Culture

Raising Cane’s Courts Controversy

In a stunning development, this reporter has learned that Raising Cane’s Chicken Fingers has become embroiled (or emfried) in its own marriage controversy.  Raising Cane’s reclusive President, Kane (possibly pictured below), has been investing in several well-known anti-straight marriage organizations for a number of years now.  These groups include Ashley Madison.com, the NFL Network, Playboy Magazine and Ted Haggard Ministries.  When reached for comment, Kane stated:  “Guilty as charged!  Heterosexuals present the greatest threat on Earth to the sanctity of marriage.  I’m proud to say that I stand by my principles in opposing these hellish unions.”

Kane notes that “One day you wake up and your spouse looks like me. Who in their right mind wouldn’t oppose that?”

This foray into such controversy might be a PR mine field, but Kane disagrees:  “Half of all married people get divorced anyway.  I’m certain that the other half want to.  That makes everyone on the planet welcome at our restaurants.”  When asked if his open prejudice applied to same-sex marriage, Kane responded:  “Not yet, but give it some time.  They haven’t had enough time to make a mockery of their wedding vows.  I’m confident that they will.”

When reached for comment, Herman Cain said: “I don’t have anything to do with that place, but they might be on to something!”

Raising Cane’s actually derives its name from the original Cane whose parents were, according to many, the first married couple.  Kane notes that he–and everyone else–is a direct descendant of the murderous offspring of Adam and Eve.  “Look at the facts.  The first married couple and–BOOM!–they produce a homicidal maniac. Let’s face it.  It’s gone downhill from there.  Paul said it was better to marry than to burn.  All I can say is that that sounds like something you’d say if you’d never been married.”

There are over two million marriages a year in the United States.  Raising Cane’s would seem to be courting trouble, but Kane is steadfast.  “We’re inviting God’s judgment on us with every one of those marriages.  Better or worse; richer or poorer; sick and in health–give me a break!  There’s only one thing for certain:  People like fried chicken.  That’s it.”

Dr. Timothy Vanderboosen of a well-known think-tank believes that such prejudice is more widespread than the public realizes.  “Okay. Half of the married people get divorced, right?  Then, they get married again.  I’d call that crazy. My own wife is a complete pain in the ass.  She gained about 50 pounds within 5 years of our wedding and just lies around the house all day watching Oprah.  Oh, and she has a goddamn mustache, too.  I mean, she’d have to do that on purpose, don’t you think? You’d think I could get a decent meal every now and then, but noooo…I’m sorry, what was your question?”

Famed Muppets Ernie and his long-time companion Bert are encouraged by Cane’s stance.  “We may not be welcome at Chik Fil A, but we can still gorge ourselves at Raising Cane’s.  Bert and I don’t give a shit if they’re heterophobic.”  For his part, Kane said:  “Hey, those two little fruit baskets are always welcome at our restaurant.”

Several anti-straight marriage groups have already rallied to support Cane’s.  Rumors are rampant that the thrice-married Newt Gingrich and four-times-married Rush Limbaugh are organizing a “Support Raising Cane’s Day” encouraging everyone who hates marriage to patronize the restaurant.  As part of a promotion, Cane’s is considering giving a house to a lucky male customer for him to give to a woman who hates him.

(Disclaimer:  This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance between the characters and story and any person living or dead is purely coincidental, except for Kane and Herman Cain, because I used their real pictures. This doesn’t mean that Kane  or Cain said any of things attributed them, which they didn’t as far as I know.  Kane, in particular, should take no offense.  I saw him in a movie called See No Evil where he tore out people’s eyes, which I don’t want to happen to me.  Kane is not really the President of Raising Cane’s nor does Raising Cane’s engage in any such outlandish behavior.  That doesn’t keep me from wishing it were all true.)

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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The American Sport

The shootings in Aurora, Colorado have predictably sparked debate about gun control. That debate is easily rekindled. Sadly, we have many such opportunities in America.

I’m not part of that debate and neither is this post. I have nothing to add to the countless talking heads and political opportunists who stand on such tragedies as a platform to hear themselves speak. Although I am an attorney, I also won’t belabor the many court decisions interpreting the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution which guarantees the right to bear arms. We have that right, subject to limits.

I will offer this disclaimer: I have no problem with gun ownership. I own guns. I grew up around guns. When my father died, he left a veritable arsenal of weapons. The Second Amendment exists, and I wouldn’t support repealing it nor would I support leaving it to the states to decide. If this makes me a Second Amendment advocate, so be it. I don’t hunt, carry a gun or belong to the NRA. You be the judge.

I’m not foolish enough to say that what happened in Colorado had nothing to do with guns. Of course it did. I also recognize legitimate questions about how a person purchases body armor and thousands of rounds of ammunition without detection. That said, I leave it to others to decide what the legal reaction, if any, should be.

For me, the broader question, the American question, is Why? Why do we Americans kill each other for sport? We do, you know. We always have. It happens in other countries, but it is as American a sport as football. We’ve had our share of political murder, assassination and domestic terrorism. But, hunting each other remains an American past time.

We’re hardly the most violent or dangerous country on the planet. Many countries are little more than disorganized war zones. Organized crime permeates some societies. Our distinction is in the random or so-called “senseless” murder.

In our age of information overload, we tend to think that these things are a modern phenomenon. Nancy Grace will jump on one of these stories every day. My favorite cable channel is Investigation Discovery, an entire TV network built around people killing each other. Think about that.

We have school shootings. SCHOOL shootings. That should be unthinkable, but it isn’t. Here’s a story you probably haven’t heard. Andrew Kehoe was the Treasurer of the Bath Township Consolidated School board in Michigan. Like a lot of folks, he was against tax increases. The board approved an increase in property taxes to fund the schools. Kehoe owned a farm and was very much against this increase. He was legitimately concerned with his ability to pay the tax increase and keep his farm. He made his objections known but to no avail. Here’s what he did next.

He bludgeoned his wife to death and set off explosives in all his farm’s buildings, destroying his farm and all his livestock. The previous day, he planted explosives in the Bath Consolidated School. They detonated almost simultaneously with those at the farm. Over 30 died, most small children, while Kehoe watched from his car. The school Superintendent was at the school and approached Kehoe’s car. This time, a bomb exploded in the car, killing Kehoe, the Superintendent and an 8-year-old girl. In all, 38 people died. If Mr. Kehoe had committed his crimes today, he would be the subject of 24 hour a day coverage.

Why don’t you know about this? Because it happened in 1927. Our history of violence is as long as it is disturbing. Ted Bundy was the first murderer that I can recall being called a “serial” killer, but he was far from the first. Google the name Carl Panzram, and you will read of one of the worst of God’s creatures, an unrepentant misanthrope whose last words were: “Hurry up, you Hoosier sonofabitch! I could have hung ten men in the time it’s taking you!” He was hanged in 1930. There was Albert Fish, child killer and cannibal, a predator so vile that prosecutors weren’t sure how to even present his crimes to a jury. He was electrocuted in 1936. What of Ed Gein, a mild-mannered farmer from Plainfield, Wisconsin? When he wasn’t farming, he was a murderer, graverobber and necrophile and the inspiration for Norman Bates and many other fictional killers. He committed his crimes in the 1950’s and died as a model prisoner in 1984.

Read Erik Larson’s excellent book The Devil and the White City for an account of the crimes of H.H. Holmes during the Chicago World’s Fair in the 19th Century. The 1920’s saw The Wineville Chicken Coop Murders near Los Angeles. So common were child disappearances that as many as 20 children may have been killed before authorities acted.

Howard Unruh was a decorated World War II veteran. He was also a dangerous psychotic who woke up one morning in 1949, shot his mother and then roamed the streets of Camden, New Jersey shooting and killing 13 people at random. American as apple pie.

Charles Starkweather, Edmund Kemper, John Wayne Gacy, Richard Ramirez, Jeffrey Dahmer, Ted Bundy–the list goes on and on. These are the ones we remember. In 1984, James Huberty prepared to leave his home when his wife asked: “Where are you going?” He responded: “Hunting humans.” He went to McDonalds and killed 21 people. Remember that? Maybe not. After all, there have been so many since then. Murderers all, but they all don’t have guns in common. What they have in common is murder for sport.

Why? Maybe it’s because we have so much freedom that the dangerous and demented feel free to cut loose. Because of our freedoms, the police are often left only to pursue criminals, rather than prevent crime. That’s a trade-off for freedom. We don’t have tools to apprehend those with the potential for mayhem. The odd, curious or even dangerous person is free to roam the streets. You see them everyday. You might be one of them.

Of course, we can curtail some of this if we’re willing to pay the price. Nowadays, folks are fond of saying “Freedom Isn’t Free.” This is a mostly empty platitude said by folks like me from the comfort of our living rooms. When it comes to crime, that old saw is certainly true. We can restrict the Second Amendment. While we’re at it, why not the 4th and 5th Amendments, too? Allowing the state to randomly search us and extract confessions could well prevent the next Aurora. Too extreme?

Have you noticed the fine job the federal government has done apprehending potential terrorists? How do they do it? Whether you like the Patriot Act or not, it has been effective. The government can tap your phone, read your mail and pretty much track your every movement based on nothing more than suspicion. Add to that a prison in Cuba where suspects are held forever without facing charges or trial and you have a pretty effective crime prevention system.

We won’t, can’t and shouldn’t ever go down that road, of course. The swap of liberty for security is rarely a fair trade. Does this mean there should be no gun laws? Of course not. But taking the rights of the many because of the acts of the few is dangerous territory. The Aurora gunman (I will not dignify him by mentioning his name) is to the Second Amendment what the Westboro Baptist Church is to the First Amendment. Both abuse their rights to harm others, but neither is worth taking the rights of those who don’t.

