer. Watch the football game. Try not to pass out or puke. Drink more.

I would find myself with people I didn’t know. Drinking and cheering. High-fiving and hugging. Once, I was tailgating and a woman asked of me and a friend: “Do you mother****ers wanna dance?” We declined. That’s the crowd we were in.

Drunk Fan isn’t to be confused with his cousin, Drinking Fan, a mostly amiable fellow who occasionally goes over the edge. He’s okay.

Fortunately, the strongest thing I drink these days is coffee. The good news is that I remember all UK’s basketball games. The bad news is that I remember all the football games, too. Nothing is perfect.

THE DEMENTED

This guy believes he’s part of the team. More accurately, he is the team, and the team is him. They are one. WE win. He wears jerseys of his team. He paints his face. He names his kids after players.

If his team wins, this guy is a better person. Not only that, he’s just better in general. Healthier, happier, stronger. Better. He will gloat. He will post things on Facebook like:

Cats win! Yeah, baby, we’re rolling! Suck it, Louisville!

Of course, he can also lose. Losing is crippling. He can’t face the light of day. He won’t read the papers or watch TV, lest he be exposed to the terrible truth of his own failings. Losing makes him a lesser person. Unworthy. Yet, he will tweet this:

U of L fans suck! Chipstrapped losers! Enjoy your one win, because we’re still BIG BLUE!! #UofLblows

The Demented Fan sees each game as a personal triumph or failure. It never dawns on him that he isn’t playing and has no stake in the outcome of games played by others who are not conscious of his existence. Sadly, I’ve been there, too. Why, oh, why, dear God, did they lose??? My cheering, my clothing, my very presence should have made the difference. They did not. I have failed. Life sucks.

THE PSYCHOTIC

He rants. He raves. He yells obscenities. He throws things. He does all of these things just watching on TV. I’ve been that guy, too:

Christian Laettner’s shot hits the bottom of the net to beat UK in the Regional Final. In one seamless motion, I sweep a full ashtray into my hand and hurl it against the fireplace. It shatters into a thousand pieces. A stream of obscenities follow. I can’t sleep for days. It takes 20 years for me to watch a replay of the shot.
Colt Jim O’Brien’s kick splits the uprights to beat the Cowboys in the Super Bowl. I cry.
Remember Dwight Clark’s famous catch against the Dallas Cowboys? The “Catch?” I screamed and fell to my knees.
LSU beat UK on a Hail Mary pass with no time left. I was watching the game at home and drinking. I stepped outside, pick up a basketball and hit it with a baseball bat. Not understanding the immutable laws of physics, I did not know that the bat would fly back, instead of the ball flying forward. The back cracked me in the middle of the forehead. I immediately went into a swoon and puked up about 2 gallons of beer.
North Carolina beats UK in the regional finals. I am so deranged, I don’t know what to do. First, I punch the door. A steel door. Bad move. Then, for reasons I don’t understand, I tore my jeans in half–while wearing them. You know how the Bible talks about people “tearing at their robes?” That was me.
I once spit on the TV screen. By “once” I mean innumerable times.
I have used every foul word and phrase in the English language watching games–even when my team is winning.
In a futile effort to protect our possessions, my wife bought me foam bricks to throw. Not enough heft to them, but I did shred one.

Remember what I said above about fans acting like fools? Burning couches and fistfights are for fools. My actions were acts of passion. Fortunately, I’ve outgrown this behavior–for the most part. Now, my wife acts worse than I do. At least I get to see what an annoying pain in the ass I was.

THE CASUAL FAN

I really have nothing to say about this guy. He is just one step above the contemptible Fair Weather Fan. The Casual Fan only pretends to be a fan. He never loses sleep or acts like a jackass over a game. He doesn’t know the players’ birthdays or their hometowns. He’s a fraud. I’ve never been him, and I won’t be.

I have crawled from top to bottom of the Fan’s Tree of Life. I’m now a passionate–yet mostly normal–fan. I still get agitated and take it too seriously. But, I tell myself that the sun will still come up tomorrow and life is good. I even believe that sometimes.

So, what kind of fan are YOU?

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

0 Comments Leave a comment

Debating 101: A Primer

My father was fond of saying “This isn’t a high school debate!” whenever I took exception to anything he said. It was his way of saying “Shut the hell up!” That’s pretty much how I would handle a debate if I were a Presidential candidate.

