Hey y'all, I am happy to report that I am typing this blog with shorts on. Spring has sprung in the city of New York and it has been fabulous so far. I went to my first Yankees game of the year. Baseball is always a great sign of warmer weather and nothing says "piss off, winter" than sitting in the left field bleachers of Yankee Stadium with "Centerfield" blaring over the speakers and old highlights of Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey, Joe D., Reggie Jackson, and Bernie Williams playing on the Jumbotron. It was a come-from-behind win and a good way to start the season for yours truly. A couple of interesting things happened at the game that I must share.
I was standing in the ticket line, waiting my turn to be scanned and allowed to enter. I miss the old days of tearing the tickets because they make for good scrapbook material. A Stubhub printout is not quite so endearing. Anyhow, there was a kid in front of me, probably around twelve or thirteen years old. He had a backwards Yankees hat, jeans that were hanging halfway down his rearend, a giant t-shirt and some retro Michael Jordan high tops. He and his friends were chatting in line, saying just about every cuss word one can say in two minutes. Typical slobby, unkempt teenagers with no respect. He was texting on his Iphone and was not ready when his turn came to be scanned. The ticket scanner was an old man who was likely in his late 70's. The old man wasted no time.
"Boy, look at this line. Have your DAMN ticket out and hang up that DAMN phone. Look at you. Pull up your pants, turn your hat around and have some respect for yourself. You look like a f***** slob. You have no idea what that symbol on your hat means to someone like me. You wear it and have no clue about anything that happened here. Future of my country right here....ugh."
He frowned and gave him the thumb to go in. Quinton and I were next and he said, "Hello sirs, enjoy the game and this beautiful day!" I would have bought him a beer if I could. He was not grandstanding, he was just saying what everyone else in the line was thinking.
We sit down and begin to chow down on the sweet sausage dogs they sell in the bleachers. They may be $12 but they are worth it. The sun is shining, Mariano Rivera is walking around the outfield waving and I see Monument Park next to me, with flowers laid at every plaque of a Yankee great who has passed away. The time comes for the national anthem and everyone rises as the young girl belts out her best rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Three rows down are two more young people, talking and still wearing their hats. A large man of clearly Italian descent turns to them and says, "take off your f****** hats! Show some respect!" They quickly removed their covers and said nothing more. (remember, the f-word is not that big of a deal here.) He stared at them for a couple of seconds to drive the point home, puts his arm around his teenage son, and continued to sing. Lessons in manners, courtesy of some Bronx natives. It was a great day.
** I must also point out that we saw some Jewish "thugs" at the game as well. They were wearing their yarmulkes on the side of their heads, with their shirts untucked, busting slack in their slacks and they were even doing the strut, like Will Smith used to do on the Fresh Prince. I called them "MC Abraham and DJ Jazzy Shlomo Feinberg."
Not all news has been good this spring. Of course, we had the Boston Marathon bombing. Two more wayward psychopaths with an ax to grind, trying to interfere with our way of life. It takes a lot of guts to hide a pressure cooker bomb and kill an eight year old boy. They are a true credit to their jihad. They really showed us a thing or two. Then....Boston closed down and cut them both down in a hail of gunfire in what had to be the fastest turnaround in terrorism history. Beantown was not playing around on this one, they went "Texas death penalty" on these dudes....you kill us, we will kill you back. The young one lived but he is all shot up and tied to a hospital bed, so I am not sure you can call that "living." They should force him to watch Georgia Tech football highlights, eat fat free cheese and listen to "When The Sun Goes Down" by Kenny Chesney and Uncle Kracker on loop until his goes mad. Some people may say to me, "you can joke about such things?" Yes. Humor is a coping mechanism. Further, by giving these idiots any sort of serious consideration, you empower them.
George Jones passed away last week as well. This guy lived 81 years somehow. If you reviewed his life, you would figure he would have died at 40. He was one of those types that poured beer on his cereal, smoked in his sleep and never had a hangover because he never sobered up. By many accounts, he was a good guy and many country singers count him as an influence. I definitely count him as one of the last true country singers and once Willie Nelson, Don Williams, Hank Williams, Jr., Randy Travis and George Strait pass away, that will be it in my mind. People in NYC do not seem to care for country music. In fact, I went to a karaoke bar recently with some co-workers and I mentioned that I was going to sing a country song. A collective "ewwwwww....country?!?!" cascaded upon me from everyone. They had that tone too, you know the one. It was like I just invited the guy that nobody wanted to come to the party or I suggested that all of us should do 75 burpees before dinner. I laughed it off but it made me sad to see such disdain for the genre. I guess it is a problem of relation for urbanites. "Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses" sounds more like a restaurant in the Lower East Side. "Tulsa Time" sounds like name of a cocktail they serve at the Plaza Hotel. "Dixie on my Mind" is just a slap in their face, so they definitely do not play that one at bar mitzvahs.