Despite what some think, we aren’t easy on crime. Our prisons are bulging at their seams. We also execute people, putting us in the same class as Iran, China and North Korea when it comes to jurisprudence. Regardless of how brutally we’ve done it, killing people never seemed to help. Hanging, shooting, stoning, electrocution–they just keep on killing. We could hang every convicted killer tomorrow, and I can guarantee that there will be murders that afternoon.

The big question is never debated. What is it about our society that lends itself to these crimes? England and Japan, hardly police states, see almost no predatory murder. Yet, we see it daily. Someone smarter than I am will have to find a way to detect and stop these folks before they strike.

Despite all this, it is a mistake to condemn society. Most people–almost everyone–are good people. They work, help their neighbors and are good to their families. The exceptions scare us and fascinate us.

Where are these exceptions? Everywhere. Our towns, neighborhoods–maybe even our own homes. We can’t hide. We can’t pray our way into a protective bubble. We just have to hope we don’t cross paths with one of these folks at the wrong time.

We feel for the people of Aurora, although most of us, thankfully, can’t imagine what they feel. I imagine the sadness and terror are palpable. On a random night, they were visited by the worst in us. Hopefully, they will now see the best in us.

By chance, I once spoke to a man whose sibling had committed a notorious and brutal crime. He said he his family had no idea that it was coming and many years later couldn’t come to grips with it. He said: “He just had something bad going on with him, and no one could see it.” The question, which I certainly can’t answer, is Can anyone see it?

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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Richard Nixon and Me

I was an odd child.  I readily admit that.  I could deny it, of course.  My parents are dead, and they were the ones who remembered my childhood best–better even than I do.  My older brother would remember, too–he remembers everything.  But, he’s far too classy to regale the world with tales of my odd behavior.

One odd thing was that I liked Richard Nixon.  I did.  I was only 6 when he was elected President, and 11 when he resigned.  My Dad despised him, even though Dad voted for him. Dad said Nixon was “the kind of man who would do anything.  Anything.  You can tell by looking at him.”  Nevertheless, I liked Nixon.  Maybe that’s why.

As I said, I was an odd little feller.  I spent a lot of time concerned about things that 1st graders ignored.  The Vietnam War, for instance.  I would watch the news and be horrified.  We needed to win the war.  It worried me.

I worried about the POWs.   One year in our Christmas parade in Loyall, Santa gave out POW/MIA badges.  I got a bunch of them.  As aside, Santa actually threw them from the back of a fire truck.  If they hit your head, they hurt like hell, but it was worth it.

I also paid a lot of attention to politics.  Again, odd.  In 1972, I knew George McGovern was pretty much a Communist and that Nixon would beat him.  I didn’t like Communists.  I knew they were bad.  I used to worry about Communists, too.  They could be anywhere. Everywhere.

Democrats used to have a telethon to raise money (quaint, huh?).  I watched the telethon.  I picked up the phone and called in.  I told them I would give $10 if Hubert Humphrey said my name on TV.   He did.  I then told my parents they owed Hubert Humphrey $10.  My narcissistic desire to hear my name notwithstanding, I supported Nixon.

Of course, Nixon won.  He was going to end the war.  I liked that.  I imagined some sort of Hiroshima-type finale.  After all, this was Nixon.  Before we could get to that, though, we had Watergate.  You either know what Watergate is or you don’t.  I’m not going to explain.  If you don’t know what it is, just know that it’s the reason that all political scandals now end in GATE.

As you can imagine, I was heavily into Watergate.  I watched the Senate hearings.  Read about it in the paper.  John Dean, Howard Hunt, Gordon Liddy, et al., rivaled my baseball heroes for my time.  I learned about the CREEP, the Dirty Tricks Squad, Rosemary Woods, Martha Mitchell and on and on.  One thing I knew for sure, Nixon was neck-deep in it.  It would tug your heart-strings if I told you that it broke my heart. It didn’t.  It was Nixon.  It was to be expected.

As another aside, I could do a killer Nixon impression and Sam Earvin, too.  Really spot on for an 11-year-old.  I had been perfecting my Nixon since I was 6, so it should have been good.  I could also draw a picture of Nixon.  Understand, now, I am not artistic, but I practiced until I could draw a pretty fair likeness.

I wrote Nixon a letter, kind of a “keep your chin up” missive.  I imagined him reading it to Pat after dinner.  Little did I know that he was so odd himself that he greeted Pat at dinner with “Hi.  How are you doing?”  I doubt they sat around reading fan mail.  I got a letter back from some staffer thanking me for the letter.  I’m sure it helped.  I’d like to think it did.

It was around the time of Watergate that my school was selling posters for a fundraiser.  Some kids bought posters of singers or athletes.  I bought this one:

This poster adorned my wall as a kid.

By this time, my parents were thoroughly disgusted by Nixon, but Dad liked the poster.  He thought it was funny.  My  Papaw loved Nixon and the poster.

Once, when we were visiting my grandparents in Salt Lake City, we went to hear Nixon give a speech.  Papaw was part of the security detail at Temple Square.  He stood right behind Nixon during the speech.  I was impressed.

Family_004

Trust me on this. Nixon is in there somewhere–with my Papaw.

I watched Nixon announce his resignation and his sad parting speech the next day.  His upper lip poured sweat.  He called his mother a saint.  It was sad. I felt bad for him, even though I sensed that he had brought it on himself.

I moved on from old Tricky Dick.  I’ve never really cared much for politicians since.  Mind you, I’m not disillusioned.  Nixon was what I thought he was.  That probably says more about me than it does him.

Nixon’s first public appearance after his resignation was actually close to my home in Harlan County, Kentucky.  He came to the dedication of a library–or something–in Leslie County.  I thought about going over there, but I was a teenager then.  Other things to do, I suppose.  Dad said he wouldn’t walk across the street to see Nixon.

I kind of liked seeing Nixon become something of an elder statesman in his old age.  Oh, I’m sure he would have still done something tricky if he had a chance.  At least I’d like to think he would have.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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The Way of the Waffle

My neighborhood Waffle House. Like most people in this part of the country, I live close to one.

“I love Waffle House, and not just because watching someone fry an egg while they’re smoking reminds me of my dad”

Jim Gaffigan

I travel by car quite a bit.  Some of it is for work and some for my son’s baseball teams.  I’m not a big fan of hotels, but I enjoy seeking out places to eat.  I’m not picky, either.  Sometimes, I’ll just see some place on the side of the road and think:  I wonder if that place makes decent food?  In the past year alone, I’ve eaten at The White Flash (Jackson, KY), Dave’s BBQ (Guthrie, KY), Beaver Creek Restaurant (Topmost, KY), Big Shanty Smokehouse (Kennesaw, GA), Bridge Street Cafe (Fort Walton Beach, FL), One Place–Two Tastes (Somewhere in TN) and other off-the-radar spots.  Some are better than others, but they’re all good.  When I travel, I try to avoid fast food (expect Dairy Queen Blizzards) or chain restaurants.  The one big exception is Waffle House.

If you live in the South, you know Waffle House.  They’re everywhere, and they’re all the same.  They have a big yellow and black sign that simply says “WAFFLE HOUSE” in block letters.  They’re small restaurants with a few booths and a counter where those of us dining solo are seated.  They all have jukeboxes.  According the Waffle House website, they’ve been around since 1955.  I’m guessing that they looked the same in 1955 as they do now.  Open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I know what you’re thinking:  “Why Waffle House?  It’s the poor man’s Cracker Barrel!”  Here’s why:  I love it.  It’s never crowded (except after the bars close).  The people are nice.  The food is good and reasonably priced.  More than all that is the Waffle House Experience.  It is it’s own world.

If you sit at the counter (on a stool, no less) you will be within feet of the griddle and, of course, the waffle makers.  You’ll see the cook sweating over your meal, hear the stories from the regulars and learn a lot about the folks working there.

The waitresses all call me “honey” or “sweetie.”  They refill my coffee constantly.  They can be a rough-looking bunch, but they’re all out of Central Casting when it comes to diner waitresses.  I love it.  Just this week I was at a Waffle House in Northern Kentucky and heard this exchange:

Customer:  “Where’s Mary?”

Waitress:  “Oh, honey, she don’t work here no more.  She got accepted to this big tattoo institute.”

Customer:  “Oh, hell, she’ll be back.”

Waitress:  “I don’t think so.  This is one of the biggest tattoo institutes in the country.  It’s hard to get accepted.”

Customer:  “She’ll be back.”

Waitress:  “We’ll see, honey.   She’s good.  She’s done a bunch of tattooing for people.”

Where else can I hear that?  Do you think they carry on like that at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse?  Hell, no!  I didn’t even know there WERE tattoo institutes, much less that they have high admissions standards.  I hope Mary has great success and why wouldn’t she if she graduates from one of the biggest tattoo institutes?

You know something that you’ll never hear at a Waffle House?  Nice job cleaning up!

Jim Gaffigan

I’ll admit that most Waffle Houses have a certain look to them.  They might need a thorough scrub down.  The tables might be a little greasy.  Don’t look at the waffle irons.  They need cleaning.

A couple of years ago, I was driving back to Lexington from Western Kentucky.  It was getting late, and I was pretty hungry.  I passed several exits along the way until I saw the familiar yellow sign of the Waffle House beckoning.  Imagine my disappointment when I approached the door and saw this notice:

“DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.   THIS ESTABLISHMENT WAS RATED “C” ON ITS MOST RECENT INSPECTION.  IT WILL BE REINSPECTED WITHIN THE NEXT SEVEN DAYS.  IF ALL VIOLATIONS HAVE NOT BEEN CORRECTED, IT SHALL BE CLOSED.”