I have never participated in a debate. I’ve argued a lot and even yelled at people, but that’s different. I have been married for almost 25 years, so these types of encounters happen on occasion. That said, I’m sure I would do poorly in a real debate.

I don’t pay that much attention to politics, except for the few issues which interest me. As a result, I’m not fan of political speeches or heated back-and-forth on the issues of the day. I do, however, watch quite a bit of television. Presidential debates are, after all, made-for-TV events. As such they neglect one basic element of good television: Entertainment.

Despite some thinking that 47% of the public has made up its mind about the election, I doubt that. My guess is that 45% are in the bag for Obama and 45% are on the Romney bandwagon. That leaves 10% to decide the leader of the Free World.

Chances are that these folks aren’t much interested in politics, but–like all of us–they want to be entertained. Something has to resonate with these folks–draw them in. I don’t think two stiff politicians droning on about political minutia will do it.

The few debates I’ve watched have been dreadfully dull, like most of the candidates. Given the critical nature of the upcoming presidential debates, I’ve thought about what could be done to spice them up a tad.

The first thing needed is a change in format. Rather than one dullard as a moderator, I would pick a panel of controversial blowhards. My initial thought is to have Keith Olberman, Ann Coulter and Simon Cowell. Instead of the usual mundane questions, they could take turns introducing hot button topics, such as:

You, sir, are a damned liar!
Tell us about Bill Ayres!
Where are your tax returns?
Where is your birth certificate?
Sing your favorite song!
I hate you!
You are a communist!
You are a rich sonofabitch!
You are a Muslim!
You are a Mormon!
You don’t have star power!

After each topic is introduced, each candidate will have two minutes to respond. Our panel, being pathologically unable to stay quiet, will be free to interrupt the responses with their own inane rants.

These changes, while helpful, won’t fix things unless the candidates themselves are willing to make some changes to their own approaches. Below are my suggestions for both candidates:

For Obama:

If asked about the economy, light up a Marlboro and mutter “I don’t know. I just don’t know….”
Demand that Romney make public all his tax returns…and his wives.
Invoke Patriot Act; Declare Romney an Enemy Combatant.
Announce that Biden is being replaced with The Turtle Man so that someone more qualified will be in line for the Presidency.
Throw Osama Bin Laden’s head into the audience, screaming: “I didn’t say anything about not spiking his head!”
If asked about taxes, respond with: “I’m taxing you bastards into the Stone Age.”
Plant Bill Clinton in the audience. Have him interrupt to answer any difficult questions.
At some point, say: “KARL Marx?!?! That’s completely different! All this time, I thought I was following GROUCHO!”
Counter any valid argument with “I’ve got your predator drone, right here!”
Announce plans to end war in Afghanistan; start war in America.

For Romney:

Enter stage with Honey Boo Boo on his shoulders, thus insuring ratings bonanza and currying favor with the 47%.
Announce that he’s legally changed his name to “Mint” and wear gigantic gold dollar sign around neck.
Pointedly challenge Obama: “If you’re really Kenyan, then explain to the public why you can’t run faster than Paul Ryan!”
Draw hilarious caricature of Mohammed.
Drink first cup of coffee ever during debate. Go mental.
Announce plans to invade Canada.
Take vow of poverty, then laugh uncontrollably until time is up.
Respectfully address Obama as “Commissar Commie Pinko Obama.”
Wear a monocle.
Undermine Biden’s inroads with biker-voters by referring to Ann as “my old lady.”

In addition to these specific pointers for the candidates, there are also general tactics which can be used by either candidate. These will insure lively back and forth while not turning off the viewer with wild, controversial stands on important issues.

A tried and true approach is to redirect the question toward a topic you’d really like to discuss. I call this “Debate by Diversion.” Here is an example:

QUESTION: Sir, you have been accused of being vague on specifics. How exactly will you balance the federal budget?

ANSWER: I’m glad you asked that question. A balance budget is vital to our future–and that of our children. I will balance the budget, but–speaking of children–the more important question is why does my opponent continue to deny that he authored a series of erotic novels for children?

This outlandish and baseless accusation will subtly divert the viewer from the mundane budget issues, focusing his or her attention on the more inflammatory topic of adolescent erotica. The opponent will be on the defensive for the remainder of the debate, plus viewers will remain glued to their TVs for the remainder of the debate.

There is also the irrelevant point:

QUESTION: Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak was long viewed as a staunch ally of the United States. With the rise of the Muslim Brotherhood to power in Egypt, what will you do to re-build our relationship with Egypt?