It made me think about cultural differences once again. How absolutely different our lives are in many ways. If I took a bunch of Cassville people to a karaoke bar and said, "I'm going to sing a country song," the reception would have been more like this:
"You damn right you are. Let's do a Hank, Sr. song first. Then move into Merle, Jerry Reed, Willie Nelson and Waylon. Gotta throw in a Keith Whitley song. Poor boy was cut down in his prime ( raises and sips a beer in Keith's honor). Then let's sing "Convoy" and "I Don't Need Your Rocking Chair." No Garth Brooks "The Dance," ok? Reminds me of Dale. (raises and sips beer again)."
Here is a list of other sayings that I have not said, or would not fly here in NYC:
1) Hey y'all, let's go to the Waffle House
2) You drive, I'll jump out, tear the "Broadway" sign off the post and we will hang it in my room
3) Are y'all going to Arkansas for duck season this year?
4) I gave my old recliner to Milton at the county dumpster, he said he could use it
5) Pickled quail eggs
6) Man, I wish it would rain more. My euonymous bushes are looking rough.
7) Nice truck, man!
8) George W. got a bad rap, he was actually a good president
9) That bar is closed on Sunday
10) Are there any good striper in the East River?
Conversely, here are some statements would be lost on Cassville people if a New Yorker were to address them:
1) Which place has the best lox and bagels around here?
2) Skinny jeans are really coming on as a look for guys
3) So this Bill Dance....do you guys do that in clubs here or is that a slow thing?
4) Dogs belong inside with their humans
5) What time does the Hawks game start?
6) Which lacrosse club team does your son play for?
7) Do you prefer papardelle or gnocchi?
8) My grandfather was not the toughest guy who ever lived
9) Chips and salsa does not count as Mexican food
10) The fire escape on my apartment is being repaired because it's not up to code
Ah, Cassville. How I miss it. Where the dogs are outside, lacrosse is "Spanish for where Jesus died for our sins," gnocchi is "a cell phone company, I think," where Bill Dance is royalty and pickled quail eggs are a great birthday present. Where dumpster diving is a sport, stealing road signs was fun for all ages and our granddaddies never lost a fight or missed church. I think my granddads would have liked lox and bagels, though.
I was standing in the ticket line, waiting my turn to be scanned and allowed to enter. I miss the old days of tearing the tickets because they make for good scrapbook material. A Stubhub printout is not quite so endearing. Anyhow, there was a kid in front of me, probably around twelve or thirteen years old. He had a backwards Yankees hat, jeans that were hanging halfway down his rearend, a giant t-shirt and some retro Michael Jordan high tops. He and his friends were chatting in line, saying just about every cuss word one can say in two minutes. Typical slobby, unkempt teenagers with no respect. He was texting on his Iphone and was not ready when his turn came to be scanned. The ticket scanner was an old man who was likely in his late 70's. The old man wasted no time.
"Boy, look at this line. Have your DAMN ticket out and hang up that DAMN phone. Look at you. Pull up your pants, turn your hat around and have some respect for yourself. You look like a f***** slob. You have no idea what that symbol on your hat means to someone like me. You wear it and have no clue about anything that happened here. Future of my country right here....ugh."
He frowned and gave him the thumb to go in. Quinton and I were next and he said, "Hello sirs, enjoy the game and this beautiful day!" I would have bought him a beer if I could. He was not grandstanding, he was just saying what everyone else in the line was thinking.
We sit down and begin to chow down on the sweet sausage dogs they sell in the bleachers. They may be $12 but they are worth it. The sun is shining, Mariano Rivera is walking around the outfield waving and I see Monument Park next to me, with flowers laid at every plaque of a Yankee great who has passed away. The time comes for the national anthem and everyone rises as the young girl belts out her best rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Three rows down are two more young people, talking and still wearing their hats. A large man of clearly Italian descent turns to them and says, "take off your f****** hats! Show some respect!" They quickly removed their covers and said nothing more. (remember, the f-word is not that big of a deal here.) He stared at them for a couple of seconds to drive the point home, puts his arm around his teenage son, and continued to sing. Lessons in manners, courtesy of some Bronx natives. It was a great day.