You see, I’m a bit of a germaphobe.  I know that to get a C on a restaurant inspection, you’ve got some bad business going on.  Maybe you’re storing kitchen utensils in the toilet or your cook has TB.  I wasn’t sure what to do.  The lure was strong as was my reticence.  I went in anyway.

As you might expect, there were no customers in sight, just the usual hard-living waitress and the sinewy cook.  I was greeted with the familiar “Hello, honey, what can I get you to drink?”  I ordered my standard black coffee and water and then ventured “Looks like y’all had some problems with the Health Department.”  The following ensued:

Waitress:  “Oh, lord, I wish we could take down that sign.  People just look at it, get back in their cars and take off.  I seen you lookin’ at it, too.”

ME [exaggerating]:  “Well, yeah, I mean, it covers about half the door.”

Waitress:  “Well, don’t you worry about it, honey.”

ME [lying through my teeth]:  I’m not worried about it.  What happened? [an astute observer would realize that I was, in fact, worried about it]

Waitress:  We had a problem with the refrigerators and some cleaning supplies, but it’s took care of now.

Refrigerator?  I had some experience with this issue.  I was at a bowling alley late one night and decided that a cheeseburger would hit the spot.  When I ordered the burger, I was told “We don’t have no cheese.  Our refrigerator busted yesterday.”  At this point, you should be aware that I was once fond of strong drink which clouded my judgment.  “Well, I’ll just have a burger, no cheese.”  And so I did.  Had I not been in my cups, I would have realized that the proper refrigeration of ground beef is no less critical than that of cheese, perhaps even more so.  24 hours of food borne illness taught me this lesson.

The Waffle House cook sensed my unease and said:  “We’ve had everybody in the world up our ass.   Health Department, the owner, my boss, Waffle House.  This place is so clean now, you could eat off the floor.”  I looked around and realized that the unfortunate dust-up with the authorities had, in fact, resulted in the cleanest Waffle House I’ve ever seen–before or since.  My fears assuaged, I ordered a ham, egg and cheese wrap and side of grits.  Excellent as always.  Even better, no ill after effects.

Now, I don’t really think Waffle House is dirty.  That’s just part of its ambiance.  It’s made to look filthy.  Really, if you knock an ash tray over in your plate, whose fault is that?  Okay, maybe there are some food scraps lying around.  Take a look at your own house.  Better hope the Health Department doesn’t show up.  It’s possible that they wipe down every table all day long with that same rag, but how do you really know?  It’s Greasy Spoon Chic.  Enjoy.

“Imagine a gas station bathroom that sells waffles.”

Jim Gaffigan

What about the food?  It’s good! Some of it is great.  My personal favorite is the egg and cheese wrap, whether with ham, bacon or sausage.  Side of grits, too.  Good stuff.

The hash browns are as good as they get.  They’re fried up right there on the griddle.  You can have them diced (ham), capped (mushrooms), smothered (cheese) and various other ways.  I had some just last week from a cook preparing his very first meal.  I had ordered grits, but he seemed proud of the hash browns:

COOK/WAITER:  Here are your grits, sir.

ME [staring at the hash browns]:  Excuse me?

COOK/WAITER:  Your grits.  I’ve never made them before.  Do they look alright?

ME:  Uh, these are hash browns.

COOK/WAITER [after a long pause]:   Oh, man! I’m sorry! Man!

ME:  Don’t worry about it.  I love hash browns. Plus, you can find out if you did them right for the next customer.

I was pleased to tell him that they were excellent.  He was quite proud of himself.  He told me that he was planning to go to college.  I hope he does.

Did you know that Waffle House is the world’s leading server of T-Bone steaks?  I don’t know if that’s true, but they have a sign that says so.  Think about that.  More T-bones than Ponderosa, Longhorn Steakhouse, Texas Roadhouse–you name it.  Say what you will, but that’s impressive, assuming it’s true.  Even if it’s not true, the hubris required to make such an outrageous claim is impressive in its own right.  World’s leading server of waffles?  You wouldn’t even question that.  T-bones?  Wow.

What of the waffles?  I’m sorry to report that they’re just waffles.  Nothing special, really.  Oh, you can get chocolate chips or peanut butter which are both good.  Honestly, if you have a waffle iron, you can do just as well.  Then again, the waffle itself is a pretty lousy main course.  Pancakes are far superior, but I assume that IHOP would battle over the name Pancake House.  I don’t even understand why there are waffles.  It’s lot easier to make pancakes.  Are pancakes just too boring looking?  I don’t get it.

“How Can You Freak Out on a Frog?”

Waiter, Waffle House

The people who work at Waffle House are a different breed.  I like them.  They have good stories.  I stopped at Waffle House on a particularly desolate stretch of Interstate.  There’s just me, a guy taking orders and the cook.  They’re both smoking, which I assume is a health code violation or damn sure should be.

WAITER:  “Hey, have you heard about them hallucinogenic frogs?

ME:  “What’s that?”

Waiter:  “Frogs, man.  They’re hallucinogenic. You lick ’em and freak out.”

Me:  “Oh, that.  I’ve been hearing that story since I was a kid.”

Waiter:  “No, man.  It’s true.  They’re in California.  It’s all over the Internet.”

Me:  “Okay.  How does it work?”

Waiter:  “You just grab ’em and lick ’em.  Then, you freak out.”

Me:  “Huh.”

Waiter:  “They’re supposed to be some around here.  I know a guy lookin’ for ’em.  I reckon he’s just grabbin’ frogs and lickin’ ’em until he finds the right one.”

Me [laughing now]:  “I guess there’s no other way to do it, is there?”

Waiter:  “How can you freak out on a frog?  Who the hell figured that out anyway?  Did he just start lickin’ frogs for some reason?  Of course, somebody had to start snorting bath salts, too.  My mommy makes homemade bath salts, and nobody will buy them now, because they think it’s dope.  Wild.”

I have nothing to add to that story.

“There’s a subculture out there that’s off the grid, buddy.” 

My Dad

Dad may have been talking about Waffle House.  I’m not talking about those who show up drunk at 2:00 AM for a T-bone dinner.  I mean folks like me, who show up at 2:00 PM to eat breakfast.  I’m talking about the regular crowd with their homemade tattoos and dental hygiene issues.  We are the Waffle House subculture.  We order our food off menus that double as place mats.  The menus have pictures of the food in case we don’t what the food looks like (or can’t read).  We know what we want and where to get it.  We just look for the yellow sign just off any Interstate exit in the South.

I’ll continue to eat at Waffle House.  I will have plenty of opportunities, too.  I once read (at a Waffle House, no less) that there are over 1500 Waffle Houses.  1500.  I have one within walking distance of my office, in fact.

I don’t ever take my family to Waffle House.  I go there alone.  To be among my people.  Besides, the tables are too small for five people.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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Aunt Bee, as in……

The Evil that is Aunt Bee

On July 3, 2012, Andy Griffith died. Earlier this year, George (“Goober”) Lindsey passed. Don Knotts died in 2006. Aneta Corsaut (“Miss Crump”) died several years ago. Same for Thelma Lou (Betty Lynn). Floyd (Howard McNear), Howard Sprague (Jack Dodson), Ernest T. Bass (Howard Morris)–dead, dead, dead. Opie and Gomer are about all that’s left.

Like most people my age, I love The Andy Griffith Show or Andy of Mayberry as we used to call it.  It was the perfect TV show.  All the characters fit together seamlessly.  Andy and Barney really seemed like friends.  If you lived in a small town, you knew someone like Goober.  Even characters like Howard Sprague and Emmitt, though introduced several years into the show’s run, seemed like they had always been there.  Plus, Mayberry was the kind of town where you’d want to live.  That is was hilarious was a bonus.

The characters themselves were great.  Barney, of course, was the greatest of all TV creations (just ahead of Jethro Bodine).  I laughed myself silly at Ernest T. Bass.  The Fun Girls (“Heeelllooo, Doll”) were only in a couple of episodes but were classic characters.  Every person in Mayberry was alright, “good people” as we say.

The writers knew that the one basic requirement of good TV or film making is conflict.  Even in a 30 minute sitcom, you need conflict to push the story.  To do this, they created one character so vile, so meddlesome, so disruptive that it assured conflict whenever needed.  Of course, I’m talking about Aunt Bee, one of the most subhuman misanthropes to ever lumber across the TV screen. Only Torgo in Manos The Hands of Fate rivals her for sheer unpleasantness in a fictional character.

Andy thinking: “I’m the high Sheriff. I could shoot her and get away with it.”

Aunt Bee was Andy’s aunt, I guess, although the exact relationship is never explained. Since her last name is Taylor, I assume that she was the spinster sister of Andy’s father. As was painfully made clear when she bellyached about a statue of one of Andy’s ancestors, she was a blood relation for sure.

She was introduced in the very first episode when she came to live with Andy to help take care of him and Opie. Children often have a sixth sense about people. This was true with Opie. He wanted to send Aunt Bee’s freeloading ass packing the minute they met. Alas, he ultimately felt sorry for her and begged Andy to let her stay. Had he only known.

I’m not sure where Aunt Bee came from.  Seems like she was originally from Mayberry.  Floyd, at least, seemed to have known her for a long time.  Maybe they were lovers.  Odd, though, that it seems that Opie had never met her before she came to live with them.  Maybe she was one of those poor relations that you don’t talk about.  I had an uncle who worked in carnivals.  My Granny kind of treated him like that.

Aunt Bee was portrayed by Frances Bavier, an actress from New York.   During the first couple of years of the show, she tried to effect a southern accent.  She soon abandoned it for some kind of haughty accent which was probably how she really talked.  It fit her character, for sure.