ANSWER: A strong, democratic Egypt is vital to our interests in the Middle East. I will work with all Egyptians to build a strong relationship based upon mutual respect and peace. Of course, the biggest issue facing us today is the rampant abuse of bath salts, both here in the United States and in Egypt.

The candidate has defused a potentially devastating lack of knowledge of the Middle East by injecting an irrelevant issue into the middle of the debate. Many more undecided voters are likely to be addicted to bath salts than to actually know someone in Egypt.

Then, there is the non-response. If your opponent makes an especially stinging comment, respond: “WhatEVer!” Then, storm out of the room and refuse to speak to your opponent until he apologizes, even though he did nothing wrong. Okay, I’ll admit that won’t improve ratings, but it works. My wife does it all the time.

Finally–and most importantly–do not take a position on anything, except being “Anti-Terrorist” and “Pro-America.” Don’t screw up and become “pro-crime” or “anti-God.” Your ratings will plummet.

Trust me, when you watch the debates, you’ll wish they’d read this. Of course, you can always check out Here Comes Honey Boo Boo and watch the debate highlights on the news. That’s my plan.

2 Comments Leave a comment

Hunting Big Foot

This should read “Loyall, Home of Big Foot.”

I grew up in the Golden Age of Big Foot–the 1970’s. I also grew up in the Land of Big Foot–Harlan County, Kentucky. I realize that the proper spelling of the species is “bigfoot,” but I prefer “Big Foot,” as his proper name. I never saw Big Foot, but he was around, lurking.

Some 40 years later, my contemporaries ponder the state of the World. They grieve over politics and social issues. They worry about such mundane topics as prostate health and cardiovascular disease. I, however, still think about Big Foot.

Eastern Kentucky has always had its share of tall tales. There was Old John Shell, reputedly living to the ripe of old age of 130. He killed a bear with his bare hands in a creek. Thus, that creek is now known as Greasy Creek from the grease left by the bear’s carcass. My Papaw used tell of a headless man who roamed the woods in Island Creek in Pike County.

We now live in a new era of Big Foot. He’s making a comeback. The History Channel used to be devoted to subjects like war–you know, history. Now, it has shows about Big Foot. Big Foot is on the Science Channel, The Learning Channel and others. He’s a star again.

I first became familiar with Big Foot’s cousin, The Abominable Snowman. The Abominable, of course, was one of the stars of the classic Christmas special, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. He terrified me, even after Hermey sadistically pulled all his teeth.

I learned of the real Abominable through a magazine article–it might have been in Boy’s Life. Someone had made plaster casts of his foot prints. They were huge! He had to be real.

It was around that time that I first heard of Big Foot. He might be known as Sasquatch elsewhere, but in Harlan County, he was–and will always remain–Big Foot. Harlan County had Big Foot.

To be precise, Loyall had Big Foot. Loyall is where I grew up. It was–and is now–a small town. For years, the sign into town said “Population 1100.” I guess that was right. I don’t know how long Loyall has been there, but I’d guess since 1911, the year the first trainload of coal was shipped out of Harlan County.

Loyall is a railroad town, home of a railroad yard. Originally, it was the Louisville & Nashville Railroad. Today, it’s CSX. The “Yard” is huge, full of old relics and buildings which haven’t been used in decades, but it still runs trains. It seems like most folks in Loyall worked for the railroad. My uncle Jack was the Trainmaster at the Yard. He made sure the trains ran on time–literally.

The Loyall Yard, many years ago. It looks pretty much the same today.

I lived most of my childhood in Rio Vista, a subdivision of sorts just outside Loyall. It was 5 blocks of houses and a nice, quiet place to live. Nice neighbors, you slept with your doors unlocked, etc–typical small town USA. The only downside was that we lived right by the railroad tracks–as did most folks in Loyall. Even today, I’m sure I could sleep soundly right by a train track.

Just outside Loyall is a mammoth cemetery, Resthaven. That’s where my parents and younger brother–and many others–are interred. Near the cemetery was a curved railroad bridge, which I was told was the first curved railroad bridge in the country. I doubt that, but I like to think it’s true. So, Loyall was pretty ordinary. Our biggest claim to fame was being saluted once on Hee Haw.