** I must also point out that we saw some Jewish "thugs" at the game as well. They were wearing their yarmulkes on the side of their heads, with their shirts untucked, busting slack in their slacks and they were even doing the strut, like Will Smith used to do on the Fresh Prince. I called them "MC Abraham and DJ Jazzy Shlomo Feinberg."
Not all news has been good this spring. Of course, we had the Boston Marathon bombing. Two more wayward psychopaths with an ax to grind, trying to interfere with our way of life. It takes a lot of guts to hide a pressure cooker bomb and kill an eight year old boy. They are a true credit to their jihad. They really showed us a thing or two. Then....Boston closed down and cut them both down in a hail of gunfire in what had to be the fastest turnaround in terrorism history. Beantown was not playing around on this one, they went "Texas death penalty" on these dudes....you kill us, we will kill you back. The young one lived but he is all shot up and tied to a hospital bed, so I am not sure you can call that "living." They should force him to watch Georgia Tech football highlights, eat fat free cheese and listen to "When The Sun Goes Down" by Kenny Chesney and Uncle Kracker on loop until his goes mad. Some people may say to me, "you can joke about such things?" Yes. Humor is a coping mechanism. Further, by giving these idiots any sort of serious consideration, you empower them.
George Jones passed away last week as well. This guy lived 81 years somehow. If you reviewed his life, you would figure he would have died at 40. He was one of those types that poured beer on his cereal, smoked in his sleep and never had a hangover because he never sobered up. By many accounts, he was a good guy and many country singers count him as an influence. I definitely count him as one of the last true country singers and once Willie Nelson, Don Williams, Hank Williams, Jr., Randy Travis and George Strait pass away, that will be it in my mind. People in NYC do not seem to care for country music. In fact, I went to a karaoke bar recently with some co-workers and I mentioned that I was going to sing a country song. A collective "ewwwwww....country?!?!" cascaded upon me from everyone. They had that tone too, you know the one. It was like I just invited the guy that nobody wanted to come to the party or I suggested that all of us should do 75 burpees before dinner. I laughed it off but it made me sad to see such disdain for the genre. I guess it is a problem of relation for urbanites. "Eighteen Wheels and a Dozen Roses" sounds more like a restaurant in the Lower East Side. "Tulsa Time" sounds like name of a cocktail they serve at the Plaza Hotel. "Dixie on my Mind" is just a slap in their face, so they definitely do not play that one at bar mitzvahs.
It made me think about cultural differences once again. How absolutely different our lives are in many ways. If I took a bunch of Cassville people to a karaoke bar and said, "I'm going to sing a country song," the reception would have been more like this:
"You damn right you are. Let's do a Hank, Sr. song first. Then move into Merle, Jerry Reed, Willie Nelson and Waylon. Gotta throw in a Keith Whitley song. Poor boy was cut down in his prime ( raises and sips a beer in Keith's honor). Then let's sing "Convoy" and "I Don't Need Your Rocking Chair." No Garth Brooks "The Dance," ok? Reminds me of Dale. (raises and sips beer again)."
Here is a list of other sayings that I have not said, or would not fly here in NYC:
1) Hey y'all, let's go to the Waffle House
2) You drive, I'll jump out, tear the "Broadway" sign off the post and we will hang it in my room
3) Are y'all going to Arkansas for duck season this year?
4) I gave my old recliner to Milton at the county dumpster, he said he could use it
5) Pickled quail eggs
6) Man, I wish it would rain more. My euonymous bushes are looking rough.
7) Nice truck, man!
8) George W. got a bad rap, he was actually a good president
9) That bar is closed on Sunday
10) Are there any good striper in the East River?
Conversely, here are some statements would be lost on Cassville people if a New Yorker were to address them:
1) Which place has the best lox and bagels around here?
2) Skinny jeans are really coming on as a look for guys
3) So this Bill Dance....do you guys do that in clubs here or is that a slow thing?
4) Dogs belong inside with their humans
5) What time does the Hawks game start?
6) Which lacrosse club team does your son play for?
7) Do you prefer papardelle or gnocchi?
8) My grandfather was not the toughest guy who ever lived
9) Chips and salsa does not count as Mexican food
10) The fire escape on my apartment is being repaired because it's not up to code
Ah, Cassville. How I miss it. Where the dogs are outside, lacrosse is "Spanish for where Jesus died for our sins," gnocchi is "a cell phone company, I think," where Bill Dance is royalty and pickled quail eggs are a great birthday present. Where dumpster diving is a sport, stealing road signs was fun for all ages and our granddaddies never lost a fight or missed church. I think my granddads would have liked lox and bagels, though.