Thus, began Aunt Bee’s reign of terror. It is almost impossible to catalogue the number of times Aunt Bee nagged, cajoled or browbeat the Taylors. Below I offer just a sampling of the times I was ready to dive into the TV mad garrote her. I have included in italics my writer’s embellishment offering common sense solutions to the Aunt Bee problem:

THE PICKLES

Poor Opie being forced to choke down Aunt Bee’s pickles.

Aunt entered her pickles in the county fair. Her big rival was the equally insufferable Clara Johnson (in later episodes she was dubbed Edwards). Aunt Bee’s pickles were an inedible abomination, while Clara’s were greeted as some sort of nectar of the Gods.

Andy can’t leave well enough alone. Instead of allowing Aunt Bee to be shamed in front of the town, he decides to replace her foul creations with store-bought pickles.  The store pickles are vastly superior to Aunt Bee’s and Clara’s, pointing out the common reality that “homemade” is not synonymous with “better.”

After finding out that Clara’s life is meaningless without that blue ribbon and that she may well stick her head in the oven if she loses, Andy and Barney eat all the store pickles forcing Aunt Bee make a new batch of her bastardized ones. Hilarity ensues, Clara wins the blue ribbon and Aunt Bee announces that will make even MORE because Andy loved them so.

Aunt Bee’s inability to make pickles–which, by the way are so foul that it begs the question of how you could screw them up–forces Andy to bend over backwards so as not to offend her.  This walking on egg shells around her was a common theme.

After Aunt Bee announces her plans, Andy looks at her with a steely glare and flicks his burning cigarette off her forehead. He then says: “I’ll say this once. I better never see another jar of those —-ing things again! If I do, Barney’s putting that one bullet square between your eyes! Oh, one more thing.  Even if we liked those damn things, who in their right mind would can 20 jars of pickles?  Jesus H. Christ!  They’re not a main course!”

THE SIDE OF BEEF

Andy spent many years building a good relationship with Mr. Foley, the town grocer. Aunt Bee blew it all to Hell by buying an ENTIRE FREAKIN’ SIDE OF BEEF from a new butcher in town. Her rationale was that it was a few cents per pound cheaper.

There was no place to store the mammoth purchase, save for a freezer which malfunctioned. Rather than heeding Andy’s entreaties to “call the man!”–as in the freezer repairman–Bee gets Gomer to repair it.  Of course, he can’t, resulting in the potential ruin of the new purchase.

Compounding all of this is that the meat is tough and not fit for human consumption. Having no shame, Bee then asks MR. FOLEY (!) to store it for her! For once Andy intervenes and puts an end to her bullying. He buys a new freezer and then has to listen to Aunt Bee bitch and moan about him spending too much money.

Oh, Andy! You DIDN’T buy a new freezer! I know someone who would be much cheaper. Andy responds: “The last time I checked, I’m the only one with an income around here. Why don’t you do me a favor and shut the hell up?  Better yet, why don’t you take that side of beef and the rest of your shit and move in with Gomer?”

KEEVY HAZELTON

Famous rock star Keevy Hazelton happens to stop in Mayberry. Aunt Bee and Clara ask him to listen to their song, My Home Town, a treacly piece of tripe that could have been written by tone-deaf chimps. Surprise! Keevy agrees to sing it on the popular Keevy Hazelton Show.

Keevy, apparently wanting to keep his fan base, rocks up the tune with a groovy beat. You guessed it. Aunt Bee gets completely hair-lipped and refuses to let Keevy sing it. Like most folks, he bows to her yammering just to shut her up.  He sings the song in its original version and it is quite popular, much to the surprise of both Keevy and the world at large.

Keevy Hazleton and Andy. Andy thinks: “Go ahead, Keevy. Punch her right in the mouth.”

I would have made it slightly different.  When Aunt Bee and Clara refuse to allow the song to be sung, Keevy says “Fine.  Get out of my sight!”  Security then removes them both from the set of the popular Keevy Hazelton Show.  Andy then berates them both for wasting his time driving them to Raleigh only to be embarrassed once again.  He then goes on another rant about the pickles.

(As an aside, the guy who played Keevy was also Johnny Poke on an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies.  He was quite funny.)

AUNT BEE IN JAIL

There was some kind of dust up in Mayberry where all the women insisted on being arrested.  Running out of patience, Andy threw them in jail, Aunt Bee included.  I don’t remember the details, but it had something to do with some kind of inane protest.  Predictably, the menfolk were unable to function, burning their dinner and clothes.

Here’s what I would have done:  She wants to be in jail, fine.  Go round up the Darling Boys on some trumped-up charges and throw them in there, too.  A couple of nights with those Deliverance rejects should teach Aunt Bee and her gang of gadflies a lesson or two.

“I could wheel around and back hand her, and there’s nothing she could do about it. Nothing.”

I could include many, many more episodes.  For brevity’s sake–and to calm my rage–I won’t.  Aunt Bee learns to drive; Aunt Bee wrecks the car; A baby hates Aunt Bee (smart baby!); Aunt Bee and the elixir salesman; Aunt Bee’s deadbeat cousin; Aunt Bee and the egg man; Aunt Bee on the jury. This list goes on and on and on.

Aunt Bee was not the only annoying person in Mayberry. Warren was awful.  Howard Sprague’s mother gave Mrs. Bates a run for her money.  Emmitt was a bit of pain.  Mayor Pike? Whew.  These characters would come and go, making them at least tolerable.  Aunt Bee was a constant.

Andy showed remarkable patience with Aunt Bee.  Remember–this is the same man who threatened to shoot Goober over building a car in the courthouse.  Oh, he would occasionally snap at her but, by and large, he absorbed her abuse.  When he and Miss Crump married, though, he had the good sense to high-tail it to Alabama and leave her to terrorize Sam Jones and his kid.  Good move, Sheriff.

Just once, I wish Andy would have told Aunt Bee to shut up.  He told Goober shut up.  He’d yell at Barney.  Hell, he whipped Opie!  She got nothing but kid glove treatment.

Andy should have run off with Peggy, the uber-hot nurse he dated.  Even one of the Fun Girls from Mount Pilot–Daphne or Skippy–would have been an improvement.  He could have embraced an alternative lifestyle with Malcolm Merriweather.  Instead, he married Miss Crump, who was really nothing but a younger version of Aunt Bee.

Of course, I know that Aunt Bee is a fictional character.  Frances Bavier was real.  I would like to report to you that my scant research reveals that Ms. Bavier was a wonderful person.  She was, however, difficult with which to work.  Andy Griffith himself once said:  “There was just something about me she did not like.”  Regardless, most people deserve to be remembered for their best work.  We don’t honor Don Knotts for his work as Mr. Furley or Andy Griffith for his performance in Pray for the Wildcats.  I surmise that Aunt Bee was supposed be annoying and a source of conflict.  Frances Bavier played it well.

Interestingly, Ms. Bavier lived the last years of her life in Siler City, North Carolina.  She lived alone with a bunch of cats, but was by all accounts a nice lady but reclusive. She answered her fan mail and lived to the ripe old age of 86. She even called Andy a few months before she died to make amends for being difficult. When she died, the Studebaker she drove on the Andy Griffith Show was in her garage.

RIP Frances Bavier

A native of New York, turns out Ms. Bavier embraced the Mayberry ideal as much as anyone by actually moving to North Carolina.  I guess she wasn’t all bad, even if Aunt Bee was.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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Hatin’ on the Hate

Haters keep on hatin’, cause somebody’s got to do it.  So said the eminently hateable Chris Brown. I’ve thinking about hate lately, mostly because I’ve been hearing a lot of it  for some reason.  Montgomery Burns once said “I know you all hate me.  Well, I hate you more.”  That’s how most of us approach the subject.

Rod Smart was a football player in the ill-fated XFL. His nickname was “He Hate Me,” as in “He Hate Me. She Hate Me.  Everybody hate me.”  He wore the name proudly on the back of his jersey. No one remembers much about the XFL (“NO FAIR CATCHES!”), but a lot of football fans remember He Hate Me.

Rod Smart. His jersey said it all.

I doubt that a lot of people really hated Rod Smart, but maybe they did. He lived in America, and we are very good at hating people, things, institutions, events–you name it.  He also played sports, and sports draw a lot of hate.  Even if we’re okay with Rod Smart, we hate a lot of other things.

I hate Jim Carrey movies. And kale greens. And hangnails. And the sound a fork makes scraping a plate. And lots of other things. I try not to hate people, but sometimes I do. It usually passes. Right now, I’m pretty sure I hate Jerry Sandusky.  If you’ve seen the video of those assbags harassing that school bus monitor, you probably hate those kids.  I know I do or at least I did while I watched the video.

I hated a girl I dated.  Well, I didn’t hate her while we were dating.  I liked her then.   She hated me while we were dating; thus, we broke up.  After that, I hated her. Then we got back together, and I didn’t hate her as much.  Then we broke up again.  Hate. I’ve still got some work to do on that one, I guess.

When I was kid, people would say: “I don’t hate him. I hate his ways.”  Nowadays, I hear people say: “God loves the sinners, but hates the sin.” Really? Let’s cut to the chase. If you hate how someone acts, there’s almost no chance that you don’t hate the person. Here’s one I’ve heard 1,000 times:  “I don’t hate gay people. I hate their lifestyle.” Translation: “I don’t hate you. I just hate everything about you.” Wow.  I’m sure that makes gay people feel much better.