Even though Loyall was ordinary, it had its mysteries. For example, there was Good Neighbor Road. For the most part, it was just a little road at the foot of Park Hill lined with houses. After about a half mile, the road ran out and turned into dirt. People lived on that stretch, too, but I don’t know who they were. Their dogs were vicious and would chase you like a pack of wolves. Past those few homes was the sewer plant. Past that was a big old house full of people. We didn’t know them or what they were about. A friend of mine and I used to go into the woods above that house and look at it with binoculars. It looked like the house in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. We never saw anything interesting going on, but it was still creepy. We knew they were up to no good. My knew those folks and said they were alright. I’m sure he was wrong about that.

Then, there was Old Loyall which really was no different from “new” Loyall except that’s where the Yard was located, and I guess it was older. It’s also where City Hall and the fire department were–and still are–located. But, on the other side of the Yard was a strange stretch of road running behind the Yard. In the back of the yard were a couple of old school buses with stove pipes in the windows. People lived in those buses. At least, I think they were people.

Our biggest mystery was Long Hollow. It is above Park Hill, where I moved at age 12. We lived–literally–on the side of the mountain. The city of Harlan was on the other side of the mountain. On our side of the mountain was a holler (“hollow” for you city folks). That was Long Hollow, land of mystery. To get to it, you had to hike straight through the woods above our house, maybe 500 feet. Then, you hit the old mine road which you could follow for about a mile. When it ran out, you just hiked. Long Hollow was shaded, cool and more than a little eerie. This is where Big Foot resided.

When I say I lived on the side of the mountain, I mean it.

I think my friend Norman first made me aware of Big Foot. Norman was a font of information, some true and some false. He knew of Big Foot, because Big Foot lived up above his house, deep in the woods. Deep in Long Hollow, the mysterious cove well back in the mountain.

An aerial shot of Loyall showing Big Foot’s last known whereabouts.

It was probably in the 3rd or 4th grade that Norman described the great beast to me. Big Foot had “the eyes of man; the nose of a bear; the ears of a man; the mouth of a bear; the hands of a man; the feet of a bear.” Whew. That’s one scary-sounding abomination. Even at that young age, I could recognize exaggeration or outright lying, but it was an entertaining tale.

Norman and I saw the movie The Legend of Boggy Creek at the Margie Grand Theater in Harlan. It was sort of a mock-documentary about the Boggy Creek Monster, kind of a poor man’s Big Foot. This film had production values that would embarrass a pornographer, but it terrified me. If Big Foot was anything like the Boggy Creek Monster, we were in trouble.

As an aside, the atmosphere of the Margie Grand made the film all the scarier. The Margie Grand was an old theater–really old. Plaster hung in big chunks from the ceiling. The balcony sagged dangerously overhead. The only time I was ever in there when the balcony was open, some kid peed off it–on to the audience below. That’s a special effect George Lucas never thought of. It had an old stage in front of the screen. Norman and I would throw popcorn on the stage and watch the rats run out to eat it. It added a certain grimy creepiness to anything you watched. Years later, I watched The Legend of Boggy Creek on TV. It wouldn’t frighten a preschooler. But, at the Margie Grand, you half-expected the Boggy Creek Monster to be selling tickets.

We hunted for Big Foot. Imagine, two small 10-year-old kids, heading into the woods, with knives on our belts seeking a beast which would tear us limb from limb. We would stab him to death if it came to it. We were ready to take him on.

We walked the mining road, occasionally stopping to play with the old equipment. Hey, we might have been Big Foot Hunters, but we were still kids. An old dump truck was pretty cool. Sometimes we encountered feral dogs or “wild” dogs as we called them. Skinny, mangy and growling–they were damn scary. I don’t care what kind of dog-lover you are, these mutts would scare the hell out of you. Sometimes, we’d go inside the portals of the old coal mines, an action far more dangerous than Big Foot.

I made several treks into Long Hollow to look for Big Foot. I never found him. Oh, occasionally, I saw his footprints or heard him off in the distance. But, I never had the chance to take him on with my knife, which, incidentally, my cousin brought to me straight from Vietnam.

Some 40 years later, I still have my Big Foot hunting knife.

Even though we never saw Big Foot, people still had some fun with him. I knew a kid who was obsessed with, and terrified by, Big Foot. His father sawed huge feet out of plywood, strapped them to his feet and stomped around in their yard when it snowed. He made tracks right up to his son’s bedroom window. The kid didn’t sleep for weeks. That’s a good way to assure years of therapy.