As Americans, we’re allowed to hate.  We do have hate crimes, but they’re pretty vague and rarely used.  Plus, they only cover small areas of hate–race, religion, sexual orientation and the like.  There are so many other things and reasons to hate.  In addition, hating itself really isn’t a crime anyway.  You have to commit some other foul act in conjunction with your hate. General hating is still perfectly legal.

We hate sports teams. I am a University of Kentucky fan. It’s socially acceptable for me to hate the University of Louisville. Okay, maybe not the entire University. Just its sports teams. If I hate the Dean of Students or some English professor, that would just be weird. Rick Pitino, however, is fair game.

When Pitino coached at UK, we loved him. U of L fans hated him. One day, he showed up as U of L’s coach. We hated him. They loved him. Hate is funny like that. It’s very arbitrary.

We hate food. I hate lots of food. Most people do. Pickles? Hate ’em. Raw tomatoes? Hate.  Mayonnaise, Diet Coke, malted milk balls:  hate, hate, hate.  My son hates hamburgers, for God’s sake. You hate some foods. You know you do. Think about them.  Feel the hate.

Do you hate any music?  Sure, you do.  I hate rap.  I hated disco back in the ’70’s but now I’m okay with it.  That means that one day rap might be okay with me.  For now, though, it’s hate all the way.

Do you hate your job?  Well, no one cares, because almost everyone else hates their job more than you hate yours.  Just ask them.

Some folks hate poor people. Others hate the rich. I don’t know anyone who hates both, but I’m sure someone does. Does anyone hate the middle class? Yeah, I’m sure someone does. Maybe you do. If you do, explain yourself.

We hate religion. Okay, not ALL religion, just other people’s. We’re right. They’re wrong. Of course, we all have a small nagging thought that maybe they’re right and we’re wrong. We hate that even more. If you’re a Christian, you have to think that all non-Christians are just flat wrong. That aggravates you. Sometimes, it makes you hate another religion, especially if that religion hates Christianity. Atheists hate all religions, except their own.  Of course, most people won’t openly say that they hate other religions.  That’s just not kosher, which is okay to say even if you hate Jewish people.

Let’s take the vile, reptilian God Hates Fags troglodytes from Kansas. When I see them or even think about them, I hate them. Oh, it will pass, but I hate them for a few minutes. I’m betting most Christians hate them, too, if only for a minute or two.  Atheists, I’m sure, hate them.  They’re very hateable. If God hates anything, it’s those turds.  Of course, it’s unlikely that God hates anyone, except maybe Job.  Then again, there were also all those smitings, too.  Hmmm.  I may have to think about that one.

Politics and religion are often compared.  We all know that those are two topics that you just don’t bring up in polite conversation.  They both engender a bunch of hate or, at the very least, hatefulness.  Why? Because it allows us to hate entire groups of people based on little more than their associations or views.  Politics is the ultimate hatefest. It’s the last bastion of irrational prejudice. You can hate an entire political party, yet be a welcome member of society. Try that with an entire race or religion, and you’ll find yourself spending a lot of time alone.

Politicians are the most hated folks on the planet. Do you hate President Obama? If you answered “no,” there’s a good chance you hate Mitt Romney. If you hate both of them, then you might love Ron Paul. If you hate Ron Paul, then you probably love Ralph Nader.  Obama and Romney both might be right fine fellows, but they’re hated because they are in the wrong political party.

There is an important difference between hating something or someone and actually expressing that hate.  No one cares if you openly hate a sports team. Irrationally loathing someone because of their uniform is no big deal.  Same goes for politics, obviously.  But, we have to be careful about expressing hate for the wrong reasons.  You go from being a rational hater to a dangerous misanthrope.

We can easily hate someone who is in the wrong group, whether it’s a political party, church, or sports team. It’s different when we personalize it to, say, our next door neighbor. Tell people that you hate Obama, and a lot of folks will high-five you. Tell them you hate the kid who mows your yard, and they’ll be creeped out.

Now, you shouldn’t hate Obama because he’s black, although surely some do. That’s just wrong. If so, you better keep that to yourself. Here’s the good news: you can hate liberals, regardless of their race. Hate all you want. By extension, you can hate anyone who is a liberal, regardless of race, creed or national origin.  One caveat:  Be careful about how vociferously you express your hate of the President.  Don’t write him letters about it.  The FBI will visit you.  They hate that shit.

Let’s take Romney as another example. He’s a Mormon. My grandparents were Mormons. So were my Mom’s sisters and their children and grandchildren. I’m not a Mormon, but I think Mormons are fine folks. Some people disagree. They think it’s a cult of heretics where everyone has 10 wives. Mormons have been hated. Probably still are in some circles. You can’t say: “Man, I hate Romney because he’s a Mormon.” But you can say: “I hate that Romney. Damn Republican!” Odd, isn’t?

So, you can hate a religion, but you should keep it to yourself.  Same with race.  Politics, though, is different.  Hate all you want and do it in public.  No one cares, except the people who will hate you as a result.

You really can’t hate some things.  Animals, for instance.  I don’t know that I’ve ever met someone who says he hates animals.  Okay, cats are an exception.  People will say they hate cats, but cats are smug, and some hate that in a pet. Otherwise, if you hate animals, you’re going to fit a serial killer profile.  Some people love animals but hate humans.  As a result, animal hate is dangerous territory, indeed.

Here’s a little experiment:

  • Create a group on Facebook called “I Hate the President.”  Make the profile picture the worst thing you can find of the President.  Maybe this one:

  • Then, create a new group called “I Hate Romney.”  Use this ridiculous image:

  • I assure you that some people will like these pages.  In fact, some people will become enthusiastic members of your group with their own outrageous postings.
  • Now, create a page called:  “I Hate Rescue Dogs.”  Not only will no one like it, everyone will hate you.  You’ll probably be subjected to all manner of investigations and be banned from Facebook.  You will be unfriended. Your student loans will be declared in default, your mortgage foreclosed and the IRS will audit you.  Even the ACLU will turn on you by representing the rescue dogs in a class action against you.  The Southern Poverty Law Center will declare you to be a hate group.

The lesson?  Hate people if you want.  Leave the animals alone.

It’s still unacceptable to hate your family. I find this odd since some people’s families are dangerous criminals or worse. Folks will say “Don’t forget to call dad on Fathers Day!” What if your dad is Charles Manson? Or just a total bastard? I know people who hate their families, but they keep it quiet. If you do, you should probably just keep it to yourself.  Think about this:  With all the hateable people in the world, how can some people not hate their families?

I’ve heard it said that hating someone is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. That’s true for me. So, I try not to do it. I’m not always successful. Sometimes, I will hate the entire UK basketball team for a fleeting moment or two.  Then, I love them again.  I think my children hate me on occasion, and it’s tempting to hate them back.  So far, I’ve resisted, but it’s a struggle. I used to be an angry young man, who hated a lot of stuff.  Then, I realized that all that stuff didn’t hate me back–or really even know I existed.  This realization freed me up to spend more time thinking about me.  One good thing about being egocentric is that there isn’t much room in my head for dwelling on others, what with all the things going on with me.

Sadly, there are few things that I’ll confess to hating, and I don’t think those will change:  Jenny from Forest Gump; gum on my shoe; migraines; Winter; poke sallet; toothaches; door to door salespeople; port-a-potties; being hit in the face; Aunt Bee; the two warts on the back of my right hand; Christian Rock music; and people who hate too many things.

So, that’s my screed on hate.  I’ve professed myself an expert. Don’t you hate it when people do that?

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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Soccer Punch

Typical soccer fans cheering on their teams

I’ve been watching some soccer lately.  I do that on occasion, like when I’m at the gym and flipping around the channels while I’m on the Stair Master.  I like sports.  Soccer is a sport.  I’m told it’s the most popular sport in the world, and that appears to be true.  Fans paint their faces and act nutty.  Sometimes, they kill each other.  Sometimes, they even kill the players.  The word “hooligan” is used almost exclusively for soccer fans these days.  I like that word, so I should like soccer, I guess.  But, I don’t.

Hooligans have their own version of The Wave.

 

I know it’s fashionable for Americans to say they hate soccer.  I don’t hate it.  I just don’t get it.  If I had grown up playing it, that would be different.  Where I was raised, we would have been more likely to play that Afghan goat carcass polo game than soccer.  I also know why kids like it (soccer, not that goat game).  It’s a bunch of running around and kicking things.  I would have liked doing that.

Heated buzkashi match, where the object of the game is to hurl a headless goat carcass across the goal line. How has this never caught on in Harlan County?

I also don’t dislike the foreign-ness of it.  I’d watch a buzkashi match.  In the early days of ESPN, it didn’t show any real sports, just stuff like snooker and badminton.  It did, however, have what was probably the exclusively North American right to Australian Rules Football.  I used to watch that and enjoy it.   It’s a hybrid of soccer, American football, rugby and a bar fight.  I came to believe that “Australian Rules” means no rules at all.  But, it’s not soccer–not even close.