A friend of mine and I once took another kid in the woods to show him where we “saw” Big Foot. We had another kid waiting to jump out and scare him. Of course, we had no Big Foot costume nor were any us 9 or 10 feet tall. Our ersatz Big Foot leaped from behind a tree screaming his best Big Foot scream and whacking a tree with a stick. It sounded kind of like “YOWWWWWYAAHHH!!” He had improvised his own Big Foot costume by combining a football helmet with a green Army poncho. Strangely, it worked and our poor dupe ran screaming out of the woods.

Mostly, Big Foot disappointed me. Honestly, I never saw him. I also never saw any footprints. I tried hard to imagine that I did. I had seen the eponymous Big Foot film (known as the Patterson Film to us Big Foot-philes). That’s what I wanted to see, but I didn’t.

Truthfully, I’ve always been a bit of a coward. If I had really believed he existed, I probably wouldn’t have set foot in those woods. Nevertheless, it was fun to think about it. It still is.

Eventually, Big Foot became like the Wallins Creek Panther. I heard for years that there was a panther in Wallins. A HUGE panther. After awhile, I realized that if that many people had seen it, someone would have killed it. Big Foot–being gargantuan–couldn’t have hidden that long. Say what you will about Harlan County, but our people won’t hesitate to kill something.

Gradually, Big Foot left my consciousness. He became a thing of memories, like 10 cent cokes and baseball cards. When I visited my parents, I would sometimes look up toward Long Hollow and think about hiking around. Mostly, though, I thought about how my parents must have been crazy to allow an 10-year-old to wander off into the woods. I wouldn’t allow my kids to walk to the corner at that age.

One night, my sons and I watched an atrocious film called Yeti on the SciFi Channel. Yeti (or Yetti) is another name for the Abominable Snowman. This Yeti was a maniac, able to leap 40 feet in the air and cover 100 yards in a single bound. He slaughters most of the football team from “State University” whose plane crashed on his mountain. Eventually, the Yeti falls off a cliff. Of course, we find out in the final frame that there were two Yetis, setting the stage for a sequel. It did, though, bring back my memories of Big Foot.

I’m not sure what has caused the rest of the world’s renewed interest in Big Foot. Maybe he’s just making a comeback like zombies have done in last few years. I hope no one captures him. Capturing is for wusses. Stab him to death. That was my plan.

One thing that has always puzzled me is whether there are multiple bigfoots (bigfeet?). I mean, there have to be, right? They re-produce, I guess. Or maybe Big Foot is 130 years old like Old John Shell. That might make more sense.

So, there you have it. An actual Big Foot hunter right in your midst. Oh, by the way, the men’s room at the Margie Grand had its toilet at the bottom of a long flight of stairs. You had to stand on the steps to pee. Weird.

10 Comments Leave a comment

You Can Quote Me On That

If I were as clever as Wilde, I could get away with dressing like this.

Like most people, I’d like to do something memorable, to be known for something. Something good, of course. It’s easy to be remembered for some horrid thing. Those are fairly easy to do, but I’m not of that stripe, fortunately.

As with most lawyers, I think I could be a writer or even should be one. Writing–good writing, that is–requires work ethic and inspiration, neither of which I possess in plentiful amounts. To write well, or “good” as a poor writer might say, research are at least interesting life experiences are also required. Plus, writers often must suffer for their art. Suffering holds little interest for me. Writers are also often unappreciated during their lifetimes. I have absolutely no interest in that type of attention. Thus, I lack the basic skills required to be a successful writer.

I recently thought that I could make my mark by coining pithy sayings. I’ve been known to turn a phrase or two on occasion. Sayings, memorable quotes and random witticisms are much easier to compose than entire books or even novellas. Many people are known for saying things. Oscar Wilde, for instance, said many things, most of which were pretty funny. Of course, they also seem to have been designed to show that he was smarter than everyone else, which he probably was.

Here’s one I came up with: Ambition is the devil’s anvil. That was just off the top of my head! Amazing, huh? What does it mean? I don’t know. Maybe it means that if you are too ambitious, Satan will hammer you on his anvil into whatever he wants. It’s not very good, is it? Why? First off, you have to think too much about it. Second–and most importantly–no one knows who I am. What would I know of the Devil? If C.S. Lewis had said this, we might nod our heads, reflecting upon the wisdom of the great Christian apologist. If I say it, people ask me questions like “Does the Devil have an anvil?” or “What are you, a Communist?”