If you’re anything like me–and you probably aren’t–you don’t much about soccer.  Watch a little, and you’ll pick up the basics.  Here are a few things I know about soccer:

  • I’ve tried to learn the rules, such as they are.  You can’t use your hands–that’s pretty clear.  Your head is okay.  We don’t like people using their heads to strike things in American sports, but it’s okay in soccer.  I guess the ball isn’t very hard.  Americans prefer sports where the things hit your head–football, boxing, MMA and baseball to name just a few.
  • Matches (not “games”) are divided into halves, each roughly 4 hours long or so it seems.  The clock never stops.  Some games are called “friendlies.”  Those don’t count.  A friendly is like an exhibition game, I guess.
  • You don’t play on a “team.”  You’re on a “side.”
  • They have offsides, which I don’t understand at all.  It happens sometimes, but I never see it coming.  Often, I think I see it, but I’m wrong. When it happens, a guy holds up a flag like at a NASCAR race.
  • Soccer is played on a field, except it’s called a “pitch.”  Why?  I don’t know.  It’s a big field.  BIG.  On TV, it looks about 500 yards long.  I’m sure it’s not, but that’s how it looks.  The players look like ants.  Maybe the pitch isn’t that big, but the players are tiny.  It’s hard to tell.
  • I think there are eleven players on each side.  Sometimes, it looks like there are 200 players on the pitch.  Other times, I think there are only about 5.  I’m sure it’s an optical illusion caused by television.  I’m not sure what their positions are, except the goalkeeper. I also don’t know what they are supposed to be doing, other than kicking the ball around.  Obviously, I know that they want to kick it into the goal, but most of the action takes place far away from the goal.
  • They have referees, but I don’t know what they do.  If you do something wrong, they whip out a Yellow Card, which is kind of silly, but no more silly than throwing a yellow flag, I guess.  A Yellow Card means you’re in trouble.  They call it “misconduct,” a polite way of saying you play like a complete bastard.  You’ve might tripped someone or spit on them or even killed them (not out of the question in soccer).  Something bad happened, for sure.  A Red Card is BIG trouble.  I think it means you’re ejected.  Maybe they throw you to the hooligans.

I’m not up on all the rules, but this appears to be a misconduct.

  • There aren’t a lot of goals made. Most Americans complain about the lack of scoring in soccer.  That doesn’t really bother me.  Let’s face it, in football (by the way, I KNOW that every other country calls soccer “football” or even “futbol.”  I don’t care.), there aren’t that many scores, either.  It’s just that, as Americans, we were clever enough to count each score 3 or 6 points to make it seem more action-packed.  My problem is that I never know when they are close to scoring.  Fans will be cheering wildly and I’ll think there is no chance of anything happening.  Maybe they’re cheering about something other than scoring.  Possibly, there’s been a fire set in the stands.
  • I think they run plays in soccer, but they might not.  Occasionally, it seems that the players are working in some type of coordinated effort to get the ball past midfield.  Near the goal, it’s bedlam.   Eventually, someone will actually kick the ball toward the goal, but it’s rarely successful.
  • I’m never quite sure if I’m seeing good plays or not.  Someone will post on Twitter something like:  Egbert cocked up the play with that flick header. Barmpot!#DIEMANU.  I will have been watching the same match but see none of that.
  • The exception to the paucity of scoring is the penalty kick.  A player gets to kick the ball at the goal with the goal keeper standing there trying to block it.  I don’t know when or why they get these kicks, but it has something to do with the Yellow Card business.
  • Like a lot of European-ish sports, gentlemanly play and sportsmanship ought to be important.  Then again, maybe they aren’t.  Soccer hooligans certainly don’t follow any such rules what will all the burning and killing that accompanies many matches.  No insult is too politically incorrect nor is violence necessarily frowned upon.

Poor Jimmy Hill. Not only is he openly hated by this child, but he’s also apparently a “poof.”

  • Soccer broadcasters are good.  They are very into it.  ESPN has a guy who sounds the Lucky Charms leprechaun.  He’s entertaining.

Soccer uses a ball and keeps score.  That makes it a sport by my definition.  The players are certainly athletic, running madly about the pitch.  The games are competitive, and the fans are insane.  It has all the elements of something I’d like, but I just can’t get there.  I’ve thought about it, and I have a few ideas about spicing it up.

What could soccer do to hold my interest?  Here are a few of my thoughts:

  • Let them use their hands.  Hell, let them throw the ball to each other but not backwards, only down field.
  • Put in some real defense.  If a player has the ball, let the defender knock him down.
  • Let them pick up the ball and run with it.  With that many players on the field, it’s going to be tough to get very far anyway.
  • Make the goal bigger.  I mean REALLY bigger, like the entire width of the field.  Oh, and get rid of the goal keeper.
  • Instead of just running around willy-nilly, give each team 3 or 4 shots at moving the ball toward the goal.  Let’s say that you can keep the ball if you can move it 30 or so feet.  If you can’t score, you can just give the ball to the other team.
  • Instead of the odd random markings on the pitch, maybe you could mark it off in a grid to keep track of team’s progress.
  • Limit the kicking of the ball.  Honestly,  99% of it doesn’t accomplishment much anyway.  Maybe you can keep the old goal to kick the ball into, but make it count less than running the ball across the goal line.
  • Rethink the ball itself.  Instead of round, it could be kind of oblong.  That would discourage all the kicking and make carrying it easier.
  • You might want to change the uniforms to provide a little more protection.  Instead of shorts, I’m thinking odd, tight knee pants with padding in them.  Maybe a helmet of some kind, too. If you really want to rev it up, let the players put padding on their shoulders to wallop the hell out of their opponents.

With these few little tweaks, I think I’d watch.  They could put games on TV on the weekends–Sunday would be good.  Monday night, too.  I think it would work.

If you’re a soccer lover, you’ve read this and are poised to rebuke me with the beauty of the game.  Don’t bother.  This lad sums up your views perfectly:

Enthusiastic young soccer fan expressing his displeasure at this post.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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I Hate The Waltons

The whole contemptible Walton clan struggling through hard times with another meager meal.

I hate the Waltons.  Not the Walmart Waltons.   I like them.  Save money.  Shop smart.  Only at Walmart. That’s good stuff. I mean the TV Waltons–John, Olivia, John Boy, Jason, Mary Ellen, Jim Bob, Ben, Erin, Elizabeth, Grandpa and Grandma.  All of them.

In real life, I try not to hate people.  It’s just not good.  I have no such reservations with fictional characters.  Aunt Bee, Jenny from Forest Gump, Bruce Dern in The Cowboys, any Jim Carrey character–each of these is vile in its own way and intended to be so.  The Waltons, though, are different. They are supposed to be sympathetic, even likeable, yet I hate them.  Why?

The Depression

The Waltons lived in the Great Depression, except for them it was the Not So Bad Depression.  They had a house.  A sawmill.  A truck. They lived on Walton’s Mountain, which means they had their own freakin’ mountain, for God’s sake.  Ever see their meals? Roast pig, turkey, chicken, vegetables, pies, cakes–you name it.  My Dad grew up in the Great Depression in a house with seven kids.  Mush, that’s what they ate.  Oh, and maybe ham they cured themselves.  The Waltons lived like kings.  I hate that.

Here’s what a family with seven kids looked like during the Depression.

The Parents

John and Olivia were a lovey-dovey pair right up until Olivia got shipped off to a TB sanitarium in a contract dispute. So solemn, so wise, just like real parents, right?  Here’s how you’d be if you had seven kids with all the drama of that crowd:  John Boy would come in with one of his pressing social issues he was trying to resolve.  John would look at him and say:  “How the hell should I know?”  Or he’d say something like:  “Hey, egghead, how ’bout working at the damn sawmill for a while?”

The Kids

Okay, I know there were seven of them, but there really were only three and a half for all practical purposes.  John Boy, Mary Ellen and Jason. These were the Big Three before anyone ever heard of Kevin Garnett, Ray Allen and Paul Pierce.   The other four just drifted in and out occasionally.  I’m not even sure Erin was really on the show.  She disappeared for long stretches.  I never could keep Jim Bob and Ben straight.  I had to remind myself that Jim Bob delivered his lines like he’d suffered a debilitating head injury.

One would think that the casting folks could have at least tried to find kids who resembled each other to play siblings.  In a modern setting, that bunch would have subject to DNA testing the first time anyone saw them together.

John Boy is my biggest problem.  He’s like one of those people you should like, but you just can’t.  You know the type.  The neighbor who is very friendly, always speaks and will help you with anything.  You want to kick a nail into his ear.  John Boy is like that.  Almost every episode has “Here he goes, again” moment with John Boy.  He’s helping someone or misunderstood or stuck in the middle of some issue.  Lighten up, John Boy.

Earl Hamner wrote The Waltons, and I assume John Boy–being a writer–is modeled after him.  That probably explains why he dominates the Walton landscape.  Here’s a question:   Was Hamner called Earl Boy?  If not, why the hell is John called John Boy?  NO ONE HAS EVER BEEN CALLED THAT!  If you grew up in the ’70’s and shared this name, you were at some point called “John Boy.”  Even today, you will be called that.  I know from whence I speak on this one.  That is reason enough to hate John Boy.

I have to mention Fake John Boy.  At some point in the series, Richard Thomas (John Boy) decided to leave to pursue other acting opportunities in the most ill-conceived career move since Pernell Roberts abandoned the Ponderosa to embark on his storied movie career.  Fake John Boy was worse than the real one.  He wasn’t John Boy.  Oh, he was nauseatingly earnest like the real one, but you couldn’t help but yell “FAKE!” when he was on the screen.  Okay, maybe I’m the only one who did that.

GRANDMA AND GRANDPA

Look, I know generations of families used to live to together.  I guess that was realistic enough.  Man, these two had their noses in everything.  I hated them.

Wil Geer played Grandpa.  He was a hippie and friend of Woody Guthrie, which means I should have liked him, but no, I didn’t.  I think it’s because the writers couldn’t figure him out.  Was he comic relief?  Was he a wise old sage?  Was he just a pain in the ass like some old people?  You never knew for sure.  To some extent, he suffered from a 1970’s phenomenon known as “The Hip Oldster.”  In the ’70’s, TV writers, being largely devoid of original ideas, wrote every older character the same.  They would be hip, oversexed, “cool” people.  They rode motorcycles and said naughty things.  Sometimes, that’s what they did with Grandpa.  Sometimes, he was the voice of reason.  Mostly, he just annoyed me.

Ellen Corby was a little more tolerable as Grandma.  She actually acted liked an old lady.  Surly, hard to deal with, opinionated and not particularly pleasant.  Now that I think about it, I kinda of like her.

The Godseys

Ike Godsey owned the General Store.  Other than a few passing references to “hard times,”  Ike seems to have thrived through the Great Depression and the rationing of World War II.  His store was FULL of stuff.  He was probably the richest man in Virginia by the end of the war.

Cora Beth wouldn’t have been so fired up about “Mr. Godsey” if he’d owned this Depression era store.

He married Cora Beth, an impossibly haughty friend or distant relative of Olivia’s who showed up to sponge off the Waltons’ inexplicable largesse.  Ike decided to marry her.  Even John recognized what a pain in the ass Cora Beth was and tried to talk Ike out of marrying her.  Like a lot of folks, he didn’t listen and married her anyway.  She continued to preen around for years.  Oh, and she always called Ike “Mr. Godsey.”  I hated that.

How about have Erin turn up pregnant and marry Ike in a shotgun wedding?  That would have been a ratings bonanza!  Plus, Erin would have actually played role in the show.  No, we got Cora Beth.  I hated her.

The Pathos

At the heart of The Waltons was some pitiable, sad story with a comparatively uplifting ending, usually because of the superior intelligence or morality of the Waltons themselves.   No family is THAT good, except maybe the Cartwrights.  I cared nothing for it and always wanted the Waltons to get put in their place.  It never happened.  I hated that.

The Ending

Good night, John Boy.  Good night, Mary Ellen.  Good night, Jim Bob.  Blah, blah, blah.  That’s how the show always ended.  Hey, were they all in the same freakin’ room?  That’s weird, especially since they were able to say good night to their grandparents without raising their voices.  I shared a room with two brothers when I was little.  It’s not fun.  Just once–once, mind you–I wanted someone to say:  “Hey, shut the hell up!  I’m trying to sleep!”  No one ever did.  I hated that.

Here’s the kind of house the Waltons would have lived in. I’m guessing they wouldn’t have been quite so chipper at bedtime in this place.

At this point, you’re asking:  “If you hate the Waltons, why do you know so much about them?”  First, that’s really none of your business.  Second, I watched a lot of TV as a kid.  A lot.  I didn’t care what I watched.  I watched the Waltons to just hate them.  Sometimes, my Dad would watch with me and ridicule them.  I liked that.

Occasionally, I’ll see the Waltons on TV and tune in for a few minutes.  It doesn’t take long for me to be disgusted.  I always hope I’ll catch the episode when their house burned.  At least I think that happened.  Maybe that was just my own fantasy.

Good night, John Boy.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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My Life as a Hippie

This title, of course, is deceiving. I’ve never been a hippie. I was born in 1962, far too late in the century to have become a hippie. I was, however, fascinated by hippies. They seemed cool. They seemed–appropriately enough–hip.

Growing up in Harlan County, Kentucky, there were no hippies or at least there was no real hippie movement. Oh, there were some hippies over in Letcher County–they founded Appalshop. In fact, they’re still there. There was a time when a “busload” of hippies was rumored to be coming to Harlan County to check out our horrible living conditions. Turns out that they were just run of the mill Communists, not really hippies at all.

My older brother knew a guy who was going to become a hippie. Charles was his name. Charles had been in and out of “Reform School,” that shadowy institution that none of us really knew much about it. Charles, however, had actually been there. Charles was quite fond of my brother for some reason. You must understand that my brother was a straight A student and all round good kid. Never got in trouble. For some reason, though, he occasionally attracted “friends” who were sketchy to say the least. Charles would occasionally follow my brother home from school. He’d hang out at the house for a while until my mother fed him. Sometimes, she would even give him a couple of dollars.

Charles once followed us home from school on a rare day when my brother had a bad day at school. He had a dust-up with a teacher over some silly infraction. When we got home, my brother laid out the story to Mom. Mom had no tolerance for injustice doled out to her children and made it clear that she would deal with the situation. Charles sat at our kitchen table and took it all in. When Mom was done, he said: “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Williams. I know a feller in reform school who’s gonna kill that teacher soon as he gets out.” That’s the kind of guy Charles was. Mom just said: “Thank you, Charles.” Secretly, I hoped that guy would get out soon.

One day in the summer, I was walking home from Russell’s Grocery, when–much to my surprise–Charles stepped out from behind a tree. He was probably 15 at the time. His hair was shaved down to a close crew cut. He wore mirror sunglasses, a buck skin vest (no shirt) and love beads. “Do you know me?” “Yes, Charles, I know you.” He explained that he had been released from Reform School. Of course, he followed me home.

Mom talked to Charles about his adventures in Reform School, and he announced that he was going to move to “The City” and become a hippie. I noted that his hair was far too short, but he explained that the Draconian rules of Reform School required that look. I think that’s the last time he was at our house. I don’t think he ever became a hippie, but his ambition gave me a new-found respect for him.

Back to the real hippies. During the Summer, we would sometimes travel to Utah to visit my grandparents or to Colorado Springs to visit the Air Force Academy for whom my Dad was a recruiter. On those trips, I saw the real hippies. I saw one in a Stuckey’s somewhere in the West once. I just stared at him. I saw one get arrested on the street in Salt Lake City, too. Very cool.

Once, when we were in Salt Lake, President Nixon came to speak at Temple Square. My Papaw was a security guard at Temple Square and stood on the stage with Nixon. This was probably 1969. The hippies were out in force. War protesters carrying signs–the whole nine yards. My Dad put me on his shoulders so I could see Papaw, but really I was checking out the hippies.

Somewhere in this sea of humanity are my Papaw and Richard Nixon…and a bunch of hippies.

The only person I ever saw in Harlan County that I thought was a hippie was the son-in-law of the people who lived across the street from us. He had long hair and a beard and wore hippie clothes. My little brother and I would peek out the front window of the house just to get a look at him. I knew he was a hippie, because my Dad said so.

At this point, I should confess that I didn’t really want to be a hippie. First, hippies were draft-dodgers and war protesters, which was really frowned upon in our home. Second, let’s face facts here–hippies were dirty, and I’ve never enjoyed being dirty. Third, they were dope fiends, and I was never into the drug scene. Nevertheless, they fascinated me.

I did have some love beads. My Mom bought them from some Indian kids when we drove through an Arizona reservation one time. I wore them proudly, although I’m sure they clashed with my otherwise cherubic appearance.

I wouldn’t have been a good hippie. Oh, sure, I would have loved the lack of responsibility and free love aspect. I hated school with a passion, so “dropping out” would have been right in my wheel house. Communal living, on the other hand, has never been my “bag”–as a hippie might say. I don’t like sharing my sleeping quarters with family, much less strangers. The being filthy would have been a drag (another hippie word!). Plus, I’m a bit of a germaphobe, and most hippies looked slap eat up with germs.

Typical hippie filthiness. There’s not enough hand sanitizer on Earth to get me in the middle of all that.

Hippies were also liberals. I’m talking real liberals, not the kind people talk about today. For example, a hippie wouldn’t take a political donation from a corporation. Of course, this assumes that a hippie would run for office which he or she certainly would not. They believed in real collective living–everyone living together and lying around in a big pile. I guess the word “Communism” comes from “commune,” and hippies loved communes. Like true Socialists, hippies would have seized the means of production if working weren’t so antithetical to the hippie credo. Now, I never was all that liberal and certainly didn’t live in a liberal culture. As I’ve noted, free love would have been cool or even groovy, but eventually the hippies and I would have clashed over something like the capital gains tax.

When they drove, hippies drove vans. I don’t even like mini-vans. Regular vans are certainly out of the question. Nowadays, full size vans are the typical mode of conveyance of serial killers. I prefer BMWs–definitely not a hippie ride.

Typical hippie van. I prefer my metallic gray BMW 328. I won’t even put a bumper sticker on my car.

I would have been good at sounding like a hippie. I’ve had an annoying habit of using the word “man” most of my life, as in “What’s up, man?” “Man” was very much a hippie word. So was “dude,” although it’s made quite the comeback in recent years. I always wanted to use the word “groovy,” too. Maybe I could bill myself as “The Groovy Lawyer.” “Cool,” of course, was a staple of the hippie lexicon, borrowed from the Beatniks. I still use “cool” in everyday conversation.

I also liked hippie music. The Beatles were liked by hippies, and I like the Beatles. Same goes for Jimi Hendrix, The Doors, Led Zeppelin and countless others. Hell, I heard a recording of Charles Manson singing once, and he wasn’t half bad for a psychotic, murdering hippie. Say what you will about hippies, they dug some cool music.

So, I didn’t become a hippie, and I really had no chance to do so. That’s probably good, because you eventually become an old hippie. Worse, you become a former hippie and end up kowtowing to The Man like the rest of us, unless you become The Man.

Example of the tragic outcome of the old hippie. Nothing groovy about this.

In Maui a few years ago, I met a guy who said he moved there in 1969 to live in a commune. He never left. He didn’t look much like a hippie. So, I asked him what he did now, forty years later. He said he worked in construction, but added: “I’ll always be a hippie, man.” What could I say? “That’s cool, man.” It was a groovy exchange.

Still yet, I have admiration for the hippies. I know many folks–now conservative pillars of society–who proudly declare that they are former hippies. I also know people who still claim to be hippies, although that’s doubtful. Being a hippie now is like claiming to be an anarchist. Maybe you are, but the glory days passed long ago.