Thus, I am now perplexed by how to break into this world of wisdom. In this age of sound bites and brief attention spans, there should be ample opportunity. This post summarizes my thoughts on this complex subject. To determine where I fall short, I studied the vast universe of the quotable.

Literary quotes, of course, are fantastic. I could fill many volumes with the witty, inspiring or profound writings of others. Here’s a good one:

“We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”

Kurt Vonnegut, Mother Night

This is a zinger. It’s not really a saying, as much as it is a literary quote, but it’s a good one. The main character in the book pretended to be a Nazi, and it turns that’s exactly what he was. Good stuff, but Vonnegut was a great writer. He could probably come up with things like this all day. Like I said, if I were a writer, this would take care of itself.

Already being well-known certainly helps. In fact, it may be the number one advantage you can have. If you have a certain amount of fame or notoriety, you can say things and people will like those things. How about this one:

“Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

Vince Lombardi

Lombardi was not a writer, but was a great football coach. Although he’s been dead for over 40 years, he’s still thought of as the prototype for coaches–tough, demanding and a stern taskmaster. This is his most famous saying. It’s been quoted thousands of times. Alas, it makes little sense. If winning is, indeed, the only thing, isn’t it, by definition, everything? Also, winning isn’t really the only thing, is it? There’s losing. When Lombardi said that, there was no overtime in football. So, there was also tying. What was his point? He didn’t need one. He was Vince Lombardi.

Thus, it may be more about who says something than what they say. Try this one:

“A long time ago, being crazy meant something. Nowadays, everybody’s crazy.”

That’s so-so. But, if I tell you that Charles Manson said it, you pay attention. If Charlie thinks that, what’s the world coming to? Of course, we must be careful. Freely quoting Charles Manson isn’t advisable, even if he has the occasional gem. More importantly, looking to Charlie for wisdom is a bad, bad sign.

This last example points out a truism. Attribution is important–maybe the most important thing. Let’s say that I’m fond of this one:

“No one ever went broke spending other people’s money.“

If that was spoken by Barack Obama, many folks would become apoplectic. It would be quoted on social media and in campaign ads as proof of his socialist agenda. What if Ronald Reagan said it? Those same folks would think of it as wise counsel warning us that the government is stealing our money. What if–as is really the case–I said it? Then, you don’t give a damn. Of course, it may not be original to me, either. There are so many sayings out there that sometimes I’ll think I’ve come up with a pearl, only to realize that someone else said it or I heard it on TV.

A friend of mine recently said “I’m tired of wearing things.” Now, this makes little sense, especially considering that it was said in response to someone offering him a campaign sticker. If it had been said by–let’s say–William F. Buckley, it would be thought-provoking, perhaps. As it was, it only created an uncomfortable few moments of silence.

Some sayings have been around so long, we don’t who said them, like “A stitch in time saves nine.” What the hell does that mean, anyway? I think it means that if I’m industrious enough to sew up a small hole, it will save me the work of fixing a much bigger rip later. I’ve heard that, but I’ve never used it, and I probably won’t. With these types of adages, we just say “Someone once said…” or “You know what they say….” They and someone have much more credibility than, say, you or I do when it comes to wisdom.

There are snarky quotes, like Gore Vidal or Dorothy Parker might have said. “When a friend of mine succeeds, something inside of me dies.” Vidal said that, and I agree, especially if a friend of mine comes up with a catchy saying. But, one must first have a reputation of being either an intellectual snob (Vidal), a curmudgeon (Andy Rooney) or maybe just a bit disturbed (Truman Capote) for these to mean much. Otherwise, you just seem hateful and must be relegated to talk radio for your audience.

There is the Malapropism, as when Dan Quayle bemoaned that “It is terrible to lose one’s mind or to have no mind at all” or when President Obama referred to “56” states. In order to be known for a Malaprop, however, one must already have achieved some fame. Who cares if a nobody says something wrong? I had a client who once repeatedly said on the witness stand “that’s a mute point.” It wasn’t funny. It was annoying. If he had been the President, it would have been funny. Pretty simple. If you’re going to be famous for sounding like an idiot, be famous first. It is difficult–but not impossible–to become famous for one’s stupidity alone.