So, if you’re an old hippie, I salute you. Now, get a haircut and take a bath.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2012

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Hitchhiking In Harlan County

Typical modern day hitchhiker

What happened to hitchhikers?  You don’t see them anymore.  They used to be quite common.  I grew up in a town called Loyall in Harlan County, Kentucky.   Loyall was, and is, the proverbial town with one red light.  When I was growing up, there was a store/soda fountain on the corner at the red light.  It was named, fittingly enough, The Corner Store.  John and Goldie Roaden owned it.  You could get two hot dogs and small Coke for 60 cents.  Hitchhikers would often work the road just up from The Corner Store.  Thumbs out, they waited for a ride.  If you knew the guy, you’d pick him up.  Even if you didn’t know him, you might pick him up anyway.  By the way, we called it “thumbing,” which sounds vaguely obscene, but that’s what it was.

Now, in my family, hitchhiking was unheard of.  It was one of the many activities reserved solely for the “lowest of trash.”  My mother relegated many things to the lowest of trash–smoking, cursing, drawing on yourself, fighting and associating with trash, to name just a very few.  My father would gladly pick up hitchhikers.  In fact, even late in his life, he would occasionally pick up someone.  This would invariably be a notoriously dangerous person.  He would say something like:  “I gave [FILL IN NAME OF DANGEROUS PERSON] a ride yesterday.  You know, he’s an outlaw, but he thinks a lot of you.  I was telling him all about you.”  I would just think:  “Geez, Dad, don’t tell that dude anything about me!  He might come and kill me.”  Oddly enough, I had a brief foray into hitchhiking myself.

I had a friend who liked to hitchhike. He’ll rename nameless for this story.   He was a funny, funny kid.  Now, he was not the lowest of trash, but he was the kind of kid  who wouldn’t hesitate to engage in any number of prohibited activities.  He would steal his mother’s cigarettes and light one up to show how cool he was.  A 5 foot tall middle schooler smoking his mom’s Virginia Slims may not sound cool, but he pulled it off.  I, on the other hand, was a good kid.  I did well in school and never got in trouble, but I always had a friend or two who lived on the edge.  For a long time, this guy was that friend.

When we were in the 8th grade, we decided that we were too old to ride bikes and should start hitchhiking.  My initial reaction was about how I would have reacted to the suggestion of human sacrifices.  No way, no how would I do this.  I would get caught, because I ALWAYS got caught.  No way.  So, of course, I headed down to The Corner Store with my buddy to thumb to Harlan.  My pal played baseball and was wearing his uniform.  I figured that was pretty safe.  We had our thumbs out for about 5 minutes when Mrs. Thornton, my 6th grade teacher, gave us a ride.  She lectured me the entire way to Harlan about the dangers of hitchhiking.  I figured she’d call my parents, but she didn’t.  We even hitchhiked home after the game.  Some old guy gave us a ride.  No sweat.

We continued our thumbing lifestyle for weeks.  Usually, someone we knew picked us up.  Even strangers were nice to us.  Then, things got weird.  One night, we got my parents to drive us out to the carnival which was set up in the parking lot at James A. Cawood High School.  We told them we’d get a ride back.  My parents weren’t concerned about me–they assumed I had good sense.  When we left the carnival, it was dark, and of course we didn’t have a ride.  We were about 5 miles from home, and old friend wanted to hitchhike.  At this point, you should know that I was far from being a  rough, tough Harlan Countian.  The thought of hitchhiking in the dark terrified me almost as much as the thought of walking home 5 miles in the dark.  We decided to start walking–with our thumbs extended.  We reasoned–quite logically–that we were kids and someone would pick us up.  I can still hear cohort say:  “Man, we’re little kids.  Someone will pick us up because they’ll be worried about us.”  That made some sense to me, proving that my parents’ faith in my judgment was sorely misplaced.

We had walked about a mile when the brake lights on a car popped on.  I knew this car.  It listed to one side like a ship about to capsize, but I knew why the car leaned to one side.  I said:  “Hey, that Jimmy Meeks.”  My friend said:  “So what?  He’ll be going to Loyall.”  Jimmy Meeks was a giant.  Anyone reading this who knew Jimmy would agree.  A giant of the Andre the Giant variety.  I don’t know how tall he was, but he had to be 6′ 5″ but looked a foot taller.  Jimmy told me one time that he weighed 430 pounds.  I’m guessing he fudged a little on that. He had to weight 500 pounds.  He looked like Bluto from Popeye.  He was one of these tall guys with a long torso shaped like a barrel.  Jimmy’s hands were huge.  I saw him take a swig out of a fifth of whiskey once, and I swear his hand went all the way around the bottle.

I want to make one thing clear:  I’m not making fun of Jimmy.  Jimmy had developmental problems of some kind.  He was probably 10-12 years older than I was. Had he been born later, I expect he could have had  the kind of attention that folks get today, and his life would have been easier.  As it was, he struggled.  I got to know him growing up.  He mowed our grass, and we would sometimes give him rides to church.  Many people were terrified of Jimmy.  He was physically imposing but had the demeanor of a child.  Sadly, he frightened people.  Even though I liked him, he kind of scared me, too.  I had heard many stories (most of which were probably untrue) of him losing his temper with people.  I really didn’t want to get in that car, but of course I did.

Jimmy said:  “Where you boys going?”  “Loyall” we both said.  Then Jimmy lit into us about the dangers of hitchhiking and how he should turn us in to the cops.  I said:  “Jimmy, you know me.”  He looked at me in the mirror said “Johnny, I know you.  I’m going to tell your daddy.”  It went downhill from there.  Jimmy then told my buddy that Jimmy had seen him drinking whiskey and would tell his mother.  My little pal was not known for his diplomacy and responds with “Well, I saw you smoking and drinking, and I’m tellin’  YOUR mommy!!”  Okay, you might have guessed, but this was a mistake.  Jimmy exploded, yelling, cussing, beating his basketball-sized fist on the dash.  I’m saying useless stuff like:  “Jimmy, Jimmy, calm down, man.  No one is telling your mom and dad anything.   Ignore him.  He’s an idiot.”  Jimmy now says he’s going to throw us in the river when we get to Loyall.  I’m in the backseat trying to plot my escape. I figure I’ll jump out at some point.  I hate to leave a friend in the lurch, but–hey–no need for two of us to end up in the river.

Now, we’re in Loyall.  Jimmy is still irate.  He had this loud, booming voice that made your head hurt.  He’s still yelling about the river.   Finally, my friend says:  “Hey, you gotta let us out.”  Jimmy just stops the car, and we get out.  Crisis over.  I lean in and say:  “Thanks for the ride.”  Jimmy says:  “Tell your daddy I said hello.  I like him.”  That was it.  Maybe that was a close call.  Maybe not.  But I was sure I was done with night-time hitchhiking.

A couple of days later, we’re back on the road.  Same routine.  Thumb to the ball park and start thumbing home.  No sweat.  We get to the park with no problem.  We then head home, walking and thumbing.  A pick up truck pulls over.  It’s an old truck, maybe 15 years old or so.  California plates.  I got a bad feeling about this.  The guy throws open the passenger door and says “Get in!”  This dude is rough-looking, even by Harlan County standards.  He’s filthy, just dirty.  Greasy, slicked back hair and ratty t-shirt that covers about half his beer belly.  The worst thing is that he looks crazy.  So, of course, we just hop right in.  I’m sitting right beside this filthy, crazy guy, and my friend is beside the door.  Now that I’m right beside the driver, I learn that he also stinks like severe body odor, whiskey and cigarettes.  He puts the old truck in gear.  That’s when I notice the fifth of whiskey between his legs.   My stomach drops.

Filthy Guy:  Where the hell are you going??

Me: Loyall

Filthy Guy:  Where the hell is Loyall?

Me:  Three miles the other side of Harlan.

Filthy Guy: Where the hell is Harlan?

Friend:  Well, where the hell are you going?

Filthy Guy:  I got no idea.

At this point our conversation was interrupted when Filthy Guy spied someone with long, flowing hair walking down the road.  He yells out the window a stream of obscenities intended to express his desire for the person whom he believes to be a young woman.  Naturally, it’s really a man, causing my buddy to burst out laughing and say: “Dumbass, that’s a dude!”  That’s when I saw the gun.  He had it under his leg, and just pulls it out and points it toward us.  It’s a revolver (a .38), and it’s loaded.  That shut us both up.  Now, Filthy Guy has become Dangerous Guy.  He says he ought to just shoot both of us, because he’s just driving through. He could shoot us both, throw us on the river bank and be long gone.  Or he could do a bunch of horrible things to us, then shoot us.  Now what?

Here’s what.  My friend was a quick thinker.  In those days, you had to drive right through the town of Harlan.  There was no by-pass road.  When Filthy Guy slows down at the railroad tracks in Harlan, my friend throws open his door and says “We’re getting out!”  The guy just stops the truck–he’s still pointing that gun at us, and we jump out, running when we hit the road.  Filthy Guy is yelling at us and laughing like a maniac. We walked the three miles home.

That was it for me and hitchhiking.  I didn’t have the stomach for it.  My buddy kept doing it, as did a bunch of other folks.  When I was in my 30’s, I told my Mom that we used to hitchhike.  Her response:  “Oh, Lord.  I had no idea.  Only trash does that.”  True enough, I suppose.

Hitchhiking has changed.  I see the occasional hitchhiker, usually on the on-ramp to the Interstate.  They’re always scary, and I avoid even making eye contact with them.  Even when I go back to Harlan County, I never see any.  I guess it’s a lost art.  It’s probably a valid assumption that hitchhikers and those that pick up hitchhikers are a bit unbalanced.  At least that’s what I think.  That, or they’re just the lowest of trash.

©thetrivialtroll.com.wordpress.com 2012

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