Movies are a great source of memorable quotes. Here are 10 of my favorites:

“I’ve always been lucky when it comes to killin’ folks.” Clint Eastwood, Unforgiven
“It’s my way or the highway.” Patrick Swayze, Road House
“They don’t even know I’m not in their f***ing Army anymore.” Martin Sheen, Apocalypse Now.
“Avenge me!!” Harry Dean Stanton, Red Dawn
“Look what your brother did to the door!” Jim Sedow, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
“Lick my plate!” Bill Moseley, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Part 2
“Luca Brazi sleeps with the fishes.” Abe Vigoda, The Godfather
“She had good judgment if not particularly good taste.” Tim McIntyre (As Blue the Dog), A Boy and His Dog
“You humans are stupid! STUPID!!” Dudley Manlove, Plan Nine from Outer Space

Since I am neither an actor nor a screenwriter, cinema isn’t available to me.

We quote songs. I like MacArthur Park (“Someone left the cake out in the rain….”). Bob Dylan had many good one (“Don’t wanna be bum you better chew gum”). The Doors alone will give you a vast library of quotes. There is an endless supply. Alas, I have no musical talent. This is not a possibility for me.

Of course, there are also the inane, useless sayings that no one claims, like:

Whatever: I’m convinced this was coined for the sole use of my wife to make my flesh crawl.
It is what is. This is the long form of “It is.” So what?
We’ll agree to disagree. Really? Doesn’t that just mean we disagree?
Too much information! If I were to post on Facebook that my new hemorrhoidal ointment was caused a severe rash, I would soon get this comment. There is no such thing as too much information. The more the better.
Just sayin‘: This gem is added to the end of things that people say to reinforce that they are saying them, as opposed to acting them out in pantomime or interpretative dance. Most times it follows a caustic comment to connote that “just sayin'” is some type of qualification of the statement.
“Know what I’m sayin’?”: This is a variety of the older “You know what I mean?” and the newer “Feel me?” If you could speak clearly, you would not have to ask me repeatedly if I know what it is that you just said.
God is good. Okay, I know I’ve just offended a whole bunch of people, but I only hear that when good stuff happens. Of course, God is good! If God is a god, you better not being saying that He’s not. Don’t forget the smiting.

We also have famous last words. Some, like actresses Tallulah Bankhead (“Codeine…bourbon”) or Joan Crawford (“Dammit. Don’t you dare ask God to help me!”) are less than inspiring. Others are odd (James Thurber–“God bless. God damn”). Some are funny (Gen. John Sedgwick–“They couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist….”). And some are spooky (Victor Hugo: “I see black light.”). Regardless, they all have one thing in common. THEY ARE LAST WORDS! I’m not saving the good stuff for my last breath.

So, what do I do now? Well, I’ve come up with a short list of sayings, quotes, catchphrases and witticisms for all occasions. At least one of them has to catch on, but in case you don’t want to quote me, I’ve included in bold a more prominent person for attribution:

He’s as useless as a blind guide dog. Walter Brennan
A camel is just a swayback horse turned inside out. Junior Samples (Actually, I might have heard that on Hee Haw).
Charity is God’s way of robbing us blind, assuming for a moment there were, in fact, a God. Ayn Rand
The Government protects freedom like a jackal guards a meerkat. Ronald Reagan
Never swim with sharks where there is a perfectly good boat. Harry Truman
Never fight a man with a glass eye (I mean don’t fight a man who HAS a glass, not don’t use a glass eye as a weapon, although that’s good advice, too). Mark Twain
Don’t trust a woman who… aw, hell, just don’t trust a woman. Albert Einstein
An atheist is a man whose God doesn’t exist. Billy Sunday
Leave me alone (that’s not really a helpful saying. It’s just something I say a lot). J.D. Salinger
You beat a man with a whip and that man likes a whip, you’re just making a fool out of yourself. (Okay, actually Charles Manson said that, but you can’t quote him, can you?). Andy Warhol

Feel free to use these any time, just be sure to give me proper attribution, unless of course you want to be taken seriously. Notice how I cleverly used only dead people as potential sources. As we lawyers know, the dead are defamation-proof. Remember, though, that I am a lawyer, and I will sue you if you steal my material.

So, I’ve made my contribution. Now, it’s up to the public to seize upon it. If they don’t, to Hell with them. You can quote me on that.

0 Comments Leave a comment

Coal Troll's Blog

Culture

Eat The Rich

Five Issues I Don’t Care About (Maybe)

Harlan County Halloween

Going Green

The Madness of Joe Biden

A Debate Overview: What Went Wrong?

Flaming the Fans

Debating 101: A Primer

Hunting Big Foot

You Can Quote Me